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stormhearty · 1 year ago

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Paring: former Azriel x Reader

Triggers: mentions of cheating, mentions of death, cursing, a lot of bold and italicize

Word Count: 3K+

Summary: The High Lords called a meeting to discuss the Death-God’s resurrection. However, with the death of their Seer, tensions run high between Day and Night Court, Helion outraged by the loss of your life. Truths are revealed and lies are exposed. And what happens when the High Lords realize that they have all been too late?

Note: I thank you all for all the love you have given to my one shot!! I had never thought it would have been so well received by fans and writers! I am very amused by everyone's reactions and thoughts on the one shot — everyone is wanting blood and redemption for our poor reader. And she will! This chapter is a segway/filler chapter — but still important. It's still angsty, don't worry. This one shot will probably become a 3 part series. I know in that voting poll I had done asked if you guys wanted a 5k chapter, rather than a 2- 2k chapters, but I wanted to leave you guys with one more chapter to look forward to! Please look forward to it!

Part One | Part Three | Epilogue

<Pushed to the Edge> Masterlist

“You had abandoned my emissary, disregarded her sight and had her take her own life in your Court… And for what? Your mate’s sister’s powers?!” Helion was fuming, amber eyes staring the High Lord of Night down, “And that her mate — - “a growl escaped his lips, as he glanced at the Spymaster next to Rhysand, “Had cheated on her for said sister?!”

The High Lord of Day’s voice echoed throughout the throne room, shaking its very walls at the allegation of what had happen within the wards of the Night Court. Helion’s fingers gripped the edge of the large round table, his claws causing the wood to splint underneath his fingertips.

“And now… you are telling me that her body disappeared?” his voice deathly low, “That your Spymaster’s shadows had whisked her body away to — God-knows-where… That, that child, never had never had a proper burial?!”

Rhysand couldn’t utter a single word against the claims placed against him and his Court — he couldn’t when everything that Helion had roared was true.

“… Show me…” Helion hissed, focusing at his old friend, “Show us what had happened that day…”

Rhysand gulped, staring at Helion before glancing around the table towards the High Lords of Pyrthian. All of them staring him down before all felt the claws of Rhysand's power creeping in their minds, images of that day of your death playing in their minds — all of them watching the confrontation between the Inner Circle and you — on how you were cornered and betrayed, leading up to your very death.

He hated it. Rhysand not only relived that that multiple times during his dreams — where he had failed you. He now had to relieve it while he was awake. Hearing your pleads and cries for him to listen to your visions, and seeing your body dying on that marble floor — to watch it be taken away by tendrils of shadow.

Once the memory came to pass, sobs echoed throughout the room. Helion being the loudest as he ran a hand down his face, his form shaking in his seat. Rhysand glanced towards his Inner Circle, watching his family relive that moment as well; eyes focusing on Azriel, who gripped the arms of his chair as his face wrinkled in anguish at the memory.

It had been a month ever since your death, a month since the sliver of shadows that once served the Spymaster had taken your body away — unknown to even Azriel on where they had brought your body to. And a month ever since more and more whispers of Koschei’s resurrection echoed throughout the Courts. The Death-God’s power vibrating throughout all of Pyrthian — it was difficult to not miss.

The High Lords gathered in Day Court to strategize on the impending danger of the Death-God. However, it was no secret on what had happened in the wards of Night Court. The loss of your light present throughout all of Pyrthian — every High Lord felt it.

Especially Helion.

He wanted nothing more to hurt and maim every member of the Inner Circle; but that wasn’t the purpose of this meeting — though he wanted it to be.

Helion reigned in his emotions, trying to calm the rage that boiled in his blood. Trying to clam the sadness he felt for the loss of you. He straightened up in his chair, letting out a shaky breath, looking back at the Night Court High Lord.

“… I regret that I ever had sent (Y/N) to your Court, Rhysand,” his tone small and disappointed, “Her powers were wasted on you and your Court. A Seer taking their life, being betrayed by the people she called her family,” His head shaking, a laugh, one so loud and so sarcastic escaping his chest that it echoed in throne room, startling the other High Lords, making Rhysand flinch in his seat. “What a damn found family you made. Betraying one’s mate, betraying a person who had served you for five-hundred fucking years over a female who barely has control over her own powers.”

Amber eyes darted to Elain, as he watched her flinch back, hiding behind the eldest Archeron sister, “What prophecy have you seen now?” the sarcasm very evident in his tone, “Have you seen what (Y/N) has seen? Have you seen the resurrection of Kosechi, as well? Your powers are nothing compared to (Y/N)’s.”

“How dare you talk to someone in my Court like — -” Rhysand started.

“You have no right to challenge me in my own Court, Rhysand!” Helion bellowed, hands slamming on the table, standing up as he glared at his once-called friend, “Do you realize what you have done?! Do you realize why there hasn’t been a Seer in millennials? Why (Y/N) has been the only recorded Seer in the history of Pyrthian? Because Seers have been hunted — by Fae, humans and Gods alike. They are so sought after, for their power, for the knowledge, for their sight. Seers have the power to uncover what is hidden, lurking in the darkness. They are the very light that unveils the darkness. They have been hunted to be exterminated for that very power…”

It had been the very reason why Helion had taken you in when you were a child, guarded carefully in the Day Court. To ensure the prosper of your power, the prosper of your light.

Amber eyes darted around the table, eyes staring at the High Lords that had situated themselves in this very room, listening to his tale before they stared back at Rhysand, “You, being the powerfullest High Lord if all of Pyrthian should have known that. And now, her body, one filled with Unknown-God-and Cauldron bound powers is missing…”

A huff escaped his lips in exasperation as he sat down back into his seat, “Her body should be buried here, in my Court, where she rightfully belongs to. But, no. And none of us could properly pray respects for the loss of her light…”

It was no secret that Helion had a soft spot for you. You were like his child, raising you since you were small, watching you grow and become a bright light within the Day Court. He knew how your light felt, how he basked in it as if it was the sun that radiated overhead.

And so when he had woken up that night in cold sweat, feeling the vanishing of your light — he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“… — Helion…” Feyre tentatively called out to him, “You said her body is Cauldron bound? What do you mean by that?”

The Day High Lord glanced at the High Lady, staring her down before he nodded his head once. Leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand, “That’s what both myself and (Y/N) believe. (Y/N) is one the strongest Seers I have met in my life, those few Seers that I have encountered, ones that have wanted to remain hidden, are no match to (Y/N)’s powers. Your little Cauldon-Made Seer is no match for her either,” he sneered at the middle Archeron sister.

"There has been little records of Seers in Prythian, we all know that. Not even my libraries had enough information about them and their powers. But, despite that, (Y/N) was able to hone into her powers with little instructions… You know that she doesn’t just see the future, she was able to see what was happening now. She was able to focus on parts of Pyrthian and tell me what is and what will happen.

“But during the war with Hybern, much like when Nesta felt the Cauldron, (Y/N) felt it too. We didn’t know why, but we realized she and the Cauldron were somewhat connected. Whether it be the Cauldron was reason why she has her visions or if the Cauldron was the source of her power, they were bound. A natural connection between the two of them. And when the Cauldron broke, (Y/N) had told me she felt the Cauldron’s power sought refuge with her, as if the Cauldron sought her light.

“After the war, she had asked for my opinion — she felt the remnants of the Cauldron’s power tingling through her. She told me she saw more visions, visions of the far off future that she had no idea when would happen, and that her powers were starting to become out of her control. She was starting to lose herself in her powers, lose her mind to it… I didn’t know how to help her…”

The Inner Circle remembered, weeks after the end of the war, (Y/N) had asked if she could return to Day Court for a few weeks. Rhysand had let her, thinking it was not important. Azriel, too, didn’t question on her reason why she wanted to leave.

It was when they started to not care. When they started to focus their attention to Elain — the Seer that had defeated the King of Hybern.

Helion let out a broken laugh, staring at the Inner Circle, “I’m sure you never knew, did you? On how broken she started to be after the war. You never knew how her sleep was plagued with visions, that she couldn’t even close her eyes without images flashing behind them. Of how she sobbed in bed, wondering if she was in a dream or reality. She couldn’t differentiate anymore… And you…” eyes focusing on Azriel, “You never felt her pain because you put up a wall between your mating bond. Did you know, Azriel…”

The Day High Lord’s tone was seething, remembering those day.

“Did you know, how she cried for you? She begged down the bond for you to come and help. Wanting your protection, wanting to help sooth the pain she had felt? Wanting you just to be there? But all she could feel was the wall you placed, ignoring her… abandoning her when she needed all of you the most…

“I sent her back, hoping that all of you would help. I sent her back with sleeping tonics, hoping to help her with her sleep. Hoping that her family and mate would help her through her toughest time. Hoping that you all would see her. But I can see that never happened. That no matter how much she begged for you all to listen to her visions, to see her in pain, you ignored,” his voice was laced with anger, disappointment.

No one said a word. The air in the room tense and dense at the revelation that Helion lamented. No one knew of what you had gone through.

Azriel felt his his heart burn in his chest, as if his siphons were burning his skin — he felt the remnants of the broken mating bond in his chest, aching more at Helion’s words.

He didn’t know, he didn’t see, he didn’t feel the pain you were going through. He had ignored the tug of the bond when he had that wall up. He had been too infatuated with the middle Archeron sister, wanting her to feel belonged in their Court — all the while alienating the person who had been with him through thick and thin.

And, yet, he couldn’t do the same for you.

Bright blue eyes closed as Feyre silently mourned and apologized to the Heavens, to the night sky where you might have been.

But she realized on the implications of what had Helion had told them — that you might have been the Cauldron-bound object that Koschei needed to escape that lake.

She looked up at Rhysand, and he to her as they communicated down the bond. Both of them realizing what could happen.

The gesture wasn’t missed by Helion as he watched them, waiting for them to explain what they might have discovered. However, when they did not say anything, a growl escaped his chest.

“What is it?”

Feyre and Rhysand looked at the Day High Lord, hesitance shown in their features, “… It’s about what (Y/N) had told us. You all saw it in that memory…”

Helion thought, playing the memory back as he watched remembered your face, the anguish of your features shining through his head, listening to your words — your vision of what might pass.

“… That Koschei needed something from the Cauldron to be released from the lake,” Lucien pointed out from his spot next to Helion, the russete eye looking at Elain before back to Feyre.

“What if…” Tarquin mumbled, “…Koschei found (Y/N)’s body? If you and (Y/N) knew of the connection to the Cauldron, that the Cauldron sought her power. He could use her body to be freed from that lake.”

Helion looked at the Summer High Lord, amber eyes wide at the realization, “… If that were to come to pass, we would be doomed. (Y/N)’s body is probably soaked in Cauldron powers. It would be so easy for Koschei to be freed, and no one would ever notice. It is not impossible, but since (Y/N)’s body has disappeared, it is possible for her to have fallen into his clutches.”

Kallias, in the mist of the conversation, was watching, observing, the only remaining Seer in the room. He leaned forward, bright blue hues staring the Made-Fae, as he rested both arms on the table, “Have you had any visions?”

Heads turned towards the High Lord of Winter at his question. It did not phase him, as he continued, ”I heard from your High Lady that you rarely said anything about your visions, since the Cauldron broke. So do tell us, what have you seen about the Death-God?” If she had her powers still, a Seer would be still useful in this situation.

Elain visibly swallowed, as all attention was on her once more. Brown eyes frantically glanced around the table, over to her sisters and then to Azriel who both looked at her expectedly.

A heartbeat later, and the Middle Archeron sister knew that she couldn't lie.

She shook her head, “I have not seen anything… since the Cauldron broke…” her words nothing but a whisper in the wind.

It was as if a pin dropped on marble floors, the silence in the room was penetrating.

A laugh broke the silence. Eris’ shook his in disbelief on the drama they were hearing, “So you’re telling us, you have been lying about having your powers. And that (Y/N), who has actually seen those visions had taken her life?” he glared at the middle Archeron sister, “For what? Because you needed a position in the Night Court? So that you can gain the Spymaster’s affection? To bed him?”

Elain shook her head again, brown eyes desperate as she tried to catch eye with her family, with Nesta, who just looked away, brows furrowed with anguish, “… I just wanted to be useful…” she whispered in fear, slumping down in her chair, “My powers… were the only thing that made me feel like I belonged… But I didn’t have them, and… I just, didn’t want to lose my family.”

“And yet, you were willing to let (Y/N) lose her family, her mate… and her life. Just to keep your own,” Thesan expressed, "That selfishness will be the downfall of Pyrthian."

Elain flinched at the truth thrown onto her face, eyes down-casting, silence taking over her form.

Before anyone could reprimand Elain for her actions, the grand doors slammed open, a dark mist blowing throughout the room. Frightened and confused screams echoed through the room.

Helion stood up, using his power of light to dissipate the darkness that tried to cover the room. Amber eyes glowed as he watched as a cloaked figure float into the room.

Eyes watched the cloaked figure as it settled its form onto the floor, bare pale feet touching the marble.

“… I would think… that if the Pyrthian High Lords would gather… they would invite a God to their meeting. But I guess, manners do not exist in this world…” the voice was grating and brittle.

The hood swept, as if eyes inside were looking at all the High Lords that were now standing up, all attention to him.

A eerie chuckle escaped the hooded figure, spiny fingers grasping the edge before slipping it down. White hair and black eyes were revealed, pale, sickly skin glowed underneath the darkness that had surrounded him.

The figure bowed, a mocking gesture to the High Lords.

“It seems, that you are unaware of who you are being greeted by…” a boney finger raised up and pointed towards Nesta, the eldest sister stiffening, “Though I’m quite sure you do, dearest sister…” he grinned at her.

Nesta gulped and looked at the uninvited guest. She knew who would greet her like that — only the Death Caver has echoed the same words, “You’re Koschei… aren’t you…”

Koschei grinned wider, head tilting to the side as he stepped forward, laughing as the High Lords ready themselves for a battle with the Death-God.

“Oh don’t be so tense, my High Lords…” he mockingly commented, sweeping a hand, “Please sit… Do not stop your meeting for dear little old me. Though it is such an honor for you to do so.”

He rounded the table, eyes making contact with each of the High Lord, black eyes sweeping over their forms before he stopped before Rhysand.

Violet hues and black sockets stared at each other.

“Though I do have to thank you, High Lord of the Night… You have gifted me the precious gift of life. Though, it was through the loss of one of your own… You might have known her. Cared for her… Loved her…” Koschei looked at Azriel whose hazel eyes burned at the Death-God.

He let out a low laugh.

Tarquin’s assumption was right — the Death-God had used your body to free himself from the lake, right underneath their noses. No one felt it, no one knew. And it had been too late to do anything about it; months too late to prevent the resurrection, months too late to find your missing body, months too late of not listening to you.

Koschei looked behind him, far past the grand windows, the familiar cry of the bird of fire and ash echoing through the lands of Day Court, heading towards them — Vassa had come to stop the sorcerer-lord from his destruction.

However, before she landed on the balcony, an arrow, made of shadow and darkness struck her, causing the great bird to plummet to the land beneath her.

Lucien gasped and ran towards the balcony, peering down to see if the mortal queen had survived the fall; but there was no sign of the cursed queen anywhere below.

“What a dramatic entry by Vassa, as always…” Koschei said with a sigh, before another chuckle escaped his lips, dark eyes boring into the empty spot beside him, “Don’t you think… (Y/N)?”

All heads snapped towards the Deathless God, your name slipping from his lips, as they watched a swirl of darkness materialized a familiar figure. Azriel watched, hazel eyes wide as he took in your form, whisps of shadows that had whirled around you — his shadows, one that had abandoned him ever since your death.

“…(Y/N)…” Azriel whispered in disbelief, his voice shaking.

There you stood, next to the Death-God, very much alive.

Very much like a Death-God yourself.

And it echoed in your outfit — tendrils of shadow made up your dress, covering you from head to toe, fluttering near your feet as if a gown swayed by the wind. In your hands, a bow and arrow made of those shadows — the very bow that had struck Vassa down from her flight.

That was where Azriel’s shadows had gone to — leaving him, following you to your death, and making you someone completely different.

Someone that was going to be the downfall of Pyrthian itself.

Tagging: @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @setayeshmohseni, @kindasleepycryptid, @f4iry-bell, @woodland-mist, @kalulakunundrum, @topaz125, @thelov3lybookworm, @hnyclover, @harrystylesfan2686, @anuttellaa, @ithan-holstroms-girl, @judig92, @venuseuripedis, @fairywriter-oracle, @thehighlordishere, @acourtofbatboydreams, @willowpains, @historygreekqueen, @dr4g0ngirl, @ayme301, @kemillyfreitas, @crazylokonugget, @abysshaven, @michaelharrypotter, @naturakaashi, @kittenbi, @namelesssav, @guiltyreader, @awkardnerd, @je-suis-prest-rachel, @quackitysdrugdealer, @thesunloveschips, @brieflyclassymortal, @justdreamstars, @isa1b2h3, @himesuedi, @fxckmiup, @starswholistenanddreamsanswered, @t0uch-starved-h0e, @mybestfriendmademe

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #acotar angst #acotar x reader #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #( .one shot : pushed to the edge )#acotar fanfic #azriel angst #helion acotar #eris vanserra #rhysand #feyre archeron

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imliterallyf7ckin9crazy · 6 months ago

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꧁⋆°𝓢𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓭 𝓖𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼°⋆꧂

Squid game Season 2 men saving you when you almost die in the game

Characters: player 001, 230, 124

Warnings: canon violence, near death experience, toxic relationships, drug use, mention of suicide, romantic tension, f! Reader

A/N: this is no diss to anyone bc I respect the grind, I truly do, but everything I see of squid game is nsfw. I have to HUNT for sfw shit. I just gave up and just read everything anyways. So I’m trying to balance the scales a bit for rn. Again no diss bc yall nsfw writers COOK.

________

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 001

(Weird ppl attacking you in game)

- ok so for this one I’ll say that you are just a average player in the games he happened upon. You two met because you were on the ‘X’ team, and more specifically in gi- Huns group.

- he normally is pretty resistant to the ‘worthless sob stories of the poor’ as he puts it. But for some odd reason, yours got to him

- thrown out of home, forced to survive and fend for yourself out in the streets, hopping from job to job because you can’t pay rent on time 8/10 and you get evicted. Pulling loan after loan to keep yourself afloat, and even that is starting to fail you. You are at the very end of the road and if you can’t manage to leave here without some money you are 100% fucked. You genuinely think the only way out of the hole you’ve dug is either a miracle in here or checking out of life manually.

- in-ho LOVES sad wet cat type people, he can’t help it. And even though he’s heard basically the same stories from hundreds of people yet somehow you stuck with him

- life was unfair to you, you were cast out. If that didn’t happen, you wouldn’t have to be living “like garbage”. Almost everyone else put themselves in their financial hole, you started in one. Not fair, see? He’s doing so much mental gymnastics and logistical jumping to validate himself. You’re different, you don’t count.

- you really weren’t a extremely strong individual , you didn’t draw attention to yourself like many of the others, you didn’t argue much or ask many questions. You came with a goal. And he respected that.

- after game two though, the marathon, you and many others decided it was time to call it quits. So you voted ‘X’ with gi-hun and everyone else. And surprisingly in-ho, or young-il as he named himself, also picked ‘X’

- you both didn’t really talk much besides maybe a few sentences to each other about how your group was meant to survive. But after the second vote, having a X on your shirt also meant having a target on your back. And being the “minding my own business” type it doubled that factor.

- a group of three people, two guys and one girl approached you. Sorrounding you and pestering you on your vote. It turned to raised voices and getting in your face, to shoving from all three people as you just stood there and took it, unwilling to change votes. Though you might not fight like some others that doesn’t mean you aren’t brave.

- though as soon as young-il (for simplicity) saw those men put hands on you he was already trudging his way cross room, leaving gi-hun mid conversation to aid you.

- you were backed against the bed frame of the stacked sleeping quarters, these three lunatics yelling and shoving you, telling you that you have to vote ‘O’ “or else”. You assumed it implied you leaving this place in a box.

- that’s when young-il made it to you. “That’s quite enough” he says, eyes cold as ice and facial expression locked in stone. His posture was straight and his head was held high. Very intimidating, it’s almost like he had a military commander type vide (hahaha- odd right??)

- the girl was quick to scamper off, giving you a glare as she informs the boys she’ll be waiting by their group. The men however puff their chests out and square up a bit, and you get second hand embarrassment because young-il doesn’t even flinch or break the deadly eye contact. “Are you sure.” Is all he said. It didn’t sound like an actual question, more of a “are you sure you wanna get your ass beat in front of all these people” threat.

- they got the memo from his venomous words and slowly creeped off back to wherever they came from, looking like puppies with their tails tucked as they walked away.

- “thank you so much” you say, bowing slightly in gratitude for his kindness. He gives you a nice chuckle before lifting your shoulders back up.

- “oh no no, it’s nothing. Those boys should know better, I bet their mothers would chew their ears off if they saw their lack of manners” he jokes, earning a giggle from you.

- it makes him feel kinda fuzzy, but he compartmentalizes that feeling for when he’s alone and can process it. In the mean time he just places his hand on your lower back, guiding you back to the group where you will be safe (and in arms reach)

- this just opened a Pandora’s box of possessiveness and lies, and he doesn’t even know how it will end

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 230

(Mingle)

- for this let’s just say that you met up with thanos for the second game, the marathon one, and yall clicked a bit, leading him to tell you that “you should stay with me and my crew, for safety”

- and so you do. What could be the harm? He’s clearly deranged and a loose cannon, wouldn’t it be better to just go along before he kills you?

- is what you originally thought. Turns out after that conversation and you joined, he really isn’t that bad to be around. When he’s high he always makes you laugh, constantly cracking jokes and making fun of people at their expense to make you smack his shoulder a bit, saying “be nice!”

- you noticed he thrives on attention, and you give it to him freely. It’s hard not to when he’s got bright purple hair, hand tattoos WITH rainbow painted nails, and he’s rapping and dancing like he was in the comfort of his own home. Plus nam gyu, the guy who lowkey bullied the shit out of you the first few days was now told to “chill out man”

- now, you were all standing on a spinning circular floor, a cute little cheery jingle being played from over the speakers. Thanos and nam gyu danced together to the music, high in ways you didn’t even know you could get. It was pretty silly though, acting like kids.

- then the music dropped, and a number was said. You had to run with that number of people into a room to live. Those left behind will die

- the first few rounds were easy, the numbers were quite high and you held onto thanos’ jacket to stay with the group. The sounds of people begging to be let in followed by being punctured with bullets rang in your mind and the number for people in groups got lower and lower, until the number was two.

- you, thanos, nam gyu and min-su all stared at each other for a moment, frozen on who to pick before thanos started throwing his head from side to side before turning and gripping your arm and nam gyus, running full speed and pulling you along, forcing you to leave min-su. Though you felt horrible once you saw his shocked little face, you just kept going. Choosing to save your life instead of feeling bad and dying there.

- thanos shoved nam gyu towards the door next to the one you were about to be tossed in, luckily he saw someone was waiting by themselves in the room, so he was safe with two. Nam gyu gave him a small nod to let him know he was safe and set to survive.

- thanos rushed you in, slamming the door behind him and peering out. This was the last round, you made it. The door beeped behind you and locked, ensuring your victory of the game.

- adrenaline was still pumping through your veins as you gazed up at him from your spot cowering against the wall as gun shots rang. You didn’t even hear the people screaming or the poor souls who were locked from the room right behind you and thanos, damming you to hell for getting to the room first as they die. “Holy shit” you say as you look at him as he smiled back. “We did it.”

- “yup” he says confidently “now let’s see how much money we earned” thanos says as he pulled open the door for the final time. Before he can step out you grab his sleeve “hey- uh thank you” you mumbled

- he could have just left you like min-su and went with nam gyu, but he chose to save you.

- “what? Nah it’s nothing. Don’t worry” he says, patting you on the head and steering you out of the room

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 124

(Lights out fight)

- there was a obvious tension in the air, one that nearly suffocated you as you sat with nam gyu on a bed… thanos’ bed.

- the vote ended in a tie, meaning the vote was to be redone the following day. After that was announced, your friends thanos and nam gyu went to the bathroom to ‘help even out the votes’. Specifically to talk to that poor min-su they’ve been harassing non stop. Only just nam gyu came back out. Eyes blown wide and covered head to toe in thick splashes of blood. Your heart nearly died when you saw him stumbling dazed out of the bathroom. You knew SOMETHING had happened when no thanos returned safely to you.

- after that, he tried convincing you they didn’t start the fight, which you saw right through. Eventually he dropped that act and told you straight up what went down. How your friend was murdered. Nam gyu tried covering his pain up by insulting thanos and taking two of his pills from the cross he stole from him. Calling him an asshole and an idiot. Again, you saw right through.

- you brought your hand up to his face to wife some blood off with your sleeve. And he leaned right into it, sighing very very deeply as he crushed the drugs between his teeth. He held your hand to his face, which you thought was just him being cute until he started talking about how there needed to be a total blood bath that night. To ensure team ‘O’ wins and you both could keep going. You tried to pull away but his grip kept you like in your spot next to him.

- “no nam gyu, we can’t just kill these people. They are just like us they just need money-“

- “yes! That’s the fucking point. We need that danm money, can’t you see? We won’t fucking win with all those stupid fucking cockroaches leeching our money” he hisses, harsh words contrasting with his hands tracing patterns gently on yours. “We won’t win this vote with them alive, we won’t get more money with them all alive. This is the only way”

- he just kept going and going until you agreed, saying you’d at least let him go out and kill and you’d be his little look out. Only nothing can go smoothly for anyone ever here.

- while there’s lights flashing and people screaming, blood and gore being sprayed from the alive and leaking from the dead, you are trying to make out what is going on around you. You can (faintly) see nam gyu out in the room, grabbing people and ripping them to shreds with his fork, the very fork that killed thanos to be exact.

- while you were looking around for nam gyu, someone had come up behind you, grabbing you by the neck and trying to choke you out. You screamed out nam gyus name as loud as you could as the attackers grip tightened and tightened to the point where you thought your neck was bound to snap. Your vision going out slowly as all you can recognize becomes the sound of the chaos. Until suddenly you were freed, and your assaulter was ripped off you and pinned to the ground by nam gyu.

- he started repeatingly stabbing the person, blood flying onto you and him as he slit the person open. When he stopped you basically flung yourself at him, crying “thank you! Thank you!”. He just saved your life, though You could barely recognize him, he was lost completely in drug fueled blood lust and rage.

- maybe not completely you figured, as he rushed to you and scooped you up. He returned you to a bunk, telling you to hide there and wait for him. Promising you he’ll come back, that he will keep you safe. And he did, as the lights came on and the gun shots rung out, he was alive and on his way back to you

______

Bet yall can’t guess who my favorite is >:3

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startaegi · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 004. favourite crime.

in which namgyu breaks the heart of his childhood sweetheart and tries to piece it back together again while fighting death.

previous next masterlist playlist

you weren’t unfamiliar with the concept of death. you’d known the feeling of blood staining your skin, witnessed patients succumb to their illnesses, and felt the panic as you tried to save them. death was part of your normal working routine, after years in the field it took a lot to phase you. however, seeing the players' lifeless bodies drop one by one. hearing the gunshots as another heart automatically stopped. tt startled you more than those evening emergency room shifts ever could.

you had never witnessed anything so inhumane. it was clear whoever was behind this twisted game was the devil himself. there was no other sane explanation.

the common room, once loud with chatter now filled with an uncomfortable silence. everyone huddled together as far from the entrance as possible, most people still shaking in fear. you sat against a metal bed, knees to your chest, eyes focused on the loose skin around your fingernail. you didn't dare look up when you felt his hand against your shoulder.

he said your name. no one around seemed to pay any attention. "can you look at me?"

again you made no effort in acknowledging his presence.

he harshly pulled his hands through his hair, moving closer to you, voice quiet but desperate, "do i have to get on my hands and knees, and beg you to listen?"

you shrugged your shoulders, turning to face him, a bored expression on your face, "wouldn't be the first time"

"you aren't being fair" he argued back, this time attracting a few glares from the other players.

"you don't know anything about being fair," you replied as the doors to the room abruptly opened. everyone hurriedly scattered back, gasps of panic filling the air.

the same masked guards entered the room but unlike before they held guns tightly in their grasp. you slowly moved back, arms still protectively wrapped around your legs. namgyu followed you, moving to cover your hunched figure.

"congratulations for making it through the first game," the same middle square masked guard spoke. "here are the results of the first game"

the numbers on the screen above quickly began to decrease. stopping at 365. 91 players had been eliminated. the guard repeated, "congratulations again for making it through the first game"

player 149 rushed forward, player 007 at her side. her broken voice shattered your heart, "sir, please don't kill us!" she pleaded, falling to the floor, begging the guards in front of her. "please don't kill us, i beg you. as for my son's debt, i will do whatever it takes to pay you back. please forgive us!"

she pulled her son to his knees, who followed her movements, praying to whoever would answer, "i’m sorry. please forgive me, i promise i’ll pay it back" he sobbed.

the masked guard stopped them momentarily, "there seems to be a misunderstanding"

more players gathered beside the mother and son, all on their knees begging to be spared. you sat back, observing their every move silently praying their calls would be answered.

"we are not trying to harm you, we are presenting you with an opportunity" the guard replied nonchalantly, unbothered by the frantic pleading.

the crowd was silenced as player 456 stepped forward, "clause three of the consent form" his voice was loud, echoing off the walls. "the games may be terminated upon a majority vote, correct?"

"that is correct"

"then let us take a vote right now," 456 said, his tone tight.

"of course," the guard replied. it felt like the tension in the room slightly dissipated, everyone's shoulders relaxing. "we respect your right to freedom of choice, but first let me announce the prize amount that's been accumulated"

the room cascaded in darkness as the giant piggy bank screwed to the ceiling quickly filled with money. your eyes widened, your heart quickly beating against your chest. it seemed to never end, the notes continuously dropping as the players slowly formed underneath it, childlike wonder on their faces.

"the number of players eliminated in the first game is 91, therefore a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated," the guard said as the money stopped. "if you quit the games now the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share"

"how much is that?" a player questioned.

"each person's share would be 24,931,500 won"

namgyu seethed, "fuck, we almost died and they're giving us 24 million? that's fucking bullshit" he raked his hands through his hair again, a habit he picked up when annoyed, then pressed his palms against his head in frustration.

you hated to agree with him. you had been promised 45.6 billion and came close to death just to receive a sum that wouldn't cover even 1% of your debt.

"twenty million?" the purple-haired one called out. "you said 45.6 billion"

the guard spoke up once again, “the rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player" you wondered how many times the faceless man had repeated those same lines, his tone of voice led you to believe it was a common occurrence. "if you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly"

a grating voice you had begun to recognise; an older man, the number 100 stitched to his jacket, called back, "how much will it be if you survive until the end?'

"as i already told you, the total amount of prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won, those who make it through all games will equally divide the 45.6 billion won"

"so if you're the only one to survive you get 45.6 billion?"

you never stopped once to think about the possibility of you alone winning the grand prize. you couldn't imagine what you would spend it on minus the obvious.

the guard nodded "that's correct"

namgyu turned to you, his face just as shocked as the rest of the crowd, it seemed he also hadn't thought of the insane possibility of those numbers in his bank account. you stared back, a pit forming in your stomach. you remembered the day you opened your joint account, remembered how your soul died as the blinking zeros looked up at you. you didn't want to imagine namgyu screwing everyone over to make that money only his, everyone including you. he surely wasn't that far gone.

another letter sat in the postbox. a red urgent sign stamped to the front. you didn't have to peel back the opening to know what was inside, you’d read the same words on the last four that arrived weeks ago. your head hurt at the thought of it. your rent had been unpaid for months now, at first it had been an honest mistake. you were still getting used to the new hours at work, namgyu was also working late nights at the club, and so rent was the last thing on your mind. the months after that only piled on adding to the mountain of already existing debt.

your only option was to use the money you and namgyu had been saving for your future. it was an agreement when you started university that you’d open a joint savings account, only putting in spare change when you both could and promising not to touch it unless it was absolutely necessary. the amount you’d accumulated wasn't anything massive, just barely enough to cover a percentage of your shared unpaid bills; you would have to scrape together the rest somehow, but it was a good enough start. you knew namgyu would understand.

it was a summer day, the sun so hot it was scalding your shoulders, you welcomed the cold air as you entered the overcrowded building. you stood fourth in the line, rocking on your heels as you waited. surprisingly it moved along quickly. you thanked the person in front who moved to let you in, inserting the card into the card slot. you stared at the screen in confusion. five blinking zeroes sat in the space that was once occupied. you removed the card, inserting it once again and the same thing appeared. 00,000. panic started to set in as you repeated the same actions and was once again greeted with nothing.

"what's taking so long? some people have things to do" a woman called behind you, the other customers in line humming in agreement.

you turned, apologetically bowing, "sorry ma'am," you removed the card, moving to the other side of the bank where you could talk to an employee.

the woman smiled through the glass, "hi, how can i help?" she asked.

"i think there's a problem with my card," you replied, handing the card over. "could you check for me, please?"

"of course, give me a moment," the worker answered.

you impatiently waited, the minutes felt like hours. the woman finally looked back, the same smile on her face. "it looks like all funds were removed on may 6th by the shared owner" she paused to look at her screen again. "a choi namgyu"

it was like someone had stolen all air from your lungs, the entire room suddenly becoming too small and too hot. your brain hadn't fully processed what was being said to you and so you only nodded, accepting the card back and hastily exiting the building. you engulfed a breath of fresh air, focusing on keeping your breathing steady. sure it could seem silly to be that upset by namgyu's actions, at the end of the day it was only money. but, that money you both had planned to use towards a future house or a child or to travel; it was wishful thinking but it gave you hope. you couldn't understand why he would take it without telling you first.

the journey home gave you a lot to contemplate. you had come to the conclusion that maybe namgyu needed the money as desperately as you did and in namgyu fashion; embarrassment and avoidant, hid it in hopes of you never finding out. it was the only explanation that didn't make your heart hurt.

the apartment was dark when you entered, the only noise being from the broken refrigerator. you tossed your belongings haphazardly onto the kitchen table and collapsed onto the sofa. you took your time on the way home, opting to walk rather than take the bus leaving you to arrive back at exactly 9:40 pm. you didn't care to make dinner, the shower that you were hoping for had to wait, you weren't doing anything until you had a good enough excuse from your fiancé.

you hadn't realised you’d dozed off until the click of the front door awakened you. you swore you’d only shut your eyes for a second but the clock was now ticking at midnight. you sat up straight, stretching the knots out of your muscles. namgyu soon made his presence known, loudly pulling off his shoes with no care and pushing them to the side.

he finally looked up, jumping when he noticed you on the sofa, "what the fuck," he swore, hand on his heart. "why are you sitting in the dark?"

you glared through the darkness, mouth shut. you could smell the weed radiating from him, of course, as always he was high.

"hello?" he asked, taking the seat beside you. he called your name, his tone was now worried.

“where are we going to live?" you asked suddenly.

namgyu furrowed at that, hands circling the room, "here?" he replied, unsure of the unusual question.

you wanted to laugh. he had no care for anything. "not for much longer," you said casually, your demeanor worrying him more.

"what's going on?" he seemed more alert now, his eyes wider than they had been when he first opened the door.

"we've missed five rent payments” your gaze softened at his worried expression, the namgyu you once knew coming through for a second. “they’re going to evict us if we don't pay by the 19th" you explained.

and as quickly as your face softened it dropped again at his words, "shit i forgot about that" he replied.

you laughed bitterly, feeling stupid to believe he would care to begin with. "did you also forget about the money you took from the savings?”

"what?” namgyu’s expression twisted in confusion. a beat of silence later and it seemed to click, he looked back at you again, eyes widened, “oh that money! baby, don't worry i’ll get it back times ten” he smiled proudly.

you held your breath, scared of his reply. “what did you do with the money, namgyu?”

“there was a guy at work” you resisted the urge to knock your head against the nearest wall. “he made so much investing in crypto-”

you cut him off mid-sentence, your blood boiling. "you spent our savings on crypto?" you ran a hand over your face, palms digging into your eyes. “what is wrong with you?”

he stared back as if you were speaking a language he didn't understand, the same look of confusion on his face, "what? i’ll get it back"

"you're too smart to be acting so stupid namgyu" you couldn’t stop the laughter escaping your lips. “we're drowning in debt and you used the last of our money for fucking crypto?”

namgyu’s tone of voice quickly turned offended, "why are you acting as if the money only belonged to you? i put money into that account too" he argued back.

"and, what about the money i put in namgyu" you cried back, frustrated that he didn't understand where he went wrong. "you took that too"

"i told you i'll get it back"

“that doesn't help now, we'll be homeless next week" you replied, voice weak. you were exhausted.

"why are you always on my case?” namgyu responded through gritted teeth. “nothing i do is ever right for you”

“maybe if you didn't act like a teenager half the time i wouldn’t need to” you remained where you stood, your voice getting quieter with every word, “you're never here or when you are you're high or drunk, it's like i don't know you anymore”

namgyu raised his head with a glare, his voice loud and unnerving, “have you ever thought you're the reason why?” he shouted angrily. you felt the world pause, didn’t hear anything but the words he’d spat swarming around your head. “wait, wait, I didn't mean that” he quickly interrupted, hands waving frantically.

you couldn’t find it in yourself to reply, instead, you snatched your bag from the kitchen table and slipped on your shoes. your hands shook as you unlocked the front door, namgyu’s pleading voice calling behind you.

he caught up to you, hands clutching your wrist. “please it's almost 2 am, just-” he stopped mid-sentence. “let's go to bed and talk about it tomorrow”

“let go of me, namgyu” you tiredly replied. he reluctantly dropped your wrist, opening his mouth to speak again when you continued, “do not follow me”

he called your name into the clammy night, his voice following you down the darkened streets. you gripped the strap of your bag, head down in an attempt to ignore the drunken people passing by. the area where you lived wasn't known to be the safest, clubs and bars surrounded most of the apartment buildings which mostly housed sketchy people. your safest bet was to find a hotel a little out of town but you couldn't risk walking that far alone nor could you afford it.

a small park came into view, it was old and most of the playground was falling apart but it was in a well-lit area. you took a seat at an empty bench, covered in graffiti and the paint chipping. you rested your head against the back, the moon catching your eye. you watched it shining brightly in the night sky, the stars around it twinkling. you thought back to the nights namgyu would keep you awake telling you facts about space you didn't care to know but listened to anyway because you loved how passionate he was. a tear rolled down your cheek at the memory, and another, and soon you were a sobbing mess. you hunched forward attempting to breathe through the tears. your throat and eyes burning but you couldn't stop.

you weren't crying for the lost money or his harsh words. you were crying for the boy you used to know, the boy you fell in love with who seemed to no longer exist. you had been ignoring it for too long, the reality of it all now crashing down on you.

an unknown presence made itself known, taking the empty seat beside you. they didn't speak, only handed you tissues and a bottle of water. you glanced to the side, squinting through your swollen eyes. a boy around your age, his hair to his shoulders and a warm smile on his face looked back. he held the items out again to which you accepted.

“sorry, i noticed you crying, thought you might need them” he pointed to the tissues and water in your hands, and then quickly interrupted his sentence. “i promise I'm not a creep,” he quickly defended himself, and pointed to the convenience store across the road. “i work over there”

you smiled, “thank you,” you said, taken aback by his kind gesture. “that's really kind of you”

his smile took up his entire face and then dropped just as fast, he worriedly asked, “do you live nearby? it isn't safe to be around here alone”

you quickly lied, “ah yeah, just had a hard night at work”

he laughed nodding, “i know that all too well”

you smiled again, unsure how to reply. you appreciated his kindness more than you could say in words but you were too emotional to hold any form of conversation. “i should head home before it gets any later,” you said before getting to your feet and gesturing to the items in your hand, “thank you again for this” you bowed.

he nodded, following in your footsteps and rising from the bench, “get home safely” he smiled again bowing in your direction.

that night you spent the lonely hours in a pc cafe, the voices of teenagers playing games keeping you awake, and grieving the man you once knew.

previous next masterlist playlist

note . . . really struggled with the first part of this chapter so i’m sorry it took so long 😓 i don’t wanna make it too repetitive and only copy word from word from the show but it’s HARD. im still not in love with this chapter but i really wanted to post something, hopefully i wont take another 4000 years for chapter 5 lmao

taglist . . . @chrisstyle @seonghwasslytherin @princessofthepuppets @sollum @okaycharr @hoshisgalaxy @alexatthedisco @swoofllia @chxrrybomb22 @drkitten226 @ryvampr @bbyjjunie @learninglinesintherainn @smally97 @sft-core @enterplanettelex @prettywhenicry4 @zannispppp @juhdoche @nuttybeans @wagawana @xtracy-xd7 @slxtgirl69 @ihrthoney @zella-74 @ancientdarko @loverzxi @boomzen @godly-sinsx @sirenkinnie @skibidirizzzlerrrr @come-as-you-are-111 @mochimitsuri @lavboat01 @preppyfella @diaboliku-loversu @mimipolo @ourseasone @loveeblob @ritapitmargarita @xoxolakeyah (let me know if you wanna be added)

#namgyu x reader #nam gyu x reader #squid game x reader #player 124 x reader #namgyu x fem reader #player 124 #squid game fanfic #｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ favourite crime #player 124 x fem reader #namgyu x y/n #namgyu x you #player 124 x y/n #player 124 x you

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hwangjoanna · 3 months ago

Text

'Red Light, Green Light.'

SKZ Squid Game AU

Hyunjin X Reader

Enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers

Dom/Hyunjin, Sub/Reader

Possessive & jealous Hyunjin

Hyunjin, Seungmin & Minho are all mean (sorry)

Felix and Jisung Besties (Soft boys)

A/N: Once again thank you so much for all the lovely comments you guys have said so far! I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this chapter! 🫶🏻

Chapter Warnings: 18+ mdni! Use of pets names, threatening behaviour, mass deaths (not main), use of guns. Dreams of a sexual nature. Suggestive sexual content. (I think that’s all please let me know if I’ve missed anything)

Word Count - 14,079

Chapter 3 —> Here

[Series Masterlist]

Chapter 4

Hands all over you. Palm against your mouth. A choked sob. “Wake up, Angel.”

“Y/n, come on baby. Wake up”

Shaking, trembling, sweating.

Please stop.

“Angel?”

“Angel, come on wake up?”

“Y/n?”

You woke with a start. Felix and Jisung were looming over you with concerned eyes. Jisung had his brows furrowed and his lips fell downward. He looked completely unharmed in comparison to Felix. The man who was the epitome of sunshine now almost looked grey. He has a split brow, a black eye and a scuff on the underside of his perfect chin. His heart-shaped lips were now stained red from his teeth. Felix brought his hand to your face and ran his thumbs over your tear-stained cheeks. He pressed his body on you slightly in a comforting gesture.

“You okay, Angel?” He asked in a soft tone. “You worried me back there.” Felix was looking into your eyes, his filled with an emotional you couldn’t place. Your mind still needing a moment to fully wake up. Jisung soon interrupted, “We were both worried, y/n.” He leaned in slightly. “Are you with us?”

You began sitting up, a look of confusion spread across your features. Your eyes searched the room, you were looking for Hyunjin. The last you remembered was him ripping that disgusting man off you. Hyunjin was sitting with Minho and Seungmin, he was holding a cold cloth to his cheek. None of the group looking over at you, just muttering amongst themselves. You averted your gaze to the others in the room. Everyone was back in groups, bruised and beaten in some way. It was horrible, blood spattered on the floor here and there. Some bodies lay strewn across the concrete floor. Then you looked over to the corner where number 112 lay motionless, left there like he was nothing. The pang of guilt you felt soon vanished as Felix blocked your line of sight.

“He attacked you, y/n,” he continued to speak softly to you as if you were made of glass. “Do you remember?”

You nodded, your throat still feeling too sore to form words just yet. Jisung spoke up again, “Y/n, are you feeling okay? You don’t have to talk about it but Felix and I are worried. The vote to stay or leave will be starting soon. We are scared more fights will happen. Do you still want to leave?” He had pulled your hands into his in the hopes of getting your attention. Your eyes still looked a little glazed over.

You finally cleared your throat to speak ignoring his questions. “What happened after I passed out?” You were looking at Felix but still held onto Jisung’s hands to ground yourself. Your voice was a little horse.

Felix paused, his thoughts swimming across his irises. His face seemed to flicker with every emotion before it settled on pity. You hated that.

“I carried you back to your bed, most of the fighting had died down. Minho was even comforting Jisung.” He looked at the brunette and you followed his gaze. “Yeah, I know right, weird? But he honestly helped me. I was having a panic attack, he noticed and coaxed me out from under the bed” Jisung added. “He ran off as soon as Felix returned with you.”

“Still,” the blonde had his jaw clenched. “I don’t trust any of those three much less the other players in the room.”

“I feel like that was all my fault, Lix.” Your voice is still strained. “If I hadn’t had-“ “Stop it, let’s not point fingers.” Felix interrupted. You appreciated his kindness but you still felt the need to explain. You wondered what happened between him and Hyunjin. Felix still seemed pissed off with him though so you didn’t press the matter. You glanced back at Hyunjin and his group but he still hadn’t looked your way. You wondered why. Hadn’t he killed that man to protect you? Or was it because he knew that number 112 had intended to kill him? You wanted to just go over to him and ask but thought better of it. You didn’t want Felix to see you as ungrateful, after all, he had helped you, stood up for you and comforted you throughout your time in this hellhole.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted by a siren going off in the room. The three of you got to your feet, Jisung dropped one of your hands but threaded his fingers through the other. Felix brought his hand to the nape of your neck and gave a reassuring but gentle squeeze before dropping it back to his side. Most people in the room had started to gather, watching the masked guards entering the room with a device.

It was a grey box with a green button on the right with an O on it and a red one on the left with an X. The three of you exchanged glances and the guard finally spoke as the siren stopped.

“Voting will commence now.” He began casually. “As previously mentioned, if you wish to leave the game please press the green button.” He paused, his head turning slightly, it looked as if his eyes were on you. Though you couldn’t be sure as he had that evil mask covering his face. “If you wish to stay, please press the red button. You will get one vote. We will call you up one by one.”

Jisung was hanging off your arm at this point. He looked at you, his boba eyes showing his fear. You pulled him closer and whispered to him. “You vote however you want to Ji. I won’t hold it against you either way.” You smiled but it didn’t reach your eyes. You were hoping after the fighting people would see how awful this was and that they would vote the same way you were planning to. It seemed as though it had the opposite effect, however.

As the numbers dwindled you grew even more concerned. It was around 50/50 of who wanted to go and who wanted to stay. The guards were calling out numbers randomly. Jisung had already voted to leave when you were called forward. You pressed green with no hesitation, you wanted to leave so badly. A few others were called when they said “Number 320.” For the first time since you woke up, Hyunjin glanced at you briefly but then turned his attention to Felix his eyes narrowing slightly. Hyunjin pressed red and walked back to his group without a second look in your direction. You felt hurt, but what did he owe you?

Minho and Seungmin were also called forward a little later. Both of course voted red with Hyunjin.

Felix was the last to be called up. The voting was tied. Your heart was pounding through your chest, you were going to go home. Finally, after everything you had been through.

Felix hovered over green for a split second but with a big sigh leaving his lips, he brought his hand down on Red. You and Jisung couldn’t hold in your gasp. You heard someone that sounded like Seungmin comment “Good boy,” but you couldn’t take your eyes off Felix as he turned to you and Jisung his gaze not meeting yours. His head bowed. The room erupted with boos and cheers but it was muffled noise to you. You stood there in shock. Felix walked past both of you and climbed up to his bunk not saying another word. You caught Hyunjin’s eyes across the room. His lips pulled into a smirk and with a wink he turned away.

The guards had removed the dead bodies from the room. It was almost silent as you made your way to the bathroom. Felix, Jisung, Hyunjin and the others hadn’t spoken a word to you since the vote. You felt more alone than ever. Once again you compared it to the isolation you had experienced before entering the game. He had left you after months of acting strange. Leaving you with fuck all, bills coming from everywhere and a feeling that something else was on its way for you. Something dangerous.

You stood over the sink finally getting a look at yourself after what happened to you earlier. Your cheek was bruised purple from his slap, slightly puffy too. Swollen pink lips and a cut over the other cheek though you’re not sure where that came from. You had fingerprint-shaped bruises indented into either side of your mouth and on your jaw leading down your throat. He had really done a number on you, though your memory of it had become a blur. Almost like your mind was protecting itself from the trauma of it all. You began to sob, your salty tears stinging your cheeks. You lowered yourself to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest. You don’t remember how long you sat there for.

Finally getting to your feet you splashed some cold water on your face and went to leave the room. As you walk out you knock into another female player. She looks at you like you’re a piece of shit on her shoe and continues into the bathroom when you turn around to see Hyunjin leaning against the wall as if he’s waiting for you.

“Thirteen, we need to stop meeting like this.” He approached you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“So you just happened to be hanging around here when I was leaving the bathroom?” You returned his look with a teasing smile. “How convenient.”

You were hoping he’d want to talk about what happened. He was extremely hard to read. Was he just playing with you, did he care for you? Was he just trying any way to get through the game? You started to get distracted from those thoughts when you realised he was inches away from you. He smelt of vanilla with something deeper, it almost hypnotised you.

His gaze flickered to your lips for a brief moment before he responded. “Hmmm maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t.” You rolled your eyes at his insincerity, you went to walk past him when his hand caught your wrist in a possessive grip.

“Look, I actually wanted-“ he paused as you turned to look at him. His voice went a little soft and he looked away almost shyly. Something you hadn’t seen from him before. “-I wanted to check if you were okay, after what happened.” He looked back at you. He seemed completely serious, his face full of concern. “Did he do anything to you?” He stopped. He was aware he had begun to ramble with questions to avoid the tense silence that had settled between you. He also didn’t want to push you past what you were comfortable with discussing.

“You mean before you killed him?” You said with more of a bite than you intended.

He dropped your wrist and looked at you with that of surprise. It lasted a moment before his eyes glazed over in anger. “Of course, you would paint me as the bad guy.” His voice was getting louder, his tone almost threatening with a hint of offence. As if he expected you to react this way.

“Not like your precious guard dog, hmmm?” He spat. Crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive stance. “This has nothing to do with Felix-“ you shouted back attempting to square up to the buzzcut man. You got a better look at him like this, he had bruises all over his face. A split lip and both his eyes had purple shadows beneath them. His face was one of malice. “Is that why you went running into pretty boy’s arms the moment I got that cunt away from you!?” He was right back in your face now. A mix of hurt and anger filled his eyes. “Is that why you’ve been ignoring me huh?” You asked matching his volume. “You’re jealous, is that-“Before you could finish your sentence his lips were on yours.

It felt urgent and desperate. His need for you winning out over his anger. You began to return the kiss, matching his energy. The kiss was a mess of your tongues fighting each other for dominance. He pulled back slightly whispering against your lips. “That’s my girl.” He kissed you again but softer this time. His hands found your waist and he pulled you towards him gently as if he was afraid you’d break. His touch was so light, you could tell he wanted to give you the opportunity to pull away but it made him even more intoxicating. You reached up and put your arms around his neck as he started leaving open-mouthed kisses over your jaw and down your throat. Your breath hitched causing him to move slightly away from you. “Did I hurt you?” He asked, his voice low, his eyes boring into yours. Hyunjin’s pupils were blown out and his breath was slightly staggered.

His cocky attitude had been replaced by one of concern. His eyes looked over the bruises number 112 had left behind. You looked up at him through your lashes, catching your breath. “No, I’m just surprised that’s all,” you admitted reluctantly.

His previous gentle face had returned to that of a teasing smirk. He took a stray piece of your hair and tucked it behind your ear. “Next time,” his voice was just above a whisper. “Don’t go running to anyone else, yeah?” He pressed his lips to your forehead, his hand on the nape of your neck and held a kiss there longer than necessary. It was as if he wanted to continue the conversation but after a slight pause, he abruptly walked away as if nothing had happened. You stood there for a moment dumbfounded, your heart beating under your numbered t-shirt. You brought your fingers up to the lips feeling the warmth he had left behind. The taste of his kiss lingered as you walked back to the main room.

Felix and Jisung were still napping when a siren sounded and the masked guards reentered the room. You rose from your bed and walked over to the middle of the room to listen to whatever awful fate was next for you all. Thanks to that stupid vote that got you nowhere.

“The next game is ready, you will follow an assigned guard to the game room.” The square-masked man announced. You began to turn around looking for Jisung and Felix but Jisung had already started to make his way over to you. He smiled at you and grabbed your hand. “In this together still yeah?” He whispered. You returned the smile. “Of course, Ji.” you squeezed his hands and looked past him in the hopes of seeing Felix. He was close behind and offered you a small smile.

You all started to follow the guards, Felix had taken your other hand and the three of you walked together. Even though you hadn’t spoken to Felix since the vote you still didn’t want that to get in the way of your friendship. You figured he must have had his reasons to vote against you. You also knew you needed to concentrate on the next game if you were going to survive.

About 24 people had been beaten to death during the fight earlier that day leaving 230 people.

Everyone funnelled into the game room. The three of you still holding hands, you caught Hyunjin’s gaze watching you as he turned back to Minho and Seungmin muttering under his breath. The two of them looked up at you before continuing their conversation but you didn’t catch a word. Your heart had begun to race, and the impending game starting to cause your anxiety to build. Felix felt your energy change and he stepped in front of you placing his hands on your shoulders.

“Follow your intuition, Angel. You got this, you’re strong. Me and Ji are right here, okay?” His eyes were full of sincerity, but you caught a slight fearful tremble in his deep voice. You nodded not being able to get out words, trying to control your emotions from spilling out. The last thing you wanted was to allow your fear to take over and potentially affect Jisung too.

You pulled your attention to the room. The floor was covered in a smooth sand with a multicoloured fence painted around the borders of the room like a children’s playground. The walls a powder blue with clouds painted all over. On one wall four different shapes in a line. A green circle, a red triangle, a yellow star and a blue umbrella.

The guard suddenly spoke up in a cruel tone. “You will each choose a shape to line up in front of, you have 5 minutes to decide.” You could hear the smirk under his square mask. “Choose wisely.”

The three of you started looking at each other. “I’m going to go with the triangle,” Felix announced immediately walking over to the queue. Jisung glanced at you but quickly ran to follow him. You looked around the room to observe what other people were choosing. Minho caught your eye and began to walk over to the umbrella. You knew Minho was strong and seemed almost fearless so you thought being on his team might benefit you. You joined him in the crowd hoping it was a group challenge. Seungmin and Hyunjin had queued in the star line. Hyunjin glances at you and Minho. Minho brought his arm over your shoulder.

“Just you and me for this one, kitten.” His side smirk is apparent. He ran his fingers over your shoulder and you pushed him away rolling your eyes. “No funny business from you.” You shoved his chest lightly with a chuckle. “Okay, okay I’ll play nice.” His smirk not falling. “For now.” He suddenly deadpanned, eyes boring into yours. You stepped back slightly when you saw his eyes looking towards Hyunjin. They both exchanged a look and Minho chuckled to himself. Bringing himself back to your side. Why was he doing this? Did he get a kick out of teasing you and Hyunjin? Your thoughts were interrupted by the guard speaking again.

“The game is Dalgona Candy,” you and Minho looked at each other. Your eyes are wide and your jaws hanging. That’s the first time you saw fear flicker in his eyes. Fuck. You had picked the worst line to queue in front of. Your only reprieve was knowing Felix and Jisung had picked the easiest, they should get through. You cast your eyes towards them and their mouths were pulled into hard lines. Their gaze is full of pity. “It’s okay.” You mouthed to them with a small smile.

It wasn’t. You were absolutely bricking it but you didn’t want to distract them from getting through the game.

Everybody was handed a honeycomb biscuit in a round metal tin. Each adorning the shape they had picked. Everyone dispersed in the room, taking a seat on the sandy floor. Minho perching close to you, “We’re fucked thirteen.” He said in a whisper yell, his voice almost a growl. “Calm down.” You whispered back with the same furiousity.

“You have 15 minutes to carve your shape perfectly out of the tin.” The guard's haunting voice rang out. “Please present it to a guard when you’re done, only then will you be allowed to exit the game and make your way back to the main room.” He paused almost enjoying the fear that was filling the room. “If you fail, you will be eliminated.” Everyone now knew what that meant and small sobs and curses started ringing out in the room. “Your time starts now.”

The huge red digital numbers began to count down, each second precious. You paused for a moment and looked down at your shape, the small pin in your hand shaking from your nerves. Minho had already started not wasting a moment. It brought back memories of when you and your ex were happy together, making cookies and drinking wine. Before he had started acting strange.

“Darling, have some more wine. They might taste better.” Wooyoung said. Bringing his arms around your waist, his chest pressed against your back. His chin resting on your shoulder. “Hey!” you exclaimed. “They might not be burnt had you kept your hands to yourself.” you giggled whilst he brought his lips to your neck, peppering kisses all over your throat and shoulder. “Sorry baby, I just can't keep my hands off you.” Wooyoung pulled you towards the bedroom, flicking the oven off on the way. You both giggled in between kisses whilst he pulled you through the door.

You were still staring at the cookie when you came back to reality. You looked up at the timer that read 11:24 and was still counting down. Fuck! Why did you have to daze out during a challenge? You looked to see some people had left, Jisung and Felix were suddenly in your line of sight both presenting their perfectly cut cookies and getting to their feet to leave. Felix sent you a sympathetic smile. “You got this.” he mouthed holding his thumb up. He grabbed Jisungs hand and they both left. You felt a little comfort knowing they would still play on, even if you didn't.

Minho was still crouched over his cookie looking increasingly worried. A tear fell from your cheek that you didn't know was there. When did you start crying? The tear dripped onto the cookie and it melted a little bit of the honeycomb away.

That's when it hit you.

“Oh my god,” you said to yourself. Loud enough for Minho to hear and look up at you.

Then a deafening shot sounded through the room. A girl had been shot dead on the floor her cookie broken on the ground next to her. You glanced at the time again. 10:04 going down. Fuck. You needed to get a move on. You brought the pin to the edge of the cookie and pulled it slowly out of the tin. Dropping it a few times from how nervous you were, Minho’s eyes still observing you. You did it slower this time, making sure you kept your cool. You lifted the cookie out with your thumb and index finger and lifted the underside to your mouth. More shots sounded out in the room but you tried to ignore them, focusing on your task.

You began to lick the bottom of the cookie, the sweet sugary taste exploding over your tongue. Minho’s eyes went wide open in surprise, a stark contrast to the scowl he had on his face beforehand. “You’re a fucking genius, kitten.” He whispered more to himself than to you. He looked over to Hyunjin and Seungmin who were still working to get their shapes out of the tins. “Psst,” he signalled to them. They both looked up at him, he tilted his head towards you and their eyes followed. They watched you eagerly lick your cookie and both smirked at each other. “Told you she was something,” Hyunjin commented under his breath to Seungmin. They both chuckled and started lifting up their cookies to do the same.

The clanging of pins scratching against tins filled the room and more gunshots sounded here and there. A few players sobbed before coming to their end. You were desperately trying to not let it affect your efforts. The sugary dibble starts to coat your chin, and your mouth making the most obscene sounds.

You paused glancing back at the timer, now reading 07:34 and counting down. As you brought your attention back to the task at hand you caught eyes with Hyunjin. His tongue swirled over his cookie in a slow motion. His dark eyes bore into yours in a teasing manner. You couldn’t look away, your life was on the line and yet you enjoyed watching him lick that cookie like it was something else. That’s when he winked at you mid-lick, you could tell he knew the effect he had on you.

Your thoughts were soon interrupted when another 3 people were shot dead in quick succession. Not a lot of people were getting through the challenge now and it spurred you back into action. After minutes of licking your tongue was on fire, the muscle strained and your taste buds numb to the sweetness. You could see through the outline of the shape, holding it up to the light. You spat in your tin for good measure and placed the cookie back in its metal tomb.

You looked up at the timer it was now at 4:67. It was now or never. You’d need to pace yourself in order to not break the cookie. More shots were sounding out left right and centre. Screams, sobs and scratching echoed around the room like a sick curse.

Hyunjin and Seungmin both presented their cookies and left abruptly. Hyunjin turned back at you as he got to the exit, almost as if he feared it would be the last time he laid eyes on you.

You had begun scratching the pin tenderly across your shape. Your eyes flicker between the timer, the guard pacing by you and your cookie. The honeycomb taste burning in your mouth like a twisted joke. Would that be the last thing you’d ever feel on your tongue? A sugary treat being your demise. You tried to suppress the dread stuck in your throat. The timer was at 2:15.

“FUCK YES!” Minho screamed at the top of his lungs in relief almost causing you to break your cookie. You let out a huff of air you’d been holding, looking up at him briefly with your eyebrow furrowed. He showed his cookie to the guard and skipped out of the room like he won a fucking prize. If you got through this you were gonna make sure he got a slap for that.

The time now at 1:04, you just needed to carve the umbrella handle. You put in all your efforts to keep steady whilst continuing at a good pace at the same time.

Crack.

The lady next to you broke her cookie and was shot right next to you. Her blood splashed over your face, it burned against your skin in a taunting haze. You held yours up quickly, it perfectly cut into the umbrella shape. “I’M DONE! I’M DONE!” You repeated over and over still on your knees not wanting to look at the timer. The ticking of the clock is a blur in the background of your ringing ears.

“You can go.” The guard said in a nonchalant tone as if you hadn’t just practically begged for your life. You lifted your gaze to the timer counting down from 00:10. The guard with the triangle-adorned mask crouched down to you and under his breath said “Come on go, you won’t wanna watch this.” His voice had completely changed to that of sympathy. You looked up at the faceless man in shock. You held your position a little too long and started hearing the last of the players being picked off one by one. The girl's blood still dripping down your face. With that, you ran to the exit not sparing a glance back at the guard who had shown you a moment of kindness.

Author POV

The main room was filled with tension, some players sobbing for their lost friends and others sat with their eyes glued to the door awaiting their ally's fate.

This included that of Jisung, Felix, Hyunjin and Seungmin. Paired off at opposite ends of the room. They all lifted their heads when someone suddenly pushed through the door. It was Minho.

His smug smirk and arrogant expression were apparent as he made his way over to Hyunjin and Seungmin. They both rose to their feet, Seungmin high-fiving him and Hyunjin wrapping his arms around him.

Hyunjin however still had his eyes fixed on the door.

Minho noticed, his eyes panning from Hyunjin to the door and back to him. “She was nearly done when I left, she should be here any moment.” Minho offered in a comforting tone. Patting Hyunjin on the back. “Whatever,” Hyunjin responded trying to act like he couldn’t give a fuck. Who was he fooling, they all knew he very much gave a lot of fucks.

Felix and Jisung who sat on the other side of the room had started to panic.

“FUCK, why is it him? Where the fuck is she? …Come on Angel.” Felix said through gritted teeth, half to Jisung and half to himself. “Why didn’t we make her come to our group?” Jisung responded, his head in his hands whilst he rocked back and forth. “Don’t Ji, I was the one who told her to go with her gut. If anything it’s on me.” The blonde muttered, his hands balled up into fists.

Y/N POV

You pushed the door to the main room open. All 5 of them signed audibly, their faces all showing different stages of relief and their shoulders relaxing slightly. You were walking up to Minho with a look of distaste in your features. “You fucking moron!” You screamed, shoving him with all your might. He only stumbled slightly at your efforts. You brought your hand up to smack him but he grabbed your wrist. “Kitty’s got claws huh?” He smirked again causing you to get even more angry.

You pulled your hand from his grasp. “You just had to fucking shout! I almost broke my fucking cookie! I COULD HAVE DIED!” Your voice had grown to a shout loud enough that Jisung and Felix had started to make their way over.

“I think you’ve earned one for that, Minho.” Seungmin chuckled. You brought your hand back and smacked him across the jaw. The noise from the slap echoed around the room. Minho rubbed his mouth, his smirk now wiped clean off his face. Hyunjin and Seungmin were bent over in laughter. “You get that one for free, kitten.” Minho bit back with a frown.

You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping back when you felt hands on your waist. “Angel, we were so scared. We-“ Felix began but before he could finish his sentence he and Jisung pulled you in for a suffocating hug. The kind that took your breath away. These two meant so much to you and the three of you had all made it through another game. You began to weep, all the emotions pent up from the game, your anger towards Minho and the tension you felt between you and Hyunjin had all come to ahead. Felix pulled you back and held your face in his hands, your tears trickling down onto his soft fingers. He wiped away some of the blood that was still covering your cheeks. His eyes are full of unspoken words. His gaze danced over your features as if he wanted to memorise your face.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” his voice came out like a plea. He and Jisung pull you in for another hug.

Hyunjin cleared his throat, the three of you suddenly becoming aware of your surroundings. Jisung and Felix bowed slightly to the others out of embarrassment and strolled back to the other side of the room. Felix looking back at you expectantly. You went to follow him when you felt a light grip around your wrist. You turned already knowing who the owner of said grip was. Hyunjin pulled you closer to mutter under his breath. “I’m glad you’re okay, thirteen.” His face turned to your ear, his breath warm against your ear and cheek. He ran his thumb over your wrist and let go. You softly smiled up at him catching his sinful eyes. God, he was more beautiful than you remember. His softer side had started to do numbers on the butterflies in your stomach. Before you got lost in thought you slowly turned back to your best friends and walked away.

Chapter 5 - Out now!

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

Proofread by the lovely - @hoes4minho (please check out her writing!

Please do not copy my work!

Images in banner are not mine!

Dividers by - @sisterlucifergraphics

Taglist - @eridanuswave @astro-des @ot8girlfie @fairylix @estellan0vella @nightmarenyxx @missygore @mysterysold Open!

#hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #18+ mdni #han jisung #hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x reader #kim seungmin #lee felix #lee minho #seungmin #skz ff #skz au #skz imagines #skz fanfic #squid game imagine #squid game au #skz smut

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snowleek · 8 days ago

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Since you’re watching love island can you pls use your beautiful mind to tell us your tlt love island au headcanons? How are the producers managing the unforeseen circumstance that at least 3 people want to partner up with Harrow? How is GIDEON managing it?

I've been sitting on this ask because it's So Good, but okay I'm giving it a fair shot finally.

1. Obviously, it's Adepts and Cavs.

2. The producers are having an absolute meltdown because a nonzero amount of Adepts have repeatedly tried to couple up with Harrow, who has never pulled anyone (bar Gideon) for a chat and usually outright refuses to go with those who ask, yet has managed to avoid being single and vulnerable for the entirety of her stint on the island by the sheer force of Nonagesmitus, which Gideon is convinced is in the fucking water.

3. Ianthe is never chosen for challenges because every time she is, someone almost dies. Or does die, legally, but not quite enough to get them into trouble with advertisers.

4. Augustine is the VO announcer.

5. Gideon was single and vulnerable one (1) time, because Dulcinea had to go home on medical intervention (everyone in the villa sobbed. Corona's reaction went viral as a tiktok sound). She then got into a fistfight with Naberius (the reason is different depending on who you ask, but general consensus is that he deserved it). Ianthe found this so funny that she chose Gideon at the next recoupling, which prompted a reaction from Harrow that also went viral on tiktok.

6. The producers are scheming to get Camilla and Palamedes dumped from the island because they're the most likely to win. They keep being saved by viewer votes because they are fan favorites. Camilla specifically. There have been bodily threats against the producers on her behalf, and there is a viral "POV: Camilla Hect pulls you for a chat" trend.

7. The challenges are literally just the Lyctor trials. People literally fully die. And then you have to kiss someone.

8. Top sponsors for the season are kryolan face paint, mabelline, and a casket manufacturer in nantucket.

9. No less than three people make Harrow breakfast every day. She doesn't eat any of it, as she is equal parts disinterested and concerned that it is poisoned, despite Gideon laboriously trying to explain that killing her is not the fucking point of the game *at all*. She does, however, accept a cup of warm water from Gideon on most mornings when they aren't in a fight (rare)

10. Judith is still on because people just straight up keep forgetting about her. She finds the entire thing embarrassing and pointless and wants to go home, but the viewership and the producer's combined total indifference keeps her there. Her and Marta might even win, to be honest.

#anon ask #snowleaks #tlt shitposting #love island usa #if anyone else is in the middle of this stupid venn diagram with me please add to this #i need it #thank you for this ask anon im gnawing on it

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starmada4546 · 4 months ago

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The Derailing Trump Train

This essay is by-and-large for people like me who regularly have to deal with conservative family members or coworkers or whatever godawful thing makes you have to put up with these kinds of people. If that's not you, the advice in this one probably isn't going to be very helpful, but you're welcome to stick around for the analysis, if you like.

As the veneer of moderate, respectable conservatism slips away, people are going to start getting their buyers remorse. I've already heard people discussing how they aren't fond of Trump's policy on Ukraine, or his tariffs, or how Elon Musk is slashing federal jobs and giving himself multibillion dollar contracts. Its... highly frustrating to say the least. When I hear a very conservative uncle talking about how Trump's promised tax cuts don't include him, it makes me want to scream "How the fuck can you possibly be so selfish?! You people have had almost a decade to realize this man is a serious contender for Worst Human Alive and the only time you can start caring is when it impacts you?!"It really hurts to see a man who has spent the last decade fanning the flames of fascism, destroying lives, spreading bigotry, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, only lose his supporters after he starts hurting them specifically.

For those unfamiliar, there's a meme on the internet that many people like to quote in these sorts of situations. It goes something like "'But I didn't think the leopards would eat my face!' sobs woman who voted for the leopards eating people's faces party."

Since the original incident that started this meme, Leopards Ate My Face has become a term that refers to conservatives who voted for a conservative politician who proceeded to do something to hurt them, usually because said conservative voter didn't bother to figure out what said politician actually stood for. It's a popular meme for good reason; it's cathartic to laugh at the comeuppance of others, right?

I generally speaking disagree. This sort of thing drives me absolutely up the wall. It's selfish people finally getting hurt by their own selfishness, but in a vast majority of cases, those selfish people still won't accept they were ever actually in the wrong. It's always that they were lied to, or that the circumstances changed, or some other bullshit excuse that serves the same rhetorical purpose: I can't possibly have been wrong, so something outside my control intervened. This is, of course, demonstrating a key feature of the conservative mindset, which is the fundamental lack of self accountability. If there was any acknowledgement that everything that was going to happen was well known in advance, that political scholars and economists and journalists were Screaming From The Fucking Rooftops that this was going to happen, they'd have to acknowledge that there were steps they could have taken to have not caused harm for themselves, because in the fundamental selfish narcissism of conservative thought, the only thing that is immutably morally wrong is anything that hurts me.

If there was any acknowledgement that they could have done five minutes of research to keep from committing the most egregious of moral sins, doing something against their own interests, they'd have to accept that they bear the responsibility for that. So it is always, always, someone else's fault. Any evidence they could have used is dismissed out of hand; the news stations are lying, the economists are profiteering hacks, and the political scholars are propagandists.

But go far enough down the train tracks, they start running out of people to blame. When they're far enough out from the election that the opinions and writings of the fourth estate don't matter to them anymore, the republicans control all three branches of government, and most of what vestiges of leftism still exist in the government are seemingly hellbent on being the most ineffectual, pathetic doormats in the history of opposition parties, the list from the center of the Venn Diagram of "People who I think have the power to screw me over" and "People who I hate," starts growing dangerously short for their cognitive dissonance. It may not often seem like it, but there is a limit to how far these people can stretch and distort their own reality.

This is where we see the step of most groups built on ideologies of hate, supremacy, and/or exploitation wherein the members of the group begin to turn on each other, or at the least to begin their own balkanization. Remember, the very last person they can blame for their woes is themselves. They will blame anyone and everyone else, including their Der Fuhrer before they go that far. If they start running out of people to blame, they find new ones.

(This also mirrors a key feature of fascism, where when an outgroup can no longer be reasonably blamed for the problems of a society due to their absence or lack of cultural relevance, and are replaced with new outgroups, thereby making the ingroup smaller and smaller, but I'm sure that's only a coincidence, wink wink nudge nudge.)

So, after analyzing the toxic narcissism inherent to this worldview, I'm gonna go ahead and proceed to light myself on fire with napalm by defending it.

Ok ok, I'm not actually going to defend it. But I am going to ask for it to be encouraged?

This behavior is absolutely fucking terrible, don't get me wrong, but it is also self destructive, at least as far as cohesive fascist movements go. When they start pointing the blame fingers at each other, that is the death knell for fascism. Fascism exists because it's an ideology of hate, but it proliferates because it doesn't market itself that way. It markets itself as a series of benefits for the average everyman, which are obtained through bigotry. When those benefits don't materialize, which they can't, because bigotry has never served anyone but those who already hold all the power, it creates resentment and distrust. This is usually where the fascists point at something else and say "Look, a minority!" but that strategy only works for so long before it becomes put-up or shut-up.

So believe me, when that conservative uncle complains about Trump's tax cuts and you just want to go ballistic, I understand that sucks. But I urge you, smile and nod. It's a low bar at this point, but he's taking a second to think about it. Maybe it isn't going to get him to take his head out of the Kool-Aid fountain, but resentment and distrust don't start a violent boil overnight. In fact, we don't need a violent boil. We don't necessarily need for these people to start voting for democrats, we just need them to decide they'd rather not bother heading to the polls on election day. A small simmer is enough.

Because eventually, when Trump strips enough of the iron off of the track, the train derails.

In the wise and seemingly eternal words of Sun Tzu, "Never interrupt your enemy while he is making a mistake."

#politics #us politics #democrats #republicans #usa #america #donald trump #elon musk #antifascist #american politics #trump administration #fuck trump

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pedrosd1ckrider · 20 days ago

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All The Wrong Things At Once

part one.

Tags: She fell first vibes, sunshine reader, grumpy Joel, fluff, reader is an English teacher, Sarah’s in this too, reader has short hair (we short haired girls deserve some love too) and small boobies (again, we deserve some love), misogyny, food consumption, alcohol consumption, first date, they gave two (2) smooches in this one, did i mentioned fluff? Yeah, lots of it!, Joel being perfect, flirting (somehow i’m better at flirting in English than my own language haha 💀), reader being the best maternal figure EVER, no use of y/n.

English is like my fourth language, so I might make plenty of mistakes—I welcome every polite feedback.

Word count: I still don’t know how to do that, but this is long asf

The bell rang with its usual lack of grace—too shrill, too final, like it was personally offended you’d dared to teach another minute over your allotted time.

“Alright, guys, you’re free to go,” you said, your voice gentle. Chairs scraped back with all the subtlety of a demolition site, and students funneled out of the room in the chaotic ballet of end-of-day escape. You didn’t take it personally. You barely took anything personally these days. Which was, frankly, an achievement.

You started gathering your things—half-graded essays, your clicky pen that always ran out of ink mid-comment, your oversized planner with the week’s ambitions color-coded and half-canceled. You moved slowly, as if delaying your return to a home that felt just slightly too quiet, too echoey, like a song stuck on its last note.

Lately, you hadn’t quite been yourself. And it showed.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. You weren’t sobbing into your attendance sheets or assigning Sylvia Plath as “light Friday reading.” You just—weren’t all there. A little dimmer. A little softer at the edges. And it wasn’t like you were heartbroken. Please. You were an adult woman with a master’s degree and a mortgage. Technically, you could vote and drive and do your taxes. You were not going to crumble just because a man with laugh lines and the emotional range of a tree stump had been… less than responsive.

“Hey,” came a small voice near the front of the classroom.

You looked up and found Sarah standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, curly hair slightly frizzed from the humidity, her brows drawn together in concern. She had that same tone her father had when something needed fixing—a cracked pipe, a broken heart, a Tuesday.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you said, your smile automatic and sweet as honey in tea. You loved this girl. She was bright, kind, and funny. Her presence was one of the few consistent joys of your long, weird days.

“You okay?” she asked, stepping a little closer, not quite sitting on the desk but close enough that she could if she needed to.

“I’m fine,” you replied, your voice carefully level, like you’d practiced it in the car mirror on the way here. “Just tired. You know how it is—six classes, two coffee refills, and a kid in third period who insists Shakespeare invented emojis.

Sarah grinned but didn’t drop it. She had a sixth sense for when people were lying. Must run in the family.

“You sure? You look kinda… I dunno. Bummed?” she said it with that long Texas drawl, the word stretched out like warm caramel. Baah-mmed.

You chuckled, shaking your head, trying not to wince at the accuracy. “You’re very perceptive, you know that? You’re gonna make someone very paranoid one day.”

She tilted her head. “So… not bummed?”

“No, no. Not bummed. Just… not winning any gold stars for mental clarity this week,” you replied lightly, stuffing the last of your papers into your bag. Don’t ask about your dad, don’t ask about your dad, don’t—

Of course, the thought made you glance at her face again. She looked so much like him in that moment—same steady eyes, same stubborn line to her jaw. It was frankly unfair.

Because what were you supposed to say? Yes, your father casually disassembled my dignity in the span of twenty-three minutes, and now I think I might actually scream if I see him again. No, it’s fine. Totally fine. Want a hall pass?

Instead, you said, “Do me a favor and promise me something?”

She blinked. “Uh… sure?”

“If I ever, ever start acting like a man’s opinions are more important than mine, you are legally obligated to slap me with a copy of Wuthering Heights.”

She giggled. “Deal. But only if it’s the hardcover.”

You laughed, really laughed this time, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. “You’re a menace. Remind me to bump your grade.”

“You already gave me an A.”

“Well, now it’s an A-plus. Don’t get used to it.”

She hopped up to sit on one of the desks, swinging her feet a little. “You know, you’re like… one of the only adults I know who doesn’t talk to me like I’m five.”

“That’s because you’re smarter than half the faculty, and you know it.”

She beamed, pleased. “Seriously though… if there was something wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

And there it was again—that instinctive concern, so earnest it almost hurt. You swallowed around it, tried to answer without showing too much.

“I would,” you said. “But sometimes grown-ups get a little… scrambled. Not sad, not mad. Just scrambled. Like eggs. I’m just an egg this week.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You need a nap.”

“I need a nap, a vacation, and maybe a shot of tequila.”

She grinned. “Tequila and Shakespeare. You’re gonna make high school lit legendary.”

“That’s the goal,” you murmured, and for a second, you felt something warm settle in your chest. A reminder that even when you felt like the emotional equivalent of unsalted butter, you were still you.

Sarah looked like she was about to ask something else, her gaze flicking to your face like she was weighing whether to push further.

You gave her a smile that said, not today, baby girl, and she seemed to understand.

Dust motes floated in the still air like lazy fireflies, and your heels clicked softly against the linoleum as you finally sank into your chair with a soft sigh.

“Y’goin’ to that neighborhood barbecue?” Sarah asked. You paused mid-motion, your brain short-circuiting just long enough for your eyes to close. Fuck. You swore silently.

Of course she’d bring it up.

“I forgot that was even happening,” you said eventually.

“Yeah, Dad forgot too,” she said, with a half-laugh. You hummed softly in response, picking up one of your pens and rolling it between your fingers.

“So… y’all going?” you asked, doing your best to sound vaguely disinterested, like it was just a passing curiosity and not an existential gamble where your pride, dignity, and possibly your outfit choice hung in the balance.

She leaned back a little, squinting like she was thinking it through. “Well, I’m goin’ with Uncle Tommy. He promised he’d make his brisket again, so… duh.” She grinned, like that settled it.

You nodded, pretending to be totally neutral and adult and unbothered. “And your dad?”

“He’s still decidin’. You know he ain’t exactly the life of the party.” She laughed—soft and affectionate, not mean—and you could hear the warmth in it.

You smiled, a little despite yourself. “Yeah. I’ve picked up on that.” Understatement of the century. If “socially withdrawn” had a poster boy, he’d be on every bus in Travis County.

Sarah tilted her head at you, amused. “You ever seen him at a party?”

“Not unless we’re countin’ the school board meeting where he spoke four words and three of ‘em were ‘no thank you’.”

She giggled. “Yeah, that sounds ‘bout right. He’s all like, ‘Why would I go talk to people when I could be fixin’ somethin’ that ain’t even broke?’”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you set the pen down and leaned back in your chair. “That actually explains… so much.”

A beat passed. Sarah dangled her legs off the edge of the desk and looked around the empty classroom. The sunlight hit her hair just right, and you were momentarily struck by the weight of how young she still was—half child, half woman, and somehow wise beyond her years. She looked back at you.

“You really ain’t gonna go?”

You paused, then made a face. “I don’t know. There’s something uniquely terrifying about being judged by an entire neighborhood while holding a plate of baked beans.”

She snorted. “Ain’t no one judgin’ you. You’re like, the coolest teacher.”

“Oh, honey. That bar is so low it’s practically subterranean.”

“Still counts,” she said with a grin.

You bit your lip. “I dunno… Maybe I’ll stop by. If I can find a cute dress and, you know, enough emotional fortitude to survive two hours of small talk and overcooked burgers.”

“I think you should. Might be fun.”

You met her eyes, giving her a smile that felt more tired than fake. “You’re suspiciously invested in this.”

Sarah shrugged again, this time with a glimmer of mischief. “I dunno. I think it’d be funny watchin’ you try to talk to my dad in public. He gets all… weird.”

You arched a brow. “Define weird.”

“Like… stiff. He don’t know what to say. He gets this look on his face like he just remembered he left the stove on but it’s too late.”

You coughed into your hand to keep from laughing. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s accurate though.”

You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “Great. So he’s awkward and antisocial. Add that to the list.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Y’don’t like him much, huh?”

You smiled a little too quickly. “Who said that?”

She shrugged, swinging her feet again. “Just a feelin’. You get this weird voice when you talk about him. Kinda like when Mrs. Watkins talks about her ex-husband and her car insurance in the same sentence.”

You leaned forward, chin in hand, trying to sound light. “Let’s just say your dad’s… an acquired taste.”

Sarah smirked. “He’s like black coffee.”

“Mm. More like black coffee left on the burner overnight.”

She laughed out loud, and you couldn’t help but smile along with her, despite the very real sting in your chest.

God, you were in trouble.

You let out a soft breath and leaned back into your chair, the plastic creaking under the subtle shift of your weight.

“Well,” you said at last, “I’ll see if I end up goin’, sweetheart.” Your voice softened instinctively at the term, almost maternal but just shy of affectionate teasing. Sarah grinned in return, swinging her legs like a kid, even though she was starting to shed that look and lean into the awkward in-between of high school girlhood.

You paused, fiddling absently with the silver ring on your middle finger—a nervous tic, though you’d never admit it—and added with a half-smile, “Honestly, I don’t exactly have the energy for meetin’ half the neighborhood. Socializing with strangers makes me wanna disappear into drywall.”

Sarah tilted her head and made a little face, sympathetic. “Yeah, I get that. My dad always says if you make eye contact with one person at those things, suddenly you’re spendin’ your Saturday talkin’ about lawnmowers and property taxes.”

You barked out a soft laugh despite yourself. “That sounds exactly like somethin’ he’d say.”

“It is. He said it last year when Ms. Crandall asked if he wanted to join the HOA. He told her he’d rather change his own oil in August.”

You raised a brow, bemused. “I mean, that’s… horrifyingly valid.”

“He’s real good at avoidin’ people without bein’ rude,” she added, proud.

“Must be nice,” you murmured, glancing out the window, watching a squirrel dart up the side of a tree. “I’m still learnin’ how to avoid people.”

Sarah snorted. “You’re doin’ better than most the teachers here. Mr. Daniels calls everybody ‘champ’ ’cause he can’t remember nobody’s name.”

You laughed again, louder this time. “That explains so much.”

A pause stretched between you while you watched her, legs dangling off the desk like a child who didn’t know yet how much adults envied her for being able to do exactly that.

“You could just come for a little bit,” she said,“Y’know, just show up, eat somethin’, smile at Ms. Norris so she don’t spread another rumor ‘bout you bein’ a witch or whatever.”

“Oh, Lord,” you sighed, rubbing your temples dramatically. “Is that still goin’ around?”

“Yeah,” she said with a nod, utterly serious. “But now they say you’re a hot witch, so… progress?”

You groaned into your hands, and she giggled.

“And anyway,” Sarah went on, swinging her feet again, “it might be nice. Uncle Tommy’s bringin’ his acoustic guitar and like, five pies.”

“I don’t know whether that makes me more or less likely to attend,” you deadpanned. “Pie I can do. Acoustic guitar in public? That’s a high-stakes gamble.”

“He only plays Johnny Cash and ‘Wagon Wheel,’ so… depends on how brave you’re feelin’.”

“Terrified, honestly,” you said, with a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

A beat.

Then: “You think your dad would be weird if I came?”

Sarah blinked at you, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “Weird how?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I don’t know. He’s just… stoic. Like, emotionally constipated.”

Sarah snorted. “He ain’t constipated, he’s just quiet.”

“Same thing,” you said, “Anyway, I wouldn’t want to show up and have him do that thing where he looks at me like I’m a stray dog he didn’t mean to feed.”

Sarah burst into giggles, doubling over slightly. “He does have that look! I call it his ‘oops-I-cared’ face.”

You chuckled, biting your lip to hide the fact that her insight was a little too spot-on. “Exactly. I’m allergic to mild rejection, so… maybe I’ll just stay home and alphabetize my spice rack.”

Sarah grinned wide. “You’re funny when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I’m selective. There’s a difference.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it.

“Well,” you said, voice softening, “if I do come, I expect pie. And exactly zero small talk about irrigation systems.”

Sarah stuck out a pinky. “Deal.”

You locked pinkies with hers, and she grinned like you’d just signed a sacred pact. Then her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“…You want me to save you a seat next to Dad?”

You nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”

“Not even a lil’ one?”

“Goodbye, Sarah.”

She cackled like a villain and didn’t move an inch.

You regretted it. Every second of it. Every mosquito bite. Every lukewarm plastic cup of sweet tea. Every awkward neighborly smile from someone named Cheryl. You regretted the moment you said yes to this godforsaken barbecue party.

But most of all, you regretted that you’d fallen—once again—for Sarah’s weapons-grade persuasion tactics.

Because of course she talked you into it. Of course she did.

She’d been trying all week, skipping her usual dramatic eye-rolls in favor of wide, pleading puppy eyes—those big greenish-hazel ones that made you feel like you were denying a Disney orphan Christmas. You didn’t stand a chance.

So now, here you were: sitting at a plastic folding table in someone’s aggressively well-manicured backyard, in the sweltering late-afternoon heat of Austin, trying not to visibly scan the crowd every five minutes like some desperate character in a rom-com who just knows she made a mistake wearing that one skirt.

You were perched at the edge of your seat beside Tommy—who was charming and polite and dangerously good at making people feel welcome—and Sarah, who was halfway through a story about a science class experiment gone rogue.

“—and then Bobby Sanchez dropped the whole thing on the floor, and it smelled like… like rotten pickles ‘n burnt eggs had a baby,” Sarah said, wrinkling her nose. “Ms. Finch had to open *all* the windows. I thought she was gonna pass out.”

You blinked, pulling yourself back into the conversation. “Rotten pickles and burnt eggs. Sounds like half the dishes at this party.”

Tommy barked out a laugh. “Hey now. You insult the deviled eggs, you’re gonna start a war around here.”

“Oh, God forbid,” you deadpanned. “If I get hit by a flying casserole, I want it on the record that I tried to blend in.”

Sarah giggled, leaning over with her arms crossed on the table, sipping at her soda with a little straw she’d twisted into a knot somehow. “You do look cute though. So I think you’re safe.”

You gave her a sideways glance and a smile that said, i love you, but I’m still gonna die mad about this.

She was dressed casually, in jean shorts and a pink tee, and her hair had half-fallen out of its ponytail, in a messy way.

You’d dressed carefully, even if you’d never admit it—something not too try-hard, not too casual. A skirt, loose and floaty, just enough lip gloss to look like you hadn’t thought about it for 45 minutes beforehand and a white shirt that made your boobs look a little bit bigger.

“So, uh,” you said, forcing your tone as breezy as the nonexistent breeze in this Texas heat, “is your dad comin’ or…?”

You regretted it instantly. You hadn’t meant to ask it out loud. You really hadn’t. Your voice trailed off into the rim of your plastic cup.

Sarah glanced at you, then at her cup, and said, “I dunno. He was still in work clothes when I left the house. Might show up late. He don’t really like these things.”

You nodded, tried to make it look like you didn’t care, like you hadn’t scanned every single shadowy shape behind the grill like a CIA operative hunting for someone specifically tall, broody, and emotionally unavailable. “Yeah,” you said. “I figured.”

Tommy nudged your shoulder lightly with his. “He’ll probably come. He always shows up, eventually. Even if it’s just for five minutes to complain about the potato salad.”

“Comforting,” you muttered, and Tommy laughed.

He was easy to like—quick smile, kind eyes, the kind of guy who’d help a stranger carry a couch three blocks without needing a reason. The opposite of Joel, really.

“Well,” Sarah said, “if he does show up, don’t worry. I’ll sit between y’all so it don’t get awkward.”

You blinked. “What?”

She smirked. “I mean, you and my dad always get real quiet.”

“I think we just both enjoy silence,” you said, straightening a napkin for no reason. “Like… independently.”

“Uh-huh.”

You opened your mouth, ready to deliver a snappy comeback—but then stopped.

Because someone behind you cleared their throat.

And you knew. You didn’t have to turn around. You knew.

“Hey,” came that low, molasses-smooth voice from just over your shoulder. A little hoarse, a little tired, a lot Joel.

And suddenly you were re-evaluating every decision that had led to this moment, including—but not limited to—your choice of outfit, your eyeliner, and your deeply regrettable emotional attachment to a man who once described PTA meetings as “torture with snacks.”

Sarah beamed. “Hi, Dad.”

You turned, slowly, like a woman preparing to face a firing squad.

“Hi,” you said, and smiled.

Too wide. Definitely too wide.

Tommy stood up with a grunt and clapped his older brother on the back. “’Bout time you showed up,” he said, grinning. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

You smiled politely, stared down at your cup like it held the meaning of life.

And then—you felt it. That awful, slow, unmistakable gravitational pull of fate.

Of course he sat down in the only empty chair.

Of course it was the one directly next to you.

And of course the universe hated you today.

The air felt a little too warm suddenly, like the sun had dialed it up just for this moment out of sheer spite. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs and shifted slightly in your seat, pretending to be very focused on a plastic bowl of lukewarm potato salad.

Joel let out a low grunt as he lowered himself onto the flimsy lawn chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there.

You could feel him beside you, though. The heat of him. The solid, maddening presence. Like your whole left side was suddenly hyper-aware. Shoulder, arm, thigh—not touching, but almost. Close enough to make you wonder what the hell you were even doing here.

You didn’t look at him.

You were not looking at him.

But then Joel shifted—just slightly—toward you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, low and dry.

You turned your head slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Yeah, well,” you said sweetly, “Sarah used psychological warfare.”

Joel smirked. Just the edge of it. “Sounds ‘bout right.”

There was a pause. Not silence, because the backyard was alive with laughter and music and the occasional shriek of a kid on a sugar high, but still—a pause. A small, heavy pocket of unsaid things wedged between the two of you.

You sipped your drink. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to ruin your evening.”

He arched a brow. “Didn’t say you would.”

“Didn’t have to.”

He didn’t answer that. Just let his gaze slide away, somewhere toward the grill, like he had more important things to look at than the woman he very clearly—kind of sort of almost—rejected a few weeks ago.

Sarah, blissfully unaware, leaned forward and looked between you both like she was hosting a talk show. “So… are y’all talkin’ again now?”

You blinked. “Sarah—”

Joel cut in. “We’re bein’ civil. That count?”

Sarah made a dramatic face and wiggled her fingers like she was playing mediator at the UN. “I knew this party was gonna be a good idea.”

Tommy chuckled and handed her a paper plate. “Go grab yourself a burger, matchmaker.”

Sarah stood up with a little bounce, but looked at you before leaving. “Y’want anything? They got those corny lil’ sliders you liked.”

You smiled, grateful for the out. “I’ll come with you.”

But before you could even stand, Joel spoke again—softly this time, like the words weren’t really meant for anyone but you.

“You ain’t gotta leave.”

You froze.

And then—very politely—you smiled at him.

“I know,” you said.

And followed Sarah toward the food.

You could feel him watching you go.

And you hated how much you didn’t hate that.

You were meticulously balancing a slider and a suspiciously shiny deviled egg on Sarah’s flimsy paper plate—trying very hard to pretend the hotdog tray wasn’t congealed—when your ears perked up like a stray cat hearing a tuna can crack open.

It wasn’t that you were eavesdropping. Of course not. You were simply… present. In a public space. Where words travel. And someone had said, “—Joel,” and your internal alarm system shrieked to life like a school bell on Monday morning.

Your hand froze mid-reach over a bowl of potato chips.

Joel.

Of course.

You didn’t intend to listen. Not consciously. But when a cluster of women behind the lemonade table started giggling like high school juniors instead of grown mothers of PTA presidents, it was kind of hard not to.

One of them—bottle-blonde—let out this theatrical sigh. “Well, thank God he came,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

“Mm-hmm,” another one murmured, swaying gently with her red solo cup. “Man’s been workin’ himself half to death. ‘Bout time he came up for air.”

“Yeah, but like—look at him,” the first one giggled. “All gruff and broody like a damn cowboy who forgot how to smile. It’s so hot.”

You blinked, stunned, as if someone had thrown glitter in your eyes.

Hot?

Joel Miller?

…Okay, maybe a little.

In the right lighting.

When he wasn’t speaking.

But still.

You tried very hard not to snort audibly as you dropped a scoop of mac and cheese onto Sarah’s plate. Gruff and broody might’ve been a poetic way of saying “antisocial with a hint of jackass.”

He hadn’t even smiled when you said hi that first week.

Still, your hand lingered on the tongs. Listening.

“I told y’all,” a third woman chimed in, the one in the cowboy boots and the pink floral sundress, “he’s just shy. That’s what it is. He ain’t rude, he’s just got one of them quiet dispositions.”

Quiet disposition.

Right. That’s what we’re calling being a human brick wall now.

Sarah tugged gently on your sleeve. “Miss?” she asked, “Can I get them lil’ corn things? You know, the ones that look like baby fingers?”

You blinked back into the moment, smiling softly as you plopped three tiny corn cobs onto her plate. “Of course you can, honey. You can get anything you want.”

She beamed, already nibbling on a bread roll as you guided her toward the condiment table. She didn’t hear a word from the Greek chorus of thirsty Texas women behind you—but you did.

And now you couldn’t un-hear it.

Or un-see it.

One of them was definitely eyeing Joel like he was the last rib at the barbecue, and you had no idea why this bothered you.

Except you did know. And you were going to pretend you didn’t.

Sarah’s curls bounced as she walked ahead, humming something tuneless to herself, already halfway through her potato chips. You followed, taking a slow breath, resisting the irrational urge to glare back at Sunglasses Barbie and her Joel Appreciation Club.

And then you saw him.

Across the yard.

Still in that damned chair.

Still looking like he hated every second of being alive.

Still watching you.

Of course he was watching you.

Because the universe had a sense of humor.

And apparently, you were the punchline.

Tommy waved at you both as you came back. “You get enough for a small army there?” he joked.

“She got me the baby corn,” Sarah said proudly. “And three deviled eggs even though I only asked for two.”

“Overachiever,” Tommy said with a wink at you.

You smiled tightly, sitting down across from Joel instead of next to him, making Tommy swap seats with you. He didn’t say anything—just raised one brow.

You ignored him.

But you couldn’t help it—your eyes slid sideways, just a little, and there he was. The man of the hour. Mister gruff and broody himself.

Looking at you.

And smiling.

Damn him.

You genuinely had no idea how you ended up in this mess to begin with. One minute you were politely excusing yourself from the barbecue—early and the next you were standing directly between two grown men who were halfway through a shouting match, six beers past reason and one sideways glance away from full-blown brawl territory.

It happened in that slow-motion kind of way where your brain registers each choice—each tiny, innocent, well-meaning step—and catalogs them under: “Mistakes Were Made.”

You’d waved at Sarah and promised to return her Tupperware. She’d said something like, “Don’t forget the lid, miss—my dad always loses it,” and you’d laughed, like the maternal figure you were pretending not to be. Joel had glanced over then, because the universe refused to let you leave anywhere unobserved by those judgmental puppy brown eyes of his. And of course, he hadn’t said goodbye. Of course not. That would’ve been polite.

So you’d walked. Alone. Down the gravel path behind the fence. Toward your house. Past the hedge. Just a few more feet.

And that’s when you heard it.

“Yeah, well, if you paid your goddamn child support—!”

“Oh, please, comin’ from you? You got the damn nerve to talk about responsibility?”

You flinched before you even saw them.

Mike and Randy.

Your neighbors.

The human embodiments of car alarms and meat sweat.

And somehow, somehow, you were right between them.

You froze, hands awkwardly full with a floral casserole dish and Sarah’s Tupperware.

Mike turned first. His face was flushed—either from the sun, the alcohol, or, more likely, a toxic blend of both—and his hand was waving aggressively in Randy’s direction. “I don’t need to take crap from no broke mechanic who still lives with his mama—”

“Say that again,” Randy snapped, stepping forward. “Say that again, Mike, see what happens—”

You cleared your throat softly. “Um—gentlemen?”

A mistake.

A terrible mistake.

Two sets of bloodshot eyes locked onto you like heat-seeking missiles. You felt the casserole dish sweat in your palms.

“Hey, ain’t this Joel Miller’s new lil’ lady friend?” Randy barked suddenly, squinting at you. “You the one teachin’ at the school, right?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Opened it a little and tried a smile, which you now realize probably looked like a nervous squirrel attempting diplomacy.

“She ain’t nobody’s lady friend,” Mike said, though somehow that didn’t sound any more complimentary. “She just thinks she better than everybody ‘cause she teaches English and don’t talk to nobody.”

You blinked. “Okay, wow. That’s—an interpretation.”

Randy snorted. “Yeah, Joel probably thinks he’s too good to come drink with the boys now, huh? Got himself some tight-lipped, big-word girlfriend with a pretty smile and no damn personality—”

“All right,” you cut in. “This has been a fun and wildly uncomfortable detour, but I really should—”

“You know, Joel don’t talk about you much,” Mike interrupted. “That says a lot.”

Ouch.

Okay.

That one kind of stung.

You inhaled slowly, willing yourself not to throw Sarah’s Tupperware at anyone’s face. Or cry. Or do that thing where your lip trembles but you pretend you’re just yawning.

You could still hear the party down the street—laughing, country music playing on someone’s cheap Bluetooth speaker, the occasional slap of a horseshoe against the dirt. It felt like a whole other planet.

Here, between Mike and Randy, was the alien terrain of grown man pettiness and secondhand Bud Light rage.

You adjusted your grip on the casserole dish and lifted your chin just a little.

You were not about to be bullied by men who wore flip flops with socks.

Especially not over Joel Miller.

“First of all,” you said, chin tilted high like your grandmother taught you, “we are absolutely nothing.”

You let the words land sharp and clear, enunciated like punctuation. Like an answer on a spelling test you knew you’d gotten right.

And for some godforsaken reason… they laughed.

Not the polite, awkward kind of laugh you give someone when they’ve accidentally spilled ranch dressing on themselves and you’re trying to make them feel better. No, this was the gross, snorting kind of laughter that men do when they think they’ve just seen a woman embarrass herself.

Randy actually slapped his knee. Slapped his knee, like he was in some kind of honky-tonk sitcom. “Ain’t nothin’, huh?” he wheezed, leaning back like your declaration had winded him from the sheer comedy. “That why he’s always lookin’ at you like he’s thinkin’ ’bout fucking you?”

Mike coughed a laugh right after, and you could smell the whiskey on his breath before he even spoke. “Yeah, darlin’. You’re nothin’, sure. That why he don’t let no one else talk to you? Walks around all stiff like he’s tryna hold somethin’ back—”

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

Do. Not. React.

Do not give them the satisfaction.

Do not throw this casserole dish, no matter how much your fingers are itching to.

They were leaning into it now, emboldened by each other’s drunk, idiotic energy, circling you like vultures who’d spotted a weak spot in the ribcage. Or maybe like dogs, scenting something they thought smelled like fear.

“Bet he’s just usin’ ya,” Mike muttered, his eyes narrowing, mean and heavy-lidded. “You one of them smart girls, huh? The kind that thinks readin’ books makes you better than the rest of us?”

“She talks all sweet like sugar, but I bet she’s got claws,” Randy added with a leer, as if he were being charming.

You wanted to say something witty.

You always had something witty.

But for a second, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth and your heart tripped, half-shocked, half-burning. And t ou were trying to breathe through heat and humiliation at the same time.

You weren’t scared exactly.

Not yet.

But it was starting to feel… dangerous.

Like if one of them reached out, or stepped forward, or said the wrong thing one more time, the situation would slide out of the hazy realm of drunken teasing and straight into something uglier.

You were near your house.

You could see your porch light.

But your feet wouldn’t move.

“Y’all ever wonder,” Mike drawled, “why he ain’t lookin’ for a real woman? Someone who ain’t tryna play all proper? Maybe ‘cause he knows what kind you really are.”

“Yeah,” Randy agreed, eyes running over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “Betcha put on that teacher act real good. But I seen how you look at him. You want him. Don’tcha?”

You folded your arms then, mostly so your hands wouldn’t shake. Mostly so they wouldn’t see the way your knuckles had gone white around the damn Tupperware.

“Do you speak to all women like this,” you said quietly, “or am I just lucky?”

Another laugh.

This one sharper. Dirtier. Meaner.

Randy leaned in. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re just askin’ for it, wearin’ that skirt like that. Pretendin’ you don’t know what it does to a man.”

And that—

That was the moment.

The one where your heart dropped into your stomach, not out of fear but out of pure, incandescent rage. The kind that bubbled right under your ribs, fizzing hot and golden and righteous. The kind you only get when you’ve been good, when you’ve smiled through the smirks and tolerated the comments and tried, tried, tried to be liked.

And they still thought they could say that to you.

No one else was around.

No Tommy.

No Sarah.

No Joel with his judgmental eyes and silent smirks and shoulders that could hold up half the county.

Just you.

And two men who didn’t know—had no idea—how much fury a quiet woman could carry.

You blinked slowly, lips parting.

“Enough.”

The voice came from behind you—low, firm.

And oh, you knew that voice.

Too well.

The moment you heard it, your spine snapped a little straighter like it had its own opinion about things, and your mouth went dry like your body had decided to have a full-blown reaction without consulting your brain. Which was annoying, really. You were supposed to be the adult. The professional.

But still—there it was.

Joel Miller, in all his Southern, sharp-jawed, permanently-irritated glory, standing behind you like the world had summoned him just to complicate your evening.

And of course, of course, Randy’s voice turned sleazy on a dime, curling into something mock-sweet and smug.

“Well, hell,” he said, half-laughing. “You brought your boyfriend out here to scare us, sweetheart?”

Your boyfriend.

You almost choked on your own soul.

You didn’t say anything—because if you opened your mouth, there was a very real chance that your entire internal monologue would come pouring out in chaotic, flustered poetry like “he’s not my boyfriend, he’s a grumpy construction god with judgmental eyebrows and I hate him and also maybe want to kiss him under a streetlamp”— which, obviously, would’ve been frowned upon in this particular moment.

So instead, you just stared ahead, arms still folded tightly across your chest, trying not to react. Not to him. Not to them. And especially not to the part of you that was a little relieved he’d come.

Meanwhile, Joel’s boots crunched against the gravel as he took a step forward into your space.

“I said that’s enough.”

Mike scoffed, but not as loud this time. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’, man. Just talkin’. She didn’t seem to mind.”

You turned then. Not all the way—just enough to glance at Joel from the corner of your eye.

He looked… tight. Coiled. Like a man trying very hard not to punch someone.

Which was honestly sort of sweet.

In a terrifying, emotionally-repressed way.

“She minded,” Joel said, slow and clear, his gaze never leaving theirs. “And I don’t think either of y’all want me to repeat myself.”

It wasn’t a movie. No one flinched dramatically or dropped their beer. But there was this subtle, almost imperceptible recalculating in both of them. Like wolves suddenly realizing the rabbit had backup. Big, pissed-off backup in a flannel shirt.

Randy laughed again. “Shit, man. Ain’t gotta get all macho on us. We were just jokin’ around.”

“Try jokin’ somewhere else,” Joel said.

And just like that—just like flipping a switch—they started backing off.

No apology. No shame. Just the lazy, shrugging retreat of men who’d decided the entertainment wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Typical.

You exhaled, long and quiet, only realizing now how hard you’d been clenching your jaw.

Joel didn’t look at you right away. He just watched them walk off—staggering toward the edge of the barbecue smoke and back into their own personal cloud of Miller Lite and entitlement.

And then, finally, finally, he turned his head. Eyes narrowing at you with that same stormy expression that made you want to both slap and kiss him.

“You alright?”

Your lips parted—and then paused. Because the answer wasn’t simple, and your pride had teeth.

“I had it handled,” you said, as evenly as possible.

He huffed, the faintest sound. Like a laugh. But not quite.

“Sure,” he muttered. “I could tell. Real commanding presence. You gonna throw that Tupperware at ‘em next?”

You looked down at the forgotten casserole dish in your hands, then back up at him.

“I was considering it,” you said primly.

That made him smirk.

Smirk.

Ugh.

You hated how smug it made him look.

And hated more how that little corner of your stomach did a stupid fluttery thing in response.

He rubbed the back of his neck, that familiar gesture that always made him look younger than he was, and somehow annoyingly more attractive.

“They’re drunk,” he said simply. “But they ain’t stupid. Not completely. They know not to push it when someone’s watching.”

“Lucky me,” you said, and raised an eyebrow. “Guess I should thank you for coming to my rescue, cowboy.”

His mouth twitched at that. “You callin’ me cowboy now?”

“ You are wearing a flannel.”

“It’s Texas,” he shot back. “What else am I s’posed to wear? A damn tuxedo?”

You blinked slowly. “Honestly, now that you mention it…”

His laugh—a real one this time—was so rare it stopped you for a second. It was low and warm and gravelly, like someone turning a page in a very old book. And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot why you were mad at him in the first place.

Until you remembered exactly why.

That night.

You straightened again, chin back up, even as the blush crept traitorously up your neck.

“You done saving damsels in distress?” you asked, voice light but laced with steel.

He tilted his head, eyes still on you.

“Depends,” he said. “You done runnin’ off into trouble without tellin’ nobody?”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you didn’t have one.

“Thanks for the backup,” you say lightly, balancing the cold casserole dish against your hip as you adjust your grip. Your voice is polite—almost too polite, like you’d written the words down on an index card ahead of time and underlined them twice for emotional distance. “I’m heading home now.”

And with that, you turn on your heel, chin lifted, sandals clicking against the uneven pavement as you walk away from the barbecue—and from him. The shadows stretch long across the sidewalk, warm twilight spilling over the edges of the neighborhood like honey left out in the sun too long.

You don’t look back.

But you hear him.

The unmistakable scuff of boots behind you.

Of course.

Because the universe never got tired of trying you.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t say a word. You just keep moving forward, steady and composed, even though you’re acutely aware—painfully aware—of Joel Miller walking a few paces behind you like some kind of flannel-clad guardian angel who probably carries a toolbox instead of wings.

It’s not until you’re halfway up the sidewalk, two houses from your own, that you finally speak—your tone soft.

“I’m not in danger of being kidnapped, you know,” you say without turning around. “You can go home.”

A beat.

Then another.

And then—

“You sure?” he replies, his voice all gravel and heat, laced with the kind of dry sarcasm. “Didn’t seem like those two were big fans of boundaries.”

You do roll your eyes this time, but he can’t see it, which feels like a small mercy.

“I’m a teacher, Joel. I get talked over, interrupted, and emotionally terrorized by teenagers five days a week. I think I can handle two drunk rednecks trying to out-misogynist each other.”

He makes a small sound behind you—something like a laugh, but not quite. More like he’s amused against his better judgment.

“I’m just sayin’. That one guy was starin’ at you like he forgot what decade we’re in.”

You stop at the edge of your porch, finally turning to face him. The porch light casts a soft, golden glow across the wooden steps, catching the edge of your hair, your collarbone.

“I appreciate your… concern,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “But I’m fine.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze stays on yours and you hate how much you want to know what he’s thinking. Is he still irritated? Is he judging you? Is he remembering that night the same way you do?

Or is he just standing there because he wants to be near you, which is… confusing. And deeply unhelpful.

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he mutters, finally, with a small shrug. “Just figured I’d walk you back.”

You let out a small breath, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Why?”

He raises an eyebrow, almost like the question surprises him. Or maybe it annoys him.

Or both.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Maybe I’m just tryin’ to be nice.”

That pulls a soft, skeptical laugh out of you.

“You? Trying to be nice?” you echo, and cock your head. “That would be new.”

He looks at you for a long moment. And then he does something unexpected.

He smiles.

Not a smirk. Not a grimace disguised as a smirk. A real, fleeting, actual smile. It doesn’t reach all the way up to his eyes, but it almost does.

You feel your stomach do something it really shouldn’t be doing on a random Sunday night in your front yard.

“People change,” he says.

You arch an eyebrow. “Since when?”

He shrugs again. “Since now, I guess.”

And the weirdest part? He’s not being sarcastic. Not completely, anyway. There’s something different about his voice tonight—softer, less defensive. It’s like he’s trying, in his own gruff, emotionally stunted way, to… what? Connect? Apologize? Flirt?

Okay, no, not flirt. That would require actual intentionality. And Joel Miller doesn’t flirt. He just grunts at you until you develop feelings against your will.

Still, something about the way he’s looking at you feels like a crack in the armor.

It’s almost enough to make you want to let your guard down.

Almost.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing again in mock suspicion. “You sure you’re not just trying to score extra credit? Sarah’s got that essay due on Friday.”

He actually laughs at that—an honest-to-God, chest-deep laugh that makes your heart stutter for half a second before it remembers how to beat.

“She already finished it,” he says. “Wrote the whole damn thing in one night. Said she wanted to impress her favorite teacher.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s sweet,” you murmur. “She’s… she’s a good kid.”

“She’s crazy about you,” he says, softer this time.

You break eye contact first, stepping toward your door.

“Well,” you say, forcing your voice to sound breezy. “Tell her I’m proud of her.”

Joel watches you quietly. And then, as you reach for the knob—

“You wanna sit out for a bit?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, turning back. “What?”

He nods toward your porch chairs—old wood, a little creaky, but comfortable enough for late-night conversations and bad coffee.

“Just for a few minutes,” he says. “I’ll leave you alone after that.”

Your hand hesitates on the doorknob.

You should say no.

You really, really should.

But instead—

You open the garden gate with a small flick of your wrist. The metal squeaks just enough to remind you you’ve been meaning to oil it for weeks, and the hinges drag slightly in the humidity.

Your front porch waits ahead, two faded blue chairs and a tiny metal table that wobbles if you breathe near it too hard. String lights hang overhead, casting a buttery glow that makes the whole space feel vaguely like a small-town diner commercial or an indie movie where the leads never quite kiss.

You gesture toward the chairs without looking at him.

“Come on in. I’ve got lemonade,” you say over your shoulder. You don’t wait for a response—just push open the screen door and disappear into the soft clatter of your kitchen, half-hoping he’ll take the invitation and half-hoping he’ll misread it completely and leave you alone forever.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Joel never does what you want him to until it’s at least five minutes too late.

You hear the low scrape of boots against your porch—he’s chosen the chair on the right, the one with the little crack in the armrest that you keep meaning to sand down.

Inside, the kitchen smells faintly of lemon zest and whatever candle you left burning earlier—maybe vanilla, or something ridiculous like “Sunset Orchard.” The space is tiny, just one window, one sink, one fridge covered in students Sarah’s drawings and your own crooked little reminder notes: parent-teacher night Thurs, buy printer ink, don’t engage with Joel Miller. You ignore the last one. As always.

You open the fridge, retrieve the tall glass pitcher—your emergency summer lemonade, half sugar, half spite—and pour two glasses. You make his a little fuller than yours and immediately hate yourself for it.

When you step back outside, he’s still there, legs stretched out, one hand on his knee, his eyes lazily scanning the yard like he’s checking for trespassers or rogue raccoons or maybe just avoiding looking at you.

You hand him the glass and set yours down on the table.

He takes it from you without a word and lifts it slightly in a silent toast before taking a sip.

You settle into the other chair, crossing your legs and leaning back, letting the cool glass rest against your thigh. The porch creaks beneath you. The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional bark of that horrible little chihuahua that belongs to the Johnsons next door. You sip slowly, watching him over the rim of your glass.

“Well,” you say finally, your voice light and just a little too sweet, “you’re not what I usually picture when someone says ‘knight in shining armor.’”

Joel glances at you sideways, his brow quirking just slightly. “Yeah? What do you usually picture?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say airily. “Maybe someone who doesn’t almost break my garbage bins every Tuesday morning.”

He exhales through his nose—his version of a laugh, maybe. “Those bins are poorly designed.”

“They’re plastic. You body-slammed one like it owed you money.”

“It was crooked.”

“You were crooked.”

He smirks into his glass. You try very hard not to notice how the porch light catches in his eyes when he does that.

“I don’t recall you complainin’ when I helped you carry that bookcase in last month,” he says after a moment.

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s true. You were very helpful. Just like a grumpy neighbor in a Hallmark movie.”

“Damn,” he mutters. “And here I was hopin’ for ‘brooding antihero.’”

You glance at him, head tilted slightly. “Is that what you think you are?”

He shrugs. “A man can dream.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s small. But it’s real.

There’s a long, comfortable pause after that—almost too comfortable. You look out at the yard, your fingers tracing idle circles around the base of your glass. He watches you for a second longer than necessary. You pretend not to notice. You’re getting really good at that.

“So,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “You mad at me?”

You blink. The words fall into your lap like a stone.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you sip your lemonade again, then set it down with exaggerated care.

“I’m not mad,” you say slowly. “I’m just… not especially interested in repeating certain mistakes.”

Joel leans back in his chair, the wood groaning slightly. “Didn’t realize I’d made one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

He looks at you then, fully. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a long, quiet gaze that feels entirely too honest for this creaky porch and your blue chairs and your too-sweet lemonade.

You hold the stare for a beat, then glance away—down at your glass, at your hands, anywhere but him.

“Anyway,” you murmur. “That night’s not really… something I want to unpack with someone who thinks niceness is a suspicious personality trait.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “You’re a lot tougher than you look.”

“I’m a high school English teacher in Texas, Joel. I have the patience of a saint and the caffeine tolerance of a seasoned trucker. Don’t let the floral skirt fool you.”

That earns another smirk. You ignore the way your stomach reacts to it like a traitor.

You both go quiet again.

And then—

“You smell like lemons,” he says out of nowhere.

You blink. “…That’s probably the lemonade.”

“No, I mean—” He stops, scratches his beard. “I dunno. You always kinda smell like lemons. Or books. Or somethin’ else I can’t put my finger on.”

Your heart does something absolutely inappropriate in your chest.

You make a face, hiding your fluster with practiced ease. “Okay, now you’re just making things up.”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

And then?

He smiles again.

The lemonade is nearly gone.

Yours, at least—you’ve been sipping nervously, the glass chilled between your palms. Joel’s glass, meanwhile, is still half full—classic—and he hasn’t taken a sip in a while. Just keeps watching you, leaning back in that rickety blue chair.

You’re dangerously close to feeling comfortable. Which, given the fact that this is Joel Miller we’re talking about—the man who once fixed your front gate without asking and then pretended he didn’t—it’s deeply inconvenient.

He hasn’t said anything in a while, and you’re starting to think maybe the lemonade has short-circuited his usual gruff sarcasm. That maybe this is it—maybe he’s going to leave without another one of his broody, cryptic remarks that make you want to both roll your eyes and write about them in your diary.

But then—

“Friday. Nine o’clock.”

You blink.

“…What?”

His eyes don’t move. His mouth twitches, just slightly. “Friday. At nine.”

You narrow your gaze at him, suspicious. “Okay, yeah, I heard you. I’m not eighty-seven. What’s happening Friday at nine?”

He takes his time responding, like he’s savoring the moment. You hate him a little for it. And maybe also not at all.

“Wear a dress,” he says finally, low and deliberate. “The nice one. You’ll see.”

You make a face, part startled, part amused. A short laugh slips from you—tight, a little breathless. You look away, shake your head like you’re swatting a mosquito. What on earth is he talking about?

“Joel, this is Texas in September,” you say, shooting him a look. “I don’t own a ‘nice’ dress. I own five Target sundresses and a maxi skirt I wore to a wedding four years ago.”

“Then wear that,” he says with a slow shrug, like it’s all the same to him. “Long as it’s not covered in whatever the hell was on your shirt the last time I saw you.”

“It was chalk dust,” you say, mock-scandalized. “And it’s called educating America’s youth, thank you very much.”

He smiles again—smiles, like the man actually has the emotional range of a human being—and before you can fire back some half-sarcastic remark, he winks.

Winks.

Like this is 1954 and he’s just invited you to the county dance and not done… whatever this is. Whatever this has been becoming.

Your heart has the audacity to skip. You pretend it’s the lemonade.

“You winked,” you say flatly.

He shrugs. “Felt right.”

You stare at him for a moment longer, your lips pressed together. You’re painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The armrest between you suddenly feels insultingly narrow.

“I still don’t know what this is,” you murmur.

He watches you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he leans in—just enough for your knees to nearly brush, just enough for the porch to creak beneath his weight—and says, almost too gently:

“You will.”

And then?

He doesn’t move back.

The silence stretches, long and warm and quiet, like something suspended between two choices. His eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes—slow, like he’s not trying to hide it. You should pull away. You should say something biting. Something that keeps him right where you’re used to him.

But you don’t.

You don’t move at all.

And when he kisses you—because of course he kisses you—it’s slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it knows, somehow, that you’ve already granted it.

Your lemonade glass tips slightly.

And your heart goes absolutely feral.

You kiss him back.

You—yes, you—are kissing Joel Miller.

You are actively, willingly, shamelessly kissing the man who once told you your mailbox was “leaning like it had scoliosis” and then walked off without waiting for a thank-you when he fixed it.

This is… this is absolutely insane.

Like, on a scale of one to “the neighbor who insists her Pomeranian is a certified emotional support prophet,” this ranks somewhere above her but just below the incident with the squirrel and the Fourth of July grill.

(It was a long summer.)

And yet here you are, sitting on your too-small porch in your too-old tank top, kissing the man who’s been a grumpy, grizzled puzzle since the day you moved into this neighborhood. Kissing him like you mean it. Like you’ve been waiting for it, even if you’d never, under penalty of death and a PTA meeting, admit it out loud.

And the worst part? The worst part?

He’s really good at it.

His mouth is warm and slow, and his hand comes up—tentative at first—and then settles on your jaw. Just the side of your face, his thumb brushing the soft skin near your ear, and it sends an actual shiver down your spine, which is frankly rude. Rude, because he’s the kind of man who wears flannel like it’s a warning label and makes you feel like you’re always five seconds from being scolded.

But right now?

Right now he’s kissing you like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else in the world.

Your hand finds the front of his shirt—soft cotton, worn at the collar, smells like sun and laundry detergent that probably came from a dented bottle on a dusty hardware store shelf—and you curl your fingers there, grounding yourself in the very real fact that this is happening.

You’re kissing Joel Miller.

He deepens the kiss then, just slightly, and your breath catches. His lips part, gentle but sure, and it hits you like a freight train made of pure chaos: this man knows exactly what he’s doing.

And not in the way of a cocky college frat boy, but in the way of a grown-ass man who’s made mistakes, lived through things, and learned exactly how to mean it.

Your knees bump his. You don’t move.

Your elbow brushes the lemonade glass. You don’t care.

Somewhere, a cicada screeches like it’s bearing witness to a crime.

You kiss him harder.

His hand slides back into your hair now, slow and rough at the same time, like he’s figuring out if you’ll let him.

(You do.)

He murmurs something against your mouth—something you can’t quite catch, something with your name in it—and the porch creaks beneath you both like even the house is trying to mind its business.

And then—

You laugh.

You actually, breathlessly laugh into the kiss, because this is absurd, this is impossible, this is Joel, and now your lemonade is sweating on the porch table and your heart is somewhere near your throat and—

“Jesus,” you mumble, pulling back just barely, lips still brushing his, “what the hell are we doing?”

He leans his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable in the dim porch light.

“Hell if I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m not stoppin’ unless you tell me to.”

And you don’t.

You kiss him again.

And again.

“Fair,” you whisper against his mouth, and you swear you feel him smile. Just barely. Your fingers slide to the edge of his collar, brushing the scruff at his neck.

His hands grip your waist, like he’s trying not to break anything—including the moment. He shifts, just enough to tug you onto his lap, and you follow because what exactly are you going to do—say no? Get up and go grade papers like this didn’t just happen on your porch next to your blue hydrangeas?

No. No, ma’am.

Your thighs settle awkwardly against his, the chair creaks in protest and he looks up at you with that half-lidded look he always gives you. Like he’s not convinced you’re real. Or not convinced this is allowed.

“Joel,” you murmur, feeling kind of dizzy. Your lips still taste like lemon and strawberry from the homemade lemonade—more sugar than fruit, really, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You catch the way his brows lift slightly like he’s registering it too.

“You taste like candy,” he mutters, low, into your jaw, because of course he does. You almost roll your eyes.

“I am candy,” you reply dryly, which makes him huff a breath of something between laughter and disbelief.

He leans back just enough to look at you—really look at you—and that’s when you realize you’ve never actually been this close to his face in broad daylight. He’s got this faint scar under his left eye, the kind that probably came from something stupid, and his lashes are unfairly thick. Why do men have those lashes?

“You’re trouble,” he says finally.

You blink. “Me? I’m literally a public school teacher, Joel. I laminate things for a living.”

His mouth twitches. “Exactly.”

And then he kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Like he’s getting serious.

Your fingers drift up the back of his neck and toy with the ends of his hair—just a little too long, curling at the collar, the kind that makes you think about lazy Sundays and coffee and someone reading the paper across the table. You are absolutely spiraling.

“You always like this on people’s porches?” he mutters against your lips.

You smirk. “Only the ones who insult me and then act like it didn’t happen.”

He chuckles softly. “That was a compliment. You just don’t understand my dialect.”

“Oh? Southern sarcasm? I teach high schoolers, Joel. I’m fluent.”

He groans, tilting his head back just slightly. You press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, because now apparently that’s a thing you do. This is fine. Totally reasonable behavior.

The chair creaks again—loudly—and you both freeze.

“This chair is going to murder us in our prime,” you say flatly.

He grins against your neck. “Worth it.”

It wasn’t that you tried to be pretty. Not generally.

Sure, you liked makeup. Liked the ritual of it—the brushes, the blending, the ten minutes of delusion that maybe this time, concealer would fix your life. And you liked feeling pretty. That was different. But trying to be pretty? That felt like something you’d retired around the same time you stopped pretending you enjoyed group projects or mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Except today.

Today you tried.

And by “tried,” you mean you full-on committed. Shaved everything below the eyelashes, moisturized like your life depended on it, and then spent forty-five minutes in front of the mirror giving your chin-length hair those effortless-looking soft curls that, in reality, took three separate burns to perfect.

And then came the bow.

A small, white ribbon—tied high, daintily pulling back two strands at the front like some kind of grown-up Little Bo Peep. Was it overkill? Yes. Did you care? No. Because somehow, you were… happy with it. Which was alarming. You even caught yourself smiling in the mirror, and then immediately stopped out of principle.

The dress was white, scattered with tiny blue flowers, and hit just at the knee. It was sweet. Innocent, even. Floaty. The kind of thing that said, oh this? I just threw this on after feeding my chickens and baking sourdough. Except you didn’t own chickens. And every time you were meant to bake sourdough, you called your grandma.

The bodice, however, was… another story. Apparently, your tits had decided to make a guest appearance this week—something about impending PMS and estrogen or divine comedy—and the dress made sure their presence was known.

You weren’t mad about it.

And if, say, a certain contractor-slash-single-father happened to notice? Well. That was between him and the Lord.

The shoes were white kitten heels. Tiny, elegant, entirely too optimistic considering you didn’t know where you were going. Joel’s text had said: “Dress nice. Not like, fancy nice. Just… nice.”

Which, of course, meant nothing. What is “nice” to a man who wears the same flannel every Tuesday?

Anyway.

You’d stood in your bedroom, alone, feeling half-ridiculous and half like some older version of yourself was nodding in approval. And under the dress—just in case—your nicest underwear. Lacy. Pale blue. Matching. Which you told yourself was for you, not for him, even though you were lying and you knew it.

The house was too quiet. You’d even lit a candle. Like you were in a commercial for emotionally stable women. The scent was called Fresh Linen and Lavender, which felt aspirational. You didn’t even like lavender.

You looked in the mirror one more time. A small smile, barely there.

“Okay,” you told your reflection. “Let’s go impress a man who thinks a taco truck counts as fine dining.”

Your phone buzzed. One message.

joel: outside.

Oh. Okay. Okay.

Your heart did that irritating fluttering thing it hadn’t done since your second year of college, when some boy with a guitar called you trouble and you believed him. You grabbed your bag, double-checked your bow (it was still bowing), and walked to the door.

You stepped outside.

And there he was.

Joel Miller. In a clean button-down shirt. Which felt… illegal, somehow. His jeans were still jeans—heaven forbid he dress like he’s going anywhere important—but he had shaved. Not completely, but enough to make you pause.

And then, just like that, he looked up.

And blinked.

Once. Twice.

You waited. He said nothing.

“…Say something before I melt into the floor,” you muttered, more to the railing than to him.

His mouth opened. Closed. Then finally, with a voice that sounded entirely too casual:

“You clean up good.”

You snorted. “Wow. I feel like I just won Miss Texas.”

Joel smirked. “Ain’t what I meant.”

And then, a little softer: “You look real nice.”

You froze for a second. It was the softness that got you. He looked at you like he wasn’t expecting to like what he saw—like it surprised him. In a good way.

You cleared your throat.

“You too,” you said quickly. “Very… buttoned. Very collar-forward.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment?”

“That’s as close as you’re gonna get,” you replied sweetly, already locking the door behind you. “Now are we walking or is this part of the date just you standing there looking confused?”

He chuckled, stepping aside so you could lead the way down the porch steps.

“You always this sassy before dinner?”

“Only when I’m hungry and being emotionally manipulated by a man who wears Carhartt on purpose.”

He led you to his truck like he was escorting you down the damn aisle.

And when he reached ahead of you to open the passenger door, you paused. Literally froze mid-step, just staring at him. The gesture was so unexpectedly gentlemanly, so un-Joel-Miller-coded, that for a full second you actually glanced around, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to pop out and yell something about this being a reboot of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

But no. It was just him. Standing there. Holding the door. Looking absurdly smug about it.

You didn’t say thank you. Too easy.

Instead, you slid into the seat as gracefully as your heel height would allow (read: semi-gracefully with a soft oof) and immediately checked your reflection in the visor mirror. Lipstick status: not on your teeth. Victory.

Joel walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in, settling into the seat. He exhaled deeply, one hand already going for the keys.

You watched him for a beat.

He slipped the key into the ignition, and you—very pointedly—placed your hand on the emergency brake.

“Seatbelt,” you said, voice light but commanding. A delicate threat, wrapped in strawberry lip gloss.

Joel turned his head toward you, one eyebrow quirking ever so slightly like he was considering whether or not to make a joke. He didn’t.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long—something quiet, amused, unreadable dancing in his eyes—and then reached for the seatbelt and clicked it into place without a word.

Which, frankly, was the sexiest possible outcome.

“Good boy,” you murmured under your breath, immediately regretting it when he smiled.

It wasn’t a normal smile. It was a Joel-smile. Infuriatingly charming.

You turned back to your window, hoping the evening breeze would cool your face before he noticed the blush trying to crawl its way up your neck. Not that he’d ever mention it. That would require words, and Joel didn’t waste those easily.

The engine rumbled to life, and the truck eased away from the curb.

He still hadn’t told you where you were going.

You bit your lip. “So… do I get a hint? Or are we just relying on my trust in the mysterious, grumpy contractor from across the street?”

Joel’s hand shifted easily on the gearstick. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust that you won’t murder me in the middle of nowhere,” you replied sweetly. “Mostly because Sarah would probably kill you first.”

He let out a small laugh through his nose. “She would, too.”

A pause. Then:

“You look nice,” he said again, quieter this time. Like he’d meant to say it earlier.

You didn’t look at him.

Instead, you reached forward and turned the radio dial until you landed on something soft and old—a little bit of Fleetwood Mac, probably.

And then, casually, without looking away from the road, Joel added:

“You smell good, too.”

You blinked.

Your perfume. Lemon and strawberry. The stupid little body mist you sprayed out of habit, not realizing it might ever be relevant to anyone else’s senses.

You cleared your throat. “Wow. What a gentleman. Opens doors and compliments a woman’s scent. I’m shocked you’re still single.”

Joel smirked. “You tryna fix that?”

You nearly choked on your own saliva.

“Okay,” you said, tone climbing a little. “You can’t just say stuff like that while I’m wearing mascara. There are structural risks involved.”

He glanced sideways at you, clearly biting back a smile. One hand still on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the console between you.

He didn’t answer.

You didn’t either.

Because you had no idea if he was kidding.

Or worse—what if he wasn’t?

And then—what the hell?

You blinked twice, your mouth parting just a little in confusion as he turned off the highway, the landscape shifting from suburban Texas sprawl into something greener. The kind of place where people went to fall in love or get murdered, depending on the Yelp reviews.

The truck slowed as a set of warm, ambient lights came into view—glowing in the dusk like fireflies. Twinkle lights wrapped around the fence of what appeared to be… no. No freaking way.

“Wait,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the sign, which read Mandalorian’s. Hand-painted. Pretentious in the best way. “Are you serious right now?”

Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting casually on the console, as if he hadn’t just driven you to the exact Italian restaurant you’d been mentally bookmarking for weeks but never had time to visit because grading papers, parent-teacher meetings, and seventh graders in emotional crises had eaten your soul alive.

He parked the truck like it was no big deal. Just a Friday.

You twisted in your seat, staring at him, blinking.

“What the fuck?” you said, again. More force this time.

Joel looked over at you, utterly unbothered. “What?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you messing with me?”

He shrugged one shoulder with indifference, but the corner of his mouth was curving up like he absolutely knew what he was doing.

“I mean, I asked Sarah,” he said, all casual. “Ain’t no psychic.”

You blinked again. That little shit.

“She told you I wanted to come here?” you asked, pretending you weren’t already swooning like a moron in your stupid floral dress with the suddenly relevant boobs.

“She said—and I quote—‘If you take her anywhere except that place with the mozzarella balls, she’ll know you’re a lost cause.’”

You pressed a hand to your mouth to hide the laugh threatening to escape. Mozzarella balls. The height of class. You were a literal goddess.

You tried to get a grip. Focus. Pull it together.

“Well,” you said, turning toward the passenger-side window. “This is all extremely suspicious behavior, Mr. Miller.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, already getting out of the truck.

You watched him round the front—his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the restaurant’s fairy lights.

When he opened your door again (rude), you stepped out and crossed your arms, trying to suppress the grin clawing at your face.

“This is giving a lot of effort,” you said, your tone suspicious. “You know that, right?”

Joel raised both brows at you. “Can’t a guy just wanna take his daughter’s teacher somewhere nice?”

You snorted. “No. No, he cannot. That’s extremely specific behavior. This is above and beyond. This is…” you gestured vaguely toward the Italian string lights and wooden planters filled with lavender. “This is date energy and I am not mentally equipped.”

Joel’s smile turned crooked. Unholy. “You overthink everythin’ this much?”

“Only when strange, rugged men from across the street start acting like Southern James Bonds,” you snapped, stepping closer to him anyway.

He leaned a little closer, too. Just slightly. “You hungry or what?”

You stared at him.

You were so hungry.

You cleared your throat. “I swear to God, Joel, if this place doesn’t serve that rosemary bread basket, I’m calling the cops.”

He opened the door for you again, this time to the restaurant. He didn’t say anything, but when his hand brushed the small of your back as you walked in—

Yeah. Okay. That wasn’t nothing.

He said his name at the entrance—“Miller, party of two”—in that steady, deep voice of his, like the whole situation wasn’t completely insane. The hostess—young, blonde, aggressively friendly in a “this is my big break” kind of way—looked up from her podium and smiled at him like he’d just proposed marriage and offered her health insurance.

You saw it. The sparkle. The dimples. The flick of her hair behind one shoulder.

Oh, honey. You wanted to pat her on the head and give her a juice box.

Instead, you reached out, placed your hand very casually on Joel’s arm. Right at the bend of his elbow. And he didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t shift his weight to pull away. His arm stayed where it was, and he tilted his head a little toward you, like it was normal. Like it wasn’t the first time.

Take that, Blondie.

Your grip stayed gentle but firm. Just in case she needed clarity. Just in case anyone needed clarity. You smiled at her and tilted your head like someone who definitely wasn’t competing for attention, even though you absolutely were. And you were winning.

She blinked. Her smile dimmed maybe… five percent. You considered it a small, glittering victory.

“Right this way, Mr. Miller,” she said, all syrup and teeth, and you followed her into the dining area, your hand still resting lightly on his arm until the hostess noticed it then you let it drop like it meant nothing. Which it didn’t. Obviously.

Joel glanced down at you with the faintest edge of amusement.

The hostess led you to a candlelit table tucked near the window—obnoxiously romantic placement, very first date with intention—and you were about to make some sarcastic comment about it when Joel pulled your chair out for you. You blinked. Sat. He slid the chair in behind you with this quiet competence that should not have been as attractive as it was.

And then he sat across from you like he hadn’t just done that.

You picked up the menu, mostly for show. You’d already memorized half of it months ago in a fit of late-night Googling after seeing someone post about the place online.

Joel raised an eyebrow as he skimmed the menu, then looked up. “You look like you’ve already made up your mind.”

“About dinner or in general?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head.

He smiled—small, private, like it was just for you. “Dinner. But if you got somethin’ to confess, I’m listenin’.”

God, he was so confident. In that way that wasn’t loud or cocky, just… solid.

“I’m still evaluating,” you said, pretending to study the pasta section. “Lot of carbs. High risk.”

“You worried about carbs?” he asked, leaning in slightly, arms crossed on the table like he had all the time in the world.

You lowered your menu just enough to peer at him. “No, I’m worried about ending up with marinara on my white sundress and becoming that person.”

He chuckled. “You think I brought you to a place like this and wouldn’t notice if you got sauce on your dress?”

You blinked. “I—what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said, with that infuriatingly slow drawl, “I’d probably just hand you a napkin. Or maybe switch plates with you.”

Your brain short-circuited for a second. You covered it with a sip of water.

“Okay,” you said, setting the glass down, “you need to dial it back. Just a little. You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like someone who actually likes me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sayin’ that’d be a bad thing?”

“I’m saying it’d be… unexpected.”

He smirked. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

The waiter came and you both ordered—him confidently, you feigning indecision just long enough to seem casual. The bread arrived, warm and crusty, and Joel tore a piece and passed it to you first without saying anything.

And then the food came. You had the mushroom risotto, he went with the steak. You made a mental note that he didn’t order it well-done and felt an irrational sense of relief.

The conversation flowed so easily it was unnerving. You asked about Sarah—he lit up when he talked about her. Like genuinely. Not in a braggy, “look what a great dad I am” kind of way, but with real affection. You kept asking questions just to see that softness in his face.

“She likes your class, you know,” he said at one point, casually stabbing a roasted potato. “Says you actually talk to ‘em like they’re people.”

“Well,” you said, “high schoolers are technically people. I looked it up.”

He grinned. “You’re real funny. You always like this, or am I just special?”

“Oh, you’re very special,” you said dryly. “I’ve already submitted the paperwork to have a plaque made.”

He laughed under his breath and you felt something flutter in your chest, a problem you weren’t ready to admit existed.

At some point he leaned his elbow on the table and tilted his head slightly, watching you while you talked about some ridiculous thing that happened during parent-teacher conferences. You noticed the way his eyes tracked your face like he was trying to memorize it.

You pretended not to notice. But your foot accidentally brushed his under the table and you didn’t pull back.

He didn’t either.

“Y’know,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “I thought this’d be awkward. Thought you might not wanna be here.”

You blinked. “What gave you that idea?”

“You. Bein’ all sarcastic and… defensive. Like I tricked you into it.”

You looked at him. “Did you?”

He smiled. “Little bit.”

And you smiled back.

Because of course he did. And you let him.

“Alright,” you say, dusting your fingers off delicately with your napkin. You lean back slightly in your chair and level your gaze at him with a mock-serious expression. “Favorite color?”

Joel quirks an eyebrow at you, chewing slowly. His steak knife glints slightly under the soft lights as he sets it down, and he wipes his mouth with the edge of his napkin before answering—of course he has good manners. You roll your eyes at yourself internally.

“Green,” he says finally, like it’s not a big deal, like he didn’t just give you a piece of information you’re definitely going to overanalyze later when you’re trying to fall asleep. “Dark green. Like pine trees.”

You tilt your head, immediately suspicious. “That’s a little too aesthetic to be a coincidence.”

He shrugs, smiling just a little. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth.”

“Hmm,” you hum, “So, deep pine green. Very broody forest recluse. Makes sense.”

Joel watches you for a beat, arms crossed now, half a smile playing on his face. “Lemme guess. Yours is pink.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth.

“…How did you—”

He gives you a look. “You serious?”

You narrow your eyes.

“You got pink earrings, pink nail polish, a pink keychain hangin’ off your bag, and I’m pretty sure the fence outside your house is painted bubblegum. I didn’t need to be a detective.”

You blink. “…Okay. Fine. I walked into that one.”

He leans forward, all casual confidence. “Is it the soft kinda pink, or the loud, neon, gives-you-a-headache kinda pink?”

You purse your lips, trying not to smile. “Depends on the day. I’m versatile.”

“Mm,” he says. “Makes sense.”

You point your fork at him. “Okay, your turn. Favorite food, go.”

He chuckles. “Steak.”

You glance pointedly at his plate. “Shocking.”

“What about you?”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Anything with cheese. Which… I realize says very little about me and also everything.”

He grins. “You lactose intolerant?”

You gasp. “What kind of monster question is that?”

Joel holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m just checkin’. Gotta know what I’m dealin’ with.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do I look like someone who would give up cheese for her digestive health?”

He laughs, and it’s not just a chuckle this time—it’s a full, warm, real laugh that makes something in your chest clench a little.

You reach for your wine and sip slowly, giving yourself a second. This was supposed to be harmless. Just dinner. Some gentle banter. Not… whatever this is. Not the way he watches you like he doesn’t want to miss a thing. Not the way he listens, like what you’re saying is actually interesting and not just noise.

You glance at him. “Alright. Important one. Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs,” he says immediately, with zero hesitation.

“Wow. Not even a moment of reflection.”

He shrugs. “Cats don’t like me.”

“Well,” you say, pretending to consider, “they do have excellent judgment.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

“I just think we should be honest with each other.”

He lifts his glass, tipping it toward you slightly. “Fair enough. What about you? Dogs or cats?”

You pause, then lean in, lowering your voice dramatically. “Both.”

His eyebrows lift. “Dangerous answer.”

“I’m a complex woman,” you say with a little shrug. “Try to keep up.”

He leans back, eyes still on you. “I’m doin’ my best.”

You look down at your half-empty plate, cheeks warm. Not from the wine.

You clear your throat, twirling your fork lazily through what’s left of the risotto. “Alright. Favorite teacher you ever had?”

Joel tilts his head, thoughtful now. “Mr. Burnham. Ninth grade shop class. Didn’t care much about grades, but he taught me how to use a table saw without losin’ a hand. Pretty solid skill.”

You nod, pleased. “Practical. Masculine. Predictable.”

“You?”

You consider. “Mrs. St. Clair. Fifth grade. Wore bright pink lipstick every single day and used to sneak butterscotch candies into our pencil boxes if we answered questions right.”

Joel smiles. “That checks out.”

You glance at him, eyebrow raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’. Just… explains the pink.”

You kick him under the table.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he smirks and offers you the last piece of his garlic bread. You take it without comment.

You’re not saying it out loud, but: yeah. You’re definitely not getting over this dinner anytime soon.

You swirl the wine in your glass, watching the pale golden liquid catch the light. Your wrist moves delicately, lazily, like this isn’t the third time tonight you’ve tried to appear effortlessly composed. It’s not working. You glance up at him over the rim of your glass.

“White or red?” you ask, tilting your head, a smile playing at your lips. You’re not even sure why you’re asking anymore.

Joel shrugs as he lifts his glass—your choice, white, because you’d made some dumb comment about red staining your teeth earlier and he’d heard you, apparently. Of course he did.

“Whiskey,” he says, casually, like he’s not currently sipping white wine.

You blink. “Then… why the wine?”

His eyes meet yours across the table, and he leans back in his chair.

“‘Cause you once told Tommy that your favorite’s white,” he says simply.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

Because that was—God, when was that? One month ago? You barely even remember saying it. It was probably in passing, while you were juggling three coffee cups and trying not to yell at the copier. And Tommy—he’d been waiting for Joel in the lobby, which means…

You blink again. Your hand tightens slightly around your glass. He wasn’t even part of the conversation. He must’ve just… overheard. And remembered.

Your cheeks warm. Not blush. Definitely not. You’re just—hot. From the wine. Or the lighting. Or the very inconvenient flutter in your stomach.

You clear your throat.

“So you’re drinking something you don’t like,” you say, deadpan, “to make a point about how attentive you are.”

He shrugs again. “Not that bad. I’ve had worse.”

You raise your brows. “Wow. That’s… noble.”

He smirks, resting his forearm on the edge of the table. “Well, y’know. I do what I can.”

You shake your head and take another sip, not trusting your mouth to say anything that won’t come out flustered. The wine is cold. Your face is not.

He watches you, a little too pleased with himself. You try to ignore it.

“So,” you say after a second, casually, “what’s the last book you read?”

Joel pauses, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “That feels like a trap.”

You blink at him, all faux innocence. “Why would it be a trap?”

“‘Cause if I say I don’t read, you’re gonna give me that look.”

“What look?”

He gestures at your face with his glass. “That one. The disappointed teacher thing. I’ve seen it.”

You gasp—offended. “I do not—”

“You absolutely do.”

“I have a resting literacy face, that’s different.”

He chuckles. “Alright. You wanna know the truth?”

You narrow your eyes. “Is it something deeply embarrassing? Please say yes.”

“I read The Grapes of Wrath again.”

Your jaw drops. “Again?”

“I like Steinbeck,” he says, very calmly, like he hasn’t just destroyed every half-formed theory you had about him being a stereotypical Southern dad who only owns one book and it’s a car manual.

You stare. “Are you trying to be good at everything, or is it just happening organically?”

He leans back, smug. “I just show up.”

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling, your teeth catching your lip for a second.

The rest of the restaurant seems to blur a little around you. It’s loud, but not intrusive. Like everything’s happening just a little slower than usual, like there’s some kind of invisible spotlight on this exact table, on his stupid charming face and your rapidly declining ability to hold your own.

He reaches for the bottle of wine, and you notice—his hand brushes against yours as he lifts it, not on purpose, probably. Maybe. The back of your hand is warm now too. Great.

You watch him refill your glass without asking.

“Do you always pay this much attention to what people say when they’re not talking to you?” you ask, trying to sound casual. Your tone veers sarcastic, which is safer. “Or is it just when I’m around?”

He sets the bottle down carefully. Doesn’t look up right away.

“I remember things,” he says, finally. Then he looks at you.

And—you hate how that lands. You hate how it makes your stomach do that dumb swoopy thing and how you immediately want to ask what else he remembers. What other tiny little comments you’ve thrown into the ether thinking no one gave a damn.

You press your lips together.

“Well,” you say, flippantly, “I hope you don’t remember everything. Some of my best lines are meant to be forgotten.”

His smile deepens. “Too bad. I got a good memory.”

And you just—nod. Because what else are you supposed to do with that?

You sip the wine.

You’d eaten. You’d drunk. You’d talked about everything from the ridiculous to the surprisingly personal. You had very strong opinions about standardized testing in public schools—he somehow had even stronger ones—and somewhere between the fourth glass of wine and the twenty-third sarcastic comment, the conversation had stopped being an effort.

Which, frankly, you hadn’t decided was a good thing yet.

He was still Joel Miller. And you were still… not entirely sure what the hell you were doing out with him.

But he’d asked questions. Listened. Made actual eye contact like a person raised by real human parents. And now you were sitting back against the plush velvet booth, full and slightly tipsy, not quite regretting the amount you’d said.

The check arrived in one of those little black leather folios. You reached for your bag, completely on instinct, and—

Joel looked at you.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t raise an eyebrow or shake his head. He just looked at you like you’d personally insulted his bloodline.

“What?” you asked, blinking at him.

“Do I look like the kind of guy who’d let you pay?” he asked, already pulling his wallet from his back pocket with zero hesitation. The way his fingers moved it was like this entire evening had been budgeted three months ago.

You froze mid-motion, your hand still inside your purse. “I mean—no—but maybe I am the kind of woman who doesn’t enjoy being assumed helpless?”

“‘S not about that,” he said, unfolding a few bills. “It’s about me bein’ raised right.”

You narrowed your eyes, but he wasn’t even looking at you anymore—he was glancing down at the bill, signing the receipt with smooth, easy strokes like someone who does not, and has never, needed to check his bank account before a date. The check wasn’t small. You had eyes. You saw the wine list. He didn’t even flinch.

You blinked again.

“Okay, now you’re just showing off,” you muttered, folding your arms.

Joel glanced at you, all innocence. “What’d I do?”

“You’re paying for the whole thing and being annoyingly graceful about it. Where’s the part where you pretend to hesitate so I feel less like a sugar baby?”

He laughed under his breath. “Would you rather I let you Venmo me half and send a winky face after?”

You made a face. “God, no. What kind of men are you modeling this behavior off of?”

He smirked. “College-aged ones, apparently.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You shook your head and leaned back, your eyes drifting toward the window while he tucked the receipt away.

Joel stood up slowly and stepped around the table, offering you his hand without a word. You hesitated—again, on instinct—but took it. And okay. His hand was warm. Strong. He didn’t let go until you were fully standing.

Your stomach fluttered again.

“Seriously,” you said as he held the door open for you, “you didn’t have to do all that.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

And you had no clever comeback for that.

You walked side by side toward the truck, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your head a little lighter than it had been at the start of the night.

He opened the passenger door for you, because of course he did. And helped you in with a hand at your waist, because of course he did.

The next thing you knew, you were pulling up in front of your house. Joel shifted into park and then hopped out of the truck before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt.

By the time you opened your door, he was already there, opening it for you. You blinked at him, but took the cue, stepping down onto the curb as gracefully as your heels would allow. His hand hovered at your lower back again—not touching, just… almost. As if he was holding himself back on purpose.

Which, frankly, was rude.

You turned to him, smoothing your dress and your tone. “Thanks,” you said with a small smile, voice soft, polite. “I had a really nice time tonight.”

Joel looked at you like that was the only sentence he needed to hear. His mouth tugged into a slow, warm smile—not that smirky, teasing one he’d been throwing at you earlier, but something gentler.

“I’m glad,” he said, and he meant it. Completely. Acting like it genuinely mattered to him whether you’d enjoyed yourself or not.

You swallowed.

Goddamn it.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You were standing just off your front walkway, two feet from your door, and across the street you could see the porch light still on in his house.

He glanced at your door, then back at you. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?”

You gave him a look. “Joel, I can literally see my porch from here.”

He shrugged. “Still.”

“I’m not gonna get ambushed by a raccoon between the sidewalk and my doormat. This is Texas, not Gotham.”

He laughed—soft and surprised. “You always this dramatic about thank-you walks?”

You tilted your head. “Only when a man insists on escorting me twelve feet because he thinks I might trip over a leaf and sue him.”

He grinned, clearly delighted by your sarcasm, and—of course—started walking with you anyway.

You made it to your front steps in silence. The air was warm but breezy, your porch light humming faintly behind you. You turned to face him, meaning to say something light, maybe a joke, maybe a “well, this was fun,” but he was already watching you.

Really watching.

And not in a creepy way. More like… he was memorizing. The way your hair had started to curl around your face, the way your lip gloss had mostly worn off but left that soft pink sheen behind, the exact tilt of your head when you got a little defensive but secretly liked the attention.

You cleared your throat. “Well. Good night, Joel.”

His smile went crooked. “Night.”

You should’ve gone inside.

You meant to go inside.

Instead, you stood there, your hand on the railing, your brain not exactly brain-ing. Joel’s eyes dropped to your lips—barely—and then back up. He leaned in, making absolutely sure you could stop him if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

The kiss was warm. Familiar in a way that felt ridiculous, like your mouth had been waiting for his, which—okay, gross, who even thinks that? You should’ve hated that. You didn’t. His hand came up to the side of your face for a second, thumb brushing behind your ear, and your knees did something very stupid.

You pulled away first, just slightly. Enough to look at him and still pretend like you were composed.

“You’re really laying it on thick tonight, huh?”

Joel smiled against your cheek, just there. “You’re worth it.”

Your stomach did a thing you refused to acknowledge.

You stepped back half a step and fumbled for your keys. “Good night, neighbor.”

He chuckled. “See you tomorrow.”

He walked down the steps, heading back across the street, toward home. You didn’t look. You waited until you heard his footsteps fade before you let out a slow breath and opened your front door.

And then you stood there, wondering what the hell just happened.

#pedro x reader #older boyfriend #relationship #zaddy pedro #pedro pascal #joel x y/n #joel the last of us #joel x reader #english teacher #fluff #joel and sarah #tommy miller #daddy issues #first date

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i-write-things-sometimes · 18 days ago

Text

Better Off Alone (Part 3)

context: mc gets the closure she needs from the mortkranken and frostheim ghouls READ PART 1 HERE READ PART 2 HERE

mc pov: feminine 3rd person (she/her), as a majority vote from y'all, frequent scene changes marked clearly

content warnings: conversations, mentions, and consequences to attempted suicide; the consequences of depression, self-depreciation, and general mental unwellness.

author notes: we can now safely add the "mc x tokyo debunker" tag LMAO hello pain and angst. this is a hella long one at a word count of a whopping ~12k. I LIED GUYS I DECIDED TO BREAK THIS ONE UP INTO PARTS CAUSE OF REASONS LISTED AT THE END. so Better Off Alone will likely be 7 parts long, that's including both ending branches :) (i will make the note in advance that if any of the actions of the characters in this feel ooc, that rash actions of a loved one can cause a person to act in that manner. i've done my best to convey what each personality type may do in response to the actions taken in part 2. :)c there's a reason for the witnesses audience at the end of it.) THIS TAKES PLACE AFTER THE EVENTS OF CHAPTER 7 BUT BEFORE CHAPTER 8 (so mc knowledge reflects that)

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The whispers and murmurs of soft voices out of reach of her ears caused the gentle dark that took her from the world to fade back into the drab, bleak, walls of the infirmary. Her view was grey, color drained from every surface - even the blue of the ventilator mask looked less saturated. Her eyes adjusted slowly, turning to the three figures standing some distance away. It took a good while for her brain to register that she was still alive. Still here. Still in pain. Still stuck in this horrid place. Still...

"...where...?"

Her voice was soft, audible only to the closest to her. Even the ruby red eyes that followed the sound lost their luster, when they came within sight. Jiro walked away from the conversation with Yuri close behind. She closed her eyes, choking back a sob, tears parting down her face.

"...why...? Please..." She could barely force the words out. "...don't make me suffer like this... I... I can't..." "Does being around us hurt you this much?" Even with the painful structure of the question, Jiro's blunt question was spoken with his usual dryness. He slowly reached for her hand, she noted the uncharacteristic tremble in it - the shaking of anxiety. "We..." He couldn't finish his own sentence for once, the words lost on a tied tongue, held back by the fear of misspeaking. Yuri did so for him, near collapsing to his knees at her bedside.

"We could have lost you..." The way he hid his head in his arms against hers, struggling to keep in tears of his own. She spoke her mind for once, spoke up to defend herself, however strained it was. "That was the whole point." The words made them both clench their jaws shut. Of course it was the whole point. To leave it all behind. To start over somewhere else, wherever the dark took her. To be free of the shackles of her bodily prison. Despite the conviction to leave life behind, of course she felt guilty - she felt like she had no choice in the matter, no say in what she should do with her life, especially with the single quiet word that escaped Yuri's lips.

"Why?"

There were a million different things she could've answered with, that she wanted to answer with. How painful it was to be taken down peg after peg, knocked the wind from her lungs, swept her three legs from under her; how painful each word was, the bruises left to her esteem, the realization that this all wasn't worth it. Her time at Darkwick was better than it was before, but not like this. At least before her curse, she could pretend to be well and fit in with her peers.

"...I wish I could tell you." She finally looked past them, her mind finally giving in to the acceptance that she would stay like this. There were flowers, cards, tributes to apologies she found empty.

Of course they'd care when something useful could be taken from them so quickly.

The sharp sigh of broken glass left her mouth, the barest hint of a laugh followed. Something sad, full of the painful truth. "Sometimes... the sticks and stones would be a better option than words. I live in a world where pain is my only friend, what's a little more?" "Are we not your friends?" Jiro hummed out the words. "Pain doesn't make for the best one, in my experience." "..." She shook her head slowly. "...you're my doctors. It'd a conflict of interest if you were my friends." "Of course it'd be a conflict of interest! Did you ever consider that some of us want that conflict?! That we'd-- that I'd--"

Yuri jumped to his feet with his voice raised, arms wound to hug himself. Her eyes only snapped to him, but she made no mention of being startled - confused, maybe, but the loudness of his voice sparked no emotion in her. Yet again, the guilt took ahold, took her hand as she had taken his before.

It doesn't matter what I do, I always hurt everyone around me...

It was like he could read her mind, see the words written in her eyes like a teleprompter. He closed eyes to think of the words, the apologies, the grit of his teeth kept the dam of every wrong thing to say back. He couldn't apologize for feeling this way. He wouldn't apologize for it. So he kept the words to himself. Changed the subject.

"Everyone felt this way." "A useful tool discarded would anger anyone." "A--" He clicked his tongue to keep himself from yelling again. "...Is that all you think yourself to be?" "...maybe you two are the outliers." "And those second-years from-" He exaggerated the disgust in rest of his sentence, if only to see the quirk of a smile in the corner of her mouth again - thankfully, it worked. "-Frostheim?" It only led her to sigh again, turning her eyes to the ceiling. "Feigned. Play pretend to curry favor."

"What use does currying favor have, if you were on leave for an indeterminate amount of time?" Jiro finally spoke again. "What use does seeking us out have? Lucas seemed adamant on taking your work to you." "..." She shook her head. They both knew no amount of proof could make her change her mind - someone so stuck in the mire of their thoughts, knowing nothing but the sting of distaste, the burn of betrayal, the suffocating need to disappear. "Please... just... I don't want to..."

After the longest pause, nothing but the sound of the machines attached to her and their breathing. He spoke the one word she never expected him to. He breathed it out, it was spoken with the most sadness and hesitation she had ever heard from him.

"Okay."

Yuri's attention whipped to him. "Absolutely not!" "She wants it. What we say won't matter. We should respect that." "No no no! I--" "Yuri." How was he supposed to salvage this? Tell her to live with the pain? Tell her to suffer for every moment of her existence until she tricked herself into believing it was all okay? His face turned away from her to hide his tears, though they only fell on the meager apologies written in the gifts that laid upon the table nearby. The news spread to the ghouls and no one else, instructions to not leave anything extravagant or anything that drew too much attention were given. It was surprising that no rumors had spread other than "she wasn't feeling well", that no one uttered a word about it. That should have been proof enough that they cared.

He had to craft an idea. Craft a way to make her see that she was worth more than useful tool, worth more than a stepping stool, worth more than the ridicule. "...Okay..." She let out a sigh of relief. Finally, freedom. "But. They all have words for you. Think about the choice... please... please think about it. Hear what they have to say, then tell us... and..." He had to believe it would be enough. He had to believe the closure would give her the strength to carry on. "..." She thought about it. What was there to lose? She didn't really want to hear what excuses they had for her, but if it meant seeing the end of this... "Alright... but. One-on-one. I have the right to kick them out. I'll give them a chance... one chance. One collective chance."

She already knew at least one of them was going to screw the others over. At least two, maybe even three. Even Yuri knew she was tilting the game in her favor. As much as he didn't want to, he had to trust that even the most condescending and forgetful of them would say the right things. Or at least skirt by with an acceptable thing. "...very well. It was recommended that you write thank you cards for everyone - you can use them to tell them to come here tonight." "Yuri... thank you."

If he heard that thank you under any other circumstance, he may have felt good about himself. But this one only made him hurt worse. This one only made the pit in his stomach grow larger. His eyes flicked to Jiro before making his quick exit - he wasn't sure how much longer he could live with the feeling, himself. Jiro nodded at him and brought the empty cards and a pen to her, helping her sit up. He sat by patiently as she wrote each letter. Every one of them ended the same.

"Please, just let me go. Say your piece after dark and let me go."

But each one started differently for each person, words she always wanted to say but never could. Then, came the rules, which she wrote for Jiro to take with him.

+++ ++ + ++ +++

"Rule 1: Everyone must be here before anyone can come inside." Jiro read to Yuri, which only made him nervously tap his finger against his arm. He didn't want to be around every hooligan on campus, let alone anyone he'd ever deem worthy of being by her side. Yet, if he and Jiro alone couldn't help her... if even the mere mention of having friends elsewhere couldn't help her...

He was more than surprised to see the Frostheim ghouls there first, of everyone. They were so early, in fact, that the sun had yet to fully set. Worse yet, it was Jin that made it there before anyone else. Jiro repeated the rule for him - an annoyed "fine" was all he got in response before striding back to the other three. Yuri wanted nothing to do with any of them, which left Jiro in the unfortunate position of organizing everything.

None of the rules said any of them had to get along.

Though it wasn't very lucrative for them to fight either.

"Rule 2: I'll see everyone one at a time, organized by house. Mortkranken first, Frostheim, Vagastrom, Jabberwock, Sinostra, Hotarubi, Obscuary - in that order. Rui must be last in line. Otherwise, whatever order is fine." He managed to sort everyone out - though the most surprising of it all was the fact that everyone did show up. Though it was more likely that both Leo and Taiga got dragged there by their ears by the others.

"Rule 3: Once someone exits, they aren't allowed back in until dawn." "Rule 4: I reserve the right to have someone removed from the building for any reason." Jiro read the words out loud for everyone. If anyone told her that this would have been the outcome, she would've called bullshit. At first it was somber and silent, barely a word spoken. But with 13 12 people (and an ancient doll), it was hard to keep it that way - especially when someone in the line complained about being hungry.

She would've called even deeper bullshit if she heard that all of them were sharing a meal together in one place, conversing to an almost natural degree. While no wrongs were righted and there was still violent tension in the air, everyone made the silent agreement to not speak anything to strike flint against stone.

"Lastly, rule 5: I may give special instructions to someone, and I expect them to be followed like the rest of the rules."

"Ugh. Couldn't get any more bossy could she?" Leo rolled his eyes, but that earned him a smack upside the head. "Hey!" "Quiet." The discontented stare from Alan only made him roll his eyes again. "That's harassment." "Gahaha! The younger ones love throwing that around, don't they?" Haru's laugh cut through the chatter, out of place though it was. "Don't lump me in the same group as him." Ren never looked up from his phone. "That's harassment."

Jiro glanced over at Yuri, still pacing back and forth, refusing to speak to anyone else; after reading the rules. "I'll go in first."

+++

"Jiro, you've been at my side since my second day at Darkwick. You've always helped me. Were always honest and straightforward. You've never given me a reason to not trust you. I wish there was a way I could do this without betraying you. A way where I wouldn't force you to feel the pain of loss. If I choose to leave, I want you to seek a friend elsewhere. Hotarubi might be a good place to start."

+++

His footsteps echoed against the empty walls, the bright overhead lights were switched off to not attract the attention of the staff - though with the crowd gathered outside, the point may as well have been moot - with the only source of sight being a pale glow from the moonlit window.

She could have guessed he would be first to walk through, with Yuri too busy gathering his thoughts and the need for someone to be at the ready to enforce the rules she set. She kept her eyes on the ceiling and only looked over at him once he sat down in the chair beside her bed.

"...You can speak your mind, Jiro. Any thoughts, it doesn't matter what they are."

He was silent as he sorted through them. It was already strange to have enough of them to sort out, now it was to prioritize them. What was the most important thing he wanted to tell her? What would he regret not saying the most? He knew what it was - and while he wasn't flustered in the same way he knew Yuri would be, it was difficult to get it past his teeth.

He didn't know why.

Yes, he did.

The words he'd regret not saying the most would be the same words he would regret the most to say. He stared at her with garnet eyes, pomegranate seeds dripping to her hand as he took it in his.

"I love you."

She blinked at him, mouth agape. She did say that it didn't matter what they were, but she wasn't sure if she heard that right.

"H- Huh?" "I don't think I've ever felt fear before. I... don't like it." He covered his mouth, the thought of it making him ill all over again. It took extreme willpower to choke it down while sprinting to her dorm, to swallow it down while helping Yuri stabilize her breathing - but now, when the image comes back to his mind... the sight of her body hanging freely by the noose she fashioned for herself, eyes open and staring at him from the window like the head of a fish judging the man eating it... he was certain it would haunt him for every sleeping - maybe even waking - moment of his life.

"You'll forget it, I'm sure..." "But I won't forget you. Even if I wanted to." He shook his head slowly. "Which I don't."

She let out a soft sigh, a pitied smile directed towards him. She wanted him to, badly. Even her eyes said that.

"I won't." He spoke with such unwavering conviction that she couldn't help but believe him - as much as she didn't want to. "I hope you can forgive me, but I won't forget you. I love you too much to." "Jiro... I..." She closed her eyes. He really was putting her in a difficult spot. "...I'm not sure if what you're feeling is love." "Yuri says it is." "I-- what?" "Unless he was wrong. Unless there's another word for it. The feeling of wanting to be at your side every moment I'm awake. The feeling that everything I do is worth it, if I get to see you sooner. Thanking every moment that I get to see you smile, thanking every moment that I'm there to hold you when you cry."

She couldn't think of another word for it. Love definitely was the correct word. She shook her head, but made no comment. Of course she'd hurt someone who loved her. Then again, it was inevitable where the loss of a life was concerned. He continued despite her runaway thoughts.

"The wish that I could've remained in your dorm with you throughout all of this. Though Yuri says that would be inappropriate."

Those thoughts skid to an absolute halt. "H- Heh!?"

Her reaction had him laughing. It was a laugh she never thought she'd get to hear again before she died, that alone-- no, it wasn't enough, but...

"Yuri gave me the same expression when I told him. Speaking of... I shouldn't take up all of your time, as much as I want to. Just... know that I'm sure everyone out there feels the same in some way." "I... wouldn't say that." He only offered a soft smile as he stood up, pressing his lips to her forehead before turning to leave. "Oh... one more thing..." "H- Hm?" "Is there a reason you told me to talk to Hotarubi first?" "No... I just figured they'd be the most welcoming of all of them." "I see... Okay. I'll talk to them if you're gone in the morning."

+++

"Yuri, I don't think I could've had a better doctor than you. You fought for me when no one else would, you stood up on my behalf, got angry for me, took matters into your own hands. I'm sorry that your efforts led you here, I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger for you. I'm selfish for asking one more thing of you. If I'm gone in the morning, I want you to attempt amends with Frostheim. It doesn't have to be anyone specific, just one person."

+++

Yuri's footsteps were as rapid as his thoughts. He wanted to be at her side quickly - he wanted to steal her time away, keep her for himself at his side and...

When he saw her staring at the ceiling, breathing softly, he briefly considered never leaving at all. If only to keep her breathing. If only to make sure her pulse kept beating. Even if it meant her losing trust in him, even if it meant her hating him for the rest of her...

...her miserable existence. and she called herself selfish...

He took a seat beside her and inhaled deeply. "I..." She waited patiently. She always was with him - patient, that is. "...I'm sorry I yelled at you." It was out of character for him to apologize, but if that's what it would take to keep her here by him. "It's okay. I was more surprised by your words."

The expression Jiro had accused her of found its way back onto Yuri's face. "I- I--" He shut his mouth to keep from embarrassing himself further. "You aren't going to deny it?" "Why would I!?" "You... want the conflict of interest?" "Yes! I-- mnk." He leaned his head forward to hide his face. His voice turned to a whisper. "You're my favorite patient." "I think you mean specimen." An agitated huff escaped his nose. "No, Jiro is my favorite specimen." "I think you mean friend." He grumbled something intelligibly. Then let out another sigh.

"I know what I mean. Don't put your thoughts into my mouth." The surprising sternness of his voice quieted her, it was rare he ever got firm with her like this. Every time, she would attribute it to the same way a doctor would scold a patient - but after Jiro's words, now, it all sounded more like a partner scolding their loved one. It only tore her heart to pieces. Two people she betrayed like this. The guilt wracked her chest and weighed her lungs down, it was crushing.

"Yuri... what were your thoughts?" "My thoughts don't matter. They won't change your mind." "Maybe... but you told me to think about it. To give you a chance. Plus, it's not like you to keep your thoughts to yourself." He lifted his head slowly to look at her - his eyes fell to the bruise on her neck, his hand reached towards her. He retracted it, as if fearful that she'd shatter at his touch. He was trying to find the words to his racing thoughts. Find the words that ran away from him. He didn't know what he was thinking - and he certainly wasn't going to admit that.

He took off his glove, then reached back to brush his bare fingers against her neck. She froze, all the quips she wanted to make now stuck in her throat - the moment she thought he couldn't step any further outside of his comfort zone. "This must hurt you as much as it does me seeing it." His thoughts spilled out quietly. Sure, the color of his face made him look like a white rose Alice painted red, but it didn't stop the flood of thoughts he uncorked with just that one. "I was... so scared, so... I felt so helpless, powerless. I could bring you back from unconsciousness but... what if we weren't so lucky? Even just a few seconds too late... we-- I could have lost you. Either to have found you dead the next morning, or worse yet, you dying in my arms. God, I..."

His hand dropped to her shoulder, mimicking the motion of his head as he coughed out a sob, as his tears came back in spite of himself. "You just forced your way into my heart, gripped onto it like a vise. My thoughts refused to let you go, and it made me so... so... how are you doing this to me? I don't understand." She lifted her hand to take his off her shoulder, holding onto it gently. His words weren't enough, but they still made her smile. He barely registered it. "Why can't I just say it..." "Say what?" She wanted to see just how lost into his thoughts he was, bringing his hand up to gently press her lips into his fingers - something soft to soothe him quietly. "I... I- I can't... what if in the morning you're not there? What good would it be to tell you and then... never... see you again..." "To give you closure." "I love you."

He blurted it out, even if it wasn't the best time for the response. If he didn't, it would have stuck to the roof of his mouth like gum. It was afterwards that made him stumble, that he stuttered so much that he could barely get a word out - let alone a single letter.

"Thank you." "You're welcome!" He snatched his hand back and turned himself away, ready to leave. His response made her laugh softly. "Yuri... can you come closer." She beckoned him over to her side - and he followed her hands like a marionette - until he was close enough for her hands to take the sides of his head, bringing him down to kiss his forehead. "...Thank you. For doing your best. Keep doing that. If I'm not here in the morning, I recommend starting with Lucas and Kaito, I know they'd-- well, Lucas, at least - would like to be your friend. Kaito's probably easily scared of you."

She wasn't sure he registered her words, with the way his brain fried. He only nodded slowly and turned on his heel to let the next in.

+++ ++ + ++ +++

He stopped beside Lucas - who put himself at the front of the line - and clicked his tongue. He didn't lift his eyes to meet any of them, in fact, he refused to acknowledge who he was speaking to. He wouldn't have known just how many were listening to him speak, how many of them actually paid attention.

"Tread carefully. She likely didn't tell any of you. Her life rides on your words. She'll make the choice after she sees everyone."

+++

"Lucas, you've been one of the best friends I could have ever had, the most understanding and hardworking. But you're too trusting, too willing to make promises you can't keep. I'm afraid that you'll hurt yourself because of it. When I'm gone, I want you to open up more to Kaito. I always see the look on your face when you want to say something to him, to scold him or get angry. He needs to hear it and omitting the truth is still lying."

+++

The clacks of his shoes were almost meticulous, full of slow thoughts processing what he could of the information he knew. That night, Tohma had sent both he and Kaito a message about what happened - or vaguely of what happened. How their fears were well warranted. The guilt piled up in his stomach, he felt so wretched for not seeing the signs sooner - for being too late, again.

He wasn't sure what he would do if he lost her. He vowed to protect her... but how was he to know that he needed to protect her from herself. Those words he always kept to himself, those words that found themselves trapped in his throat, those words that formed on his knitted brow... he should have said them.

When he saw her staring at the ceiling, her eyes lost all luster - lost that spark of life he loved so much. The brightness of her smile faded into nothing but a flickering flashlight. His eyes fell on the bruise upon her neck, a cruel reminder of what happened after they left. That his last words could have been asking her if she was okay. He took a few more steps towards her, then shuffled to the chair beside her bed. She didn't speak, only looked over at him and saw the same regret in his eyes that she had in hers.

"..." He was almost content to stay here in silence. If he didn't say anything, then he wouldn't feel the pangs of remorse of saying the wrong things.

But silence was also the wrong answer to it.

"I... want to know your thoughts. What went through your mind to lead to..." He stopped, even just thinking the words made him shut his eyes tightly to stop the stream of tears.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes as well. "To be honest... I think this was all preventable. Maybe that's why it hurts so much. There were so many things that people could've done, could've not done. That in the end, it feels more like I was betrayed."

She shook her head slowly. "At the same time, I was holding everyone back. Forcing you all to hurt yourself keeping me safe... if only I could move faster, I would think, then you wouldn't always be ready to throw your lives away for me. I'm so weak... in pain... suffering every moment just to be of use to someone - anyone."

"Stop."

Lucas stood up suddenly, hands firmly planting onto the edge of the bed as he did so.

"Don't say such things about yourself! Your worth isn't determined by your use to the world! You aren't a ghoul, and still you're the strongest of us!"

She gave him the same smile she had both Jiro and Yuri - the one that said "I don't believe you, but I'm not going to say that". "The strongest tool, perhaps--" "Your perseverance, the strength of your will to continue, the amount of pain you endure--"

"And how much more pain do I have to endure? How much more do I need to be put down, pushed away, insulted and dragged around until it'll make it worth it?"

He stared at her with wide eyes, then grit his teeth. He couldn't protect her from anything, it seemed - not from anomalies, not herself, and especially not from the words of others. He was never there when these things happened - if he was, then...

"I'm sorry..." His voice quaked, tripped over it's own misspoken words. "I know you're blaming yourself right now, but... it's not your fault." "You don't deserve this. The weight entrusted to you. You didn't ask for this and yet..." He threw himself back down into the chair. "What would make this all better...?"

"Letting me go."

"..." He shook his head. "No... do not make us do that... please." "This is what I was talking about... no matter what I do, I hurt someone... and it hurts me even more. A cycle of pain that I want to break." "The cycle will continue, even after you're gone." "You'll move on. Move forward. I know you will. Your pain isn't forever." "And neither is yours! You- We- I..." He clamped his jaw shut. Words stuck in the barbs of mind, his voice breaking into a pained cough. "I can't say goodbye to you..." "Why?" "Because I love you too much to."

A third one. She already knew Kaito would say the same thing, but it wasn't enough - four wasn't enough. Her worth wasn't determined by how many people loved her - maybe it used to be, but now... She had no worth to anyone. A broken toy thrown into a bin.

"You were always the highlights of my day. Seeing you so focused in class, admiring your ability to adapt to the situation you were thrown into. You knew nothing of this side of the world, and now your highest grades are in the most difficult classes here. When we were told you needed rest, I forced myself to stay away - I didn't want to distract you. But I see now that I should have... what kind of friend am I that does not visit when you're not feeling well?"

"Luca... it's not your fault." "Then whose is it?! Who takes the blame for your pain! Who do I have to talk to, to make them see how foolish they are into making you believe you're nothing!" "..." She shook her head, keeping her answer behind tight lips. He took a deep breath of his own. "It's not yours either. You can't be at fault for something you're born with. You can't be at fault for the things others tell you. Please... as my friend... as someone I love... don't take me away from you."

He held tightly to her hand, bringing it towards him to kiss the back of it. She smiled softly at him. The flashlight flickered on. "Please forgive me, if I'm not here in the morning." "..."

He left her silently, a bare whisper of his affection given, after a brief moment of quiet reflection.

+++

"Kaito, from the start, you were willing to help me without asking questions. I'm sure it was just because I was a girl who happened to smile and be nice to you, though, and you stuck around because of that. Still, you sticking around and trying to stand up for me meant a lot. When I'm gone... I want you to be more confident in yourself. I know it's not easy. But you're strong, you could be so much more, I know you can. Stand up for yourself. And... don't be so reliant on social media to form your opinions. P.S. Let Luca in, he's your friend, not your meat shield."

+++

The nervousness in his footsteps was palpable, with the occasional squeak of his sneakers against the tile floors. What would he say, he tried looking up the best words online - but they were all different, nothing was static or the same, and none of them felt like her. She was different; a rainbow of sweet smelling flowers and soft fabrics, the light glinting off of the glaze on pastries, a mosaic of stained glass more beautiful than any painting - more beautiful and...

...more ephemeral, he learned.

That mosaic was nothing more than the glass he shattered when he received the message from Tohma. What would he say to the perfect girl? The perfectly tragic girl. Filled with nothing but a profound sadness as he berated Lucas for digging too deep. He didn't think he could feel any worse than he already did.

His hand instinctively rubbed the front of his neck when his gaze snapped to the bruise - and all he could think about was how painful it must've been. He'd seen the movies and TV shows, and all the media in between of people being hung as punishment for crimes unthinkable - or as a symbol of injustice, creating martyrs and saints. Would she have become one?

He couldn't help but think so. A martyr for the way Darkwick treated the cursed, the way they treated anomalies... the way they treated any student with a disability. If he thought about it that way long enough, maybe he could trick himself into believing that it would be alright without her but...

Behind every martyr were those that loved them. Those that suffered their absence, shed tears at their passing, knowing that while it was for good cause in the end... it didn't need to happen. He stepped closer to tragedy waiting to happen, stepping around the shattered glass of colors, and sat himself down in the chair. He kicked himself for his first words to her.

"How are you feeling?" "..." She couldn't help smiling some at the innocence of the question. The awkward shuffle of his feet when he noticed, and when he opened his mouth. "Don't. Don't backtrack. Don't apologize. The moment you start self-depreciating... I'll need you to leave." He closed his mouth to think longer on his words, if he had any to say at all.

"...I think the only thing that makes this worse is that I'm alive still. I could be dead, and I wish that I was..." Kaito clenched his jaw shut, a word barely escaped "why". "I have a feeling I'm going to answer that question more times than I want to. But there's just a point in which life isn't worth living any more." "When did you realize it?" The question spilled out unthinkingly - and while he wanted to tell her to not answer it, to reassure her there was no pressure in doing so, apologize for being so callous. She gave him the instruction. It was a rule now. And by god, if it meant keeping her alive and safe, if it meant finally being able to protect her from something, he was going to follow it.

He was sure he had been in her shoes before - feeling nothing but worthless and a waste of space. Feeling low enough to wonder if anyone would notice if he was gone. But he was too afraid to admit it, too afraid of the pain, too afraid of the unknowns of death.

"...After the fifth BB from Romeo, most likely."

The answer made him snort - of course it was Romeo's fault. He knew that it wasn't, but the joke landed well, even on her death bed. His laugh made her smile some.

"Though it was probably earlier than that, to be honest. I'd already been fighting the feeling for years, but everything here just made it fester... bottled it away until it couldn't anymore. Don't get me wrong, there was so much good here but..." "...I think if anyone knows what the bad feels like, it's me." He offered her a lopsided smile. He wanted to cry, wanted to feel sorry for himself, wanted to beg her not to leave--

Beg and grovel and plea, sob at her feet until she changed her mind, but he also knew that it'd make it worse. Yet the tears still came, the small cry of anguish that left his chest as he leaned his arms on the bed. "Help me understand! Please! What can I do... what can I do to take this away from you?! It's not fair! What did you do to deserve this? You've been nothing but kind and patient, nothing but an absolute saint and..." She watched him with the same patience he mentioned, a smile still stuck to her face. It was kind of him to cry for her like this, but...

"Kaito, there's plenty of people and girls out there that are kind, patient, and absolute saints. You'll move on, I know you will." "What the fuck are you saying?!" He jumped to his feet much like Lucas did, face red and tears still flowing like rivers down his face. His words came out through hiccups and barely contained sobs. "There's plenty of people and girls our there that are kind, patient, and absolute saints, sure-- but none of them are you!! None of them could even come close! All of those people wish and dream they could be you!"

She let out a small sigh through her lips. Just when she was about to respond with another question - he answered it before another word was uttered.

"How many of those kind, patient, saints have the same strength you do? How many of them are as empathetic, knowing just when someone is feeling off? How many of them would be willing to stop by every damn house to check on the ghouls that are often feared or overlooked? How many of them still care enough to check us for injuries? Not even Darkwick does that!" He shouted. "Goddammit! They didn't even do that for you!"

When he spoke those words, it was like he understood immediately. "...they didn't even do that for you... they really don't care about you, do they? They don't know how special you are. They treat you like us and instead of growing bitter and angry, you only blamed yourself until you couldn't anymore. Until it wasn't worth it anymore." He closed his eyes, shut them tightly. "And there's nothing we can fucking do about it..." "There is." "Is there?" "Don't let them do it again. Get angry and bitter and don't fear them, don't lay low and take the pain until you become me." A laugh trickled through the crack in his voice. "So become Jin, you mean." "Perfect." "Ew."

She laughed. A song in itself, he'd never forget it, he'd play it on repeat until it was his most played for the year - the most played for the next ten years. Twenty. A hundred.

"...I don't want you to be a martyr..." He whispered. "I want you to go to class with me. Cheer me up on my bad days. Laugh at my stupid jokes. Calm my nerves by holding my hands. Eat lunch with me. I want to have a third year with you here. If I have to carry you everywhere I will. Please..."

"Please don't leave me..." His voice became the softest she had ever heard. "I know I can't change your mind by myself... and the internet said giving words of affection could make you feel worse, but... if you're not going to be here tomorrow. I- I- I have to say it." "It's okay, you don't have to say anything." "Please, just... let me..." He tried to gather his thoughts, to say the words he always wanted to say to her. "I... I know I complain about being bad with girls. Complain about how undesirable I am. I know I keep trying my luck elsewhere... but it's because you're so far out of my league that I'm afraid."

He choked out another laugh. "I'm so scared of you. How much I love you scares the hell outta me. I never know what to do."

There was number four to break her heart. To make her feel lower.

"You don't owe me anything. I'm... I- ..." He tripped over himself. "...I... just needed to say it before you're gone..." "Kaito?" "Yeah?" "Thank you. You're doing so well, already. Keep your head high, you're important, always know that." "....so are you..." He wanted to kiss her, to leave knowing he did what he could; as he said, though, he was scared of her. She did the same as she did to Yuri, beckoned him closer to kiss him on the forehead.

While he didn't leave in tears, it was still clear that he was crying before; face and eyes stained red. He did as she asked him to. It was a rule now. He, unflinchingly, stared at both Tohma and Jin and nearly hissed. "Don't fuck this up for us." Likely the first and only time he'd address them with such hostility - he joined Lucas in talking with Jiro and Yuri after that, trying his best to keep her words close to him.

+++

"Tohma, I wish I had good things to say to you, but frankly, you're an asshole. I can tell you have good intentions, but they're lost on everyone around you. If you didn't keep using me to run your errands, taking insults on your behalf, I probably wouldn't be in this bed. When I'm gone, for the love of god, stop being such a snake - if you were honest to the people you trusted, your life would be so much easier. P.S. do your own dirty work."

+++

Much like Lucas's steps, Tohma's were meticulous and calculated. Slow, sure, and yet... tinged with hesitation.

It was never meant to go this far.

It was never meant for her to feel so obligated to perform errands for them. He assumed that she would eventually bite back, but she never did. She was patient. And for that flaw - for what should have been considered a virtue - she was taken advantage of at every turn. Of course, he never should have assumed anything. While he never regarded her as glass, she was fragile in the same way an overdone cookie was - crumbs of herself, chipped away at each bite into her.

Now, now, all he could see was the moment she hung herself - the moment her vision blacked out, the moment Jiro and Yuri came sprinting in. Sleep did not come easy - or at all. When he received a letter from her, where she wrote that he could speak to her, he fought over which words he would say, sleep-deprived as he was. And now her life was on the most dangerous balancing act, hinging on the words of a group of the most unstable men on campus.

When he saw her, he froze in his tracks - the image came back to him the moment he saw that bruise. Her hanging, swaying, toes barely scraping the ground. Instead of staring in complete horror as Jin did, he immediately contacted the second-years - the ones closest to her. The ones he got the information from. If he knew it was this serious, perhaps...

....perhaps it all could've been avoided. Perhaps she would have seen how much they cared for her. How much his teasing was meant to be just that. Instead, she formed the worst opinion of him in her head. He wished he came off more approachable - maybe he could've asked her to speak her mind and trust her to tell the truth, instead of hiding her pain behind a mask of smiles.

He watched her breathe softly, as if she'd stop at any moment. It didn't matter how rifted Frostheim and Mortkranken were - he thanked as many deities as he could think of that they were there to bring her back. That he didn't witness her death, witness the moment she stopped breathing for good. He took a breath of his own before sitting in the chair beside her. How was he supposed to apologize? How was he supposed to admit his concern? His-- She likely wouldn't accept it, no matter what. Would find cracks to squeeze reasons through, reasons why he'd lie.

She turned her eyes towards him, opened her mouth to speak until she saw the pallor of his face, ocean-deep eyes wide with an unusual fear. His composure slipped. Those thoughts from before, they played like an alarm reminding him with each loud beep:

You did this.

You hurt her.

You're the reason.

You- You- You-

His dismay flickered to the bruise. Another reminder. She was still alive and yet the ghost of her haunted him. She finally spoke.

"What are you thinking?" "...I wish I knew." "I'm there too." He took another deep breath. "You have always been there. In our thoughts. In my thoughts." "Was it me? Or was it something of use?" He clicked his tongue and closed his eyes. "I would not call you for every little inane, insipid, banal, trivial matter because I could not do it myself." "Then why did you?" "To see you again."

She shook her head slowly. "You could have just asked." "It was a weakness." "To see me?" "To be in love in a lion's den - where everything could be taken away from you with just a few words. Jin referred to it as a pit of snakes, and I fear I must agree." She let a short huff out through her nose. "It seems you fit in, then." "How else am I to survive? How else am I to keep you safe from them?" She slowly lifted her hand to brush some of her hair back. Idly noting how long it had gotten while looking for a retort. He was right, in a way. The best way to keep yourself alive is to blend in. But... "You could have done it without treating me like a mouse to served up as bait."

He found it ironic, that she should share the same sentiments as Jin. So much so that he couldn't help the broken laugh from leaving his lips. Even more so that he had made his admission and she brushed right over it - as he knew she would. The corner of her mouth twitched into the small semblance of a smile.

"Maybe if you had, you could have taught me how to play chess more." She found it funny - she already knew how to play. In fact, she believed herself to be rather good at it. He never gave her a chance to respond to whether or not she did play - and she was too dumbfounded at the out-of-place question and the rushing thoughts of his motive in it to interrupt him. If they could convince her to stay, maybe she'd catch him off-guard.

"...maybe, yes." He forced his eyes away from her. "Maybe if I had, we could have done many things together." He folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back into the chair, his posture laxing in a manner she hadn't seen from him before. "...if Jin had not asked you to dance, I would have." "Then... if I'm here in the morning, you can teach me how." "If..." With that large, heavy, word trailing off, the thoughts came back, the picture of her painted in his head - beaten, broken, bruised; dressed hauntingly in white, unblinking. Still standing. Her voice scraped like a broken record, slurring the question of why to him. Why did he not just ask her? Why was it a weakness? A flaw? Why was a simple question too much to ask?

"...If you... are not here in the morning..." He closed his eyes again, turning further away so she couldn't see his next weakness shed from them. Gentle tears of acceptance and guilt. His voice quivered, collapsing under the pain in his heart, with a softness he had always regarded her with when no one else was around. "...what should I do...?"

"Be a better friend. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Don't assume the worst in them. Above all, don't take advantage of their kindnesses. Maybe... you'd be more approachable that way." "To trust so easily..." "You don't have to trust them to be kinder to them." "...perhaps I should ask you for advice more often, with how wise your words are." He paused to correct himself. "...should have asked you." "...as many perhaps and maybes as we can speak, they don't change the past. They don't change the things you did to me." "It... It was never meant to go so far..." A foreign, choked back, sob clawed its way into his words. "I had never meant... I..."

As she said, any "should have"s, any "could have"s, they don't change what he did to her. How he broke her down, jabbed and prodded, forced her to work when she was already dragging her feet, taking advantage of her inability to say no. He covered his mouth, he needed to change the subject, needed to escape the scrutiny, needed to run away from the guilt that washed over him.

"Jin was more horrified than you would believe." "You're changing the subject, Tohma. This isn't about him." "I..." He slipped a curse under his breath, unable to pull back his thoughts. "...if I loved you as much as I claim I do... I wouldn't... would I? Would I have done this? Would I really... do something so degrading?" She let him answer his own questions, watching him with curious interest to his words. "...it seems I would." He stood up quickly, body still slightly turned away. "Now I cannot get the image of you scrubbed away - I will forever live with the knowledge, forever live with the nightmares." He occluded another nervous sob-laced laugh. "We saw you hang yourself, you know. We saw you go limp and unconscious. Watched the Mortkranken ghouls save you."

She blinked at him. "You did? Why were you there?" "To check on you. The second-years vented their anxieties about your well-being within earshot. While I contacted them immediately, Jin was frozen - would not move, even after you were carried away. I had no time to... to process it... to watch someone you care about do such a thing..." He inhaled sharply, trying to rein in his emotions to no avail. "Dammit... I wish I could forget it. Wish I could use a match on myself and live not knowing what your face would look like in death."

He fell to his knees. "God, please... please do not go..." His fists curled against his thighs. "God, please... please stay... please let me fix this..."

She didn't believe his words - his confession of love. If she watched him break down any further, maybe she could have. His tears, his pleas, they were convincing. Considering that she had a feeling he would have a hard time faking such an emotion in a different scenario. "Tohma... come here." The piper of her voice forced him to his feet, turning to her with the shine of tears in his eyes. He wanted to ignore them, will them away, but the more he thought about them, the more they fell. He dragged himself towards her outstretched arms, leaning awkwardly down to hug her. Pressing his lips to her neck, to the reminder. "Please... forgive me..." He whispered. "I'm sorry you had to witness it. If only I could have left you with the knowledge of being gone, instead. Please... forget about me. I beg of you..." "No. I... I apologize, but I cannot simply forget you. Will not." Jiro had told her the same thing. The idea of the lives she touched sunk into her thoughts - she wanted to believe it. Wanted it to be enough to bring her back. But it only made her feel worse. Sink even further into the swamp of onus.

"Then... keep me in your heart and do better." "...of course..." He took a step back from her watching her breathe for the moment. To help him pretend she would be alright. That she would come back to them. He turned away to leave, and halfway out, stopped to look back at her for a brief moment. Watched her give him a weak wave and a smile to match before finally stepping out of the building.

+++

"Jin. There's so much I could say, but honestly, all I can think of to write is... you're an absolute ass. If it weren't for Leo and Taiga, I'd say you were the worst person I've dealt with so far. I can see there's so much anxiety and grief and loathing stirring in you, but that gives you no reason to treat me and others the way you do. Maybe if your attitude was a fraction better, I wouldn't be in this bed. However you feel like you're assisting me, you always do it in the worst way. Like helping me is some inconvenience to you. I'm surprised you can even sit down with that stick so far up your ass. Everything about you pisses me off. ...So why the fuck do I care so much about your well-being? This ended up being more long-winded than I wanted it to. When I'm gone, I hope you can turn yourself around - be forgiving and kind and everything you currently aren't."

+++

There was a fury in him - out of worry, out of shame, out of so many emotions he couldn't even name. His heavy steps, much like Tohma before, stopped the moment he saw her staring blankly at the ceiling. He was thankful that only one person saw the absolute horror upon his face, someone he vaguely trusted, put in the same boat and caught off-guard as him.

Except now it was inching closer to coming back. He wouldn't let her see him like this. See him stare at her with a terror he had never felt before. He replaced it with an irritated scowl, anger clouding his thoughts yet again. He took it out on the table of "get well soon"s, kicking it over with enough force to send it across the room, every apathetic card and small gifts clattering and flittering to the ground.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Surprisingly to him, all she did was offer him a smile that spoke her words for her: "how did I know you were going to do that?". The fact that he was now predictable to her made him even more upset. That she'd know him so well and yet would have no problems, not a single qualm, about taking herself away from him. He couldn't hide anything from her as much as he tried to close her off. Shut her out.

And still... he kept calling on her, just to see her face again. Already fearing that he may forget her gentle smile and bright eyes the moment they all fail to break her curse. If she longed to be remembered in someone's mind, she succeeded.

The life gone from her eyes, face colored a clash of red and purple, dangling from a cotton noose.

He knew lives were fragile and still he drove her to the edge. Still he continued to degrade her, made her feel like dirt was worth more than her - even if he went out of his way to help her, he never addressed it. Always covered it up with a thin veil of "this is for me". And maybe it was for him - to know she was taken care of, that she could succeed; to know that she could take advantage of him, as he did her. And still, she did not. She had everything at her fingertips, every answer, every material and materiel - she had him at her fingertips, wrapped around every one of them in a twisted cat's cradle. She never assumed that he was willing to help. Only called on him when she had no other option. He was almost certain she was an angel sent to him, to help guide him... only to drive her to seek heaven again.

She was the only one who ever noticed his anxiety. His hand trembling just the barest hint of too much. His hesitation, his fear, his inadequacies, all in one - a single squeeze of his hand, the most comfort he had ever felt from another. That's all it took for him to fall head over heels for her. To pull him out of his shell again, a little bit at a time. And now, she watched him, picking apart his emotions with her eyes like peeling flakes of sunburnt skin. Digging herself deeper into his mind, worming her way into his thoughts and heart and words. She finally opened her mouth - with the way his face twisted, one could have imagined him seeing nothing but bugs crawling out of a rotting corpse.

"A lot of things are wrong with me." "No shit." He spat out his response, tainted with irritation. "And I'm one of them." "You are." He didn't expect her to respond like that, to tell him head on that he was a problem of hers. A lesser man would've cried just hearing the words and the way they didn't miss a beat in responding. All it did to him was stun him silent. "You've been nothing but the third rudest asshole on this island. And that's only because you didn't try to kill me on sight, or felt so insecure by my presence that you created a one-sided rivalry."

She closed her eyes, letting out a deep sigh. "And still, I can't help myself but worry. You can barely leave your room on your own, and I unfortunately know what that feels like - what are you going to do when I'm gone? When your servant is no longer there to wait on you hand and foot in between classes and missions? No longer there to drag you out of the pit of monotony?" "If you're gone..." "Well, I'm still leaning towards "when". I'm not convinced of a lot of things. But if you're done throwing a tantrum about a life that isn't yours to control, I'd like it if you sat down next to me." He hissed at her but complied nonetheless, throwing himself into the chair next to her bed. She looked at him with the same knowing, soft, compassionate expression she always had when dealing with him - the difference being the weariness in her eyes, dark bags hanging under them as she had been under the loft; her cheeks slightly sunken from the inability to eat or keep anything down.

She looked like death would come to take her away at any moment, and still... still she regarded him with kindness. She thought upon her previous conversations, what questions she should ask or what she should say. "What would you do to keep me here?" "Anything." He answered without hesitation. He already knew he'd do anything for her while she lived and breathed, why would this be any different? "...anything, he says." It killed him inside to see her reaction. How his response didn't satisfy her. "What do you want me to say?" "I'm wondering if you know why I don't like your "anything". Why I don't want just anything."

His jaw tightened, teeth digging into his tongue - biting it just to think. Just to keep himself from digging a deeper grave. "..." Slowly, his features relaxed, returning to the stoic aloofness he tried to maintain. "...I'm sorry. You deserve better than this." The words dripped from his mouth slowly, a leaky faucet too stubborn to fix. They were hard to say. "...I appreciate it." She tilted her head at him. "I hope that the apology is good closure for you - that it won't become a regret." "It already is." His gaze went to the ceiling as he took a breath in. If only he told her just how much she was worth to him. If only he told her that he'd give up everything if it meant keeping her by him. If only he told her just how beautiful she was in that dress, and how endearing her attempt at following his lead was.

If only,

She continued to watch him. "...what were your thoughts?" "I should be the one asking that fucking question." "I think, out of everyone, you know what my thoughts were and are the most. But... you persist. You continue on. You're stronger than me for that. There's something out there that makes your life worth living. I wish I had that." "..." It was at this time he wanted to pull out a cigarette - to take the edge off of the stress of keeping her alive. Then, he was sorely reminded that suffocation was her choice of death - even if she didn't need the ventilator for the moment - when he looked down at her from the corner of his eye. He muttered softly in response. "I wish I could be that."

He looked back up at the ceiling, as if there was something worth looking at; if only to keep himself from staring at her. "I wish I could be that reason." "Convenient to say that, now that you know I could be gone in the morning. Some useful tool to make your stigma work again. A servant at your beck and call, brushed away with the back of your hand and some words that tell me just how much I'm really worth." "Tch. You really never considered the things I've done, have you?" "Oh, I've considered them. Considered them enough to determine it was simply to keep me indebted to you--"

The chair legs screeched on the tile as he stood up with more force than was necessary. It was as if she was purposefully rubbing him the wrong way, pushing every button until she found the one she was looking for - she was still looking for it, apparently, because all this really did was anger him with another emotion he couldn't name. The one that tore his heart to shreds, knowing her true perception of him.

"Then what part of "anything" do you not fucking understand?! Do you really think I'd give a damn about some little shit following me around like I'm Liszt?! Really think I'd just drop everything to the next ass to ask me for help?! Really think I'd even fucking give the time of day to someone who isn't you?!" If someone had walked in without context, they'd likely think Jin to be glowering down on a poor girl in a hospital bed, filled with a disdain that couldn't be named. That was the furthest from the truth. "If anything, I'm the one fucking following you around! Every-fucking-time I hear that you're going on a mission with another house, I have to know what it is - I need to know if I should be concerned for your safety. What if they can't protect you- what if they don't protect you?! What if, in a single moment of hesitation, I never get to see you again?! It pisses me off that I can't do anything about that!"

He looked like a madman, hair frazzled and out of place, breathing heavily as if he ran from one end of the island to the other. "You think some damn vase in the Frostheim hallway is worth more than you- and maybe if you had been anyone else, it fucking would be!" Despite his yelling, his aggressive words and all, she remained... passive. Face placid with the telling expression of "are you done?" in her eyes - even if he wasn't, she still spoke. No matter how loud he was, no matter what kind of sentence he was in the middle of; when she spoke, he stopped. A man mesmerized by every word, even if it was razor sharp, that cut into him with blades filled with tragic misfortune. "Then... why? Why would you treat me so low, if you put me on this secret pedestal?" "Because they'd take you away from me the moment they found out! You'd be stolen away by some other house, hoarded because I valued something. Stolen away by who knows what, if they felt you were distracting me too much - and goddammit, it wouldn't matter because you still do!"

Tohma almost said the same thing. His concern was regarding the general students and their personal reaches. But Jin's concern seemed to hint something darker - an unknown "they" forcing him to dance to an unrecognizable tune. She had a feeling he was talking about Darkwick or the Institute. If he didn't play along to their rules, because she didn't. If he truly meant that he'd follow her wherever she went, and she decided to riot, that meant he would too. She closed her eyes, letting out a short huff - she wanted to say something, but it was his next words that kept her quiet.

"Instead of dreams about having you next to me, filling some fucking hole in my soul and healing whatever pain I've endured - I now have nightmares of your dead body, staring at me, begging for answers. I go to check on you because the brats are so fucking worried about you, that it fills me with a dread that threatens to tear my throat out - and I get there just in fucking time to see the life leave your eyes! Just in time to spiral in the thoughts of how I was the one who did that to you!" He ran his hands up through his hair. "I don't think you know how that fucking feels! To be the reason that the person you treasure the most wants to die! It may have been your hand, but it may as well have been mine! Fuck!"

He leaned over to hold himself up on the edge of the bed, his body shook the same way an aspen leaf would - shuddering, quaking. His posture hid his face well, but it didn't hide the tears after they had fallen. "I owe you everything... from that moment I took your hand. I knew there was nothing I could ever do to repay you... it didn't matter how much fucking money or power I had..." He let out trembling laugh, brimmed with melancholy. "You are worth more than everything I own. It's terrifying, actually. My blood runs cold knowing that there's someone out there like that." "I'm sure there are plenty more, less unfortunate than me." "Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, I don't care how fucking "unfortunate" you are? What the hell does your fortune have to do with this?"

She returned his words with a sad smile. "I was holding onto the hope that you would find someone who sparks this in you enough to forget me. It would be... so much easier if you just... forgot that I existed. I've done nothing but drag your life--" "Are you even fucking listening to me?!" He stood straight again, taking a single stride to get close enough to put both of his hands on her shoulders. "What. Part. Of. Anything. Do. You. Not. Fucking. Understand!? If I'm ready to give you anything just to keep you here - what makes you think I'd fucking forget you?!" She wished she could change the subject... take it off of how much these people would refuse to forget her. As her thoughts drifted towards the ocean of guilt she swam in, she was brought back by both of his hands on the sides of her head. He leaned in enough to press his mouth to the top of her head.

"What do you need me to do..." She closed her eyes to think some. "...I want you to back Jiro and Yuri." "..." "They've done so much for me already, with what little is available to them. Done more for me than Darkwick has. If I'm here tomorrow morning, then they're going to need support to keep up with my treatment plan - on top of their research into my curse." "...if only because they're caring for you." "Even if I'm not here tomorrow..." "...if only because they cared for and about you." "Thank you." "...please be here in the morning... please... I don't know what I would do without you... not as a tool or servant, but someone that I..." She could feel her hair rustle with the hesitant breath he let out. "Someone that I love."

He didn't let her speak after that, quickly pulling away to leave the sadness and heartache in the building behind.

+++ ++ + ++ +++

Jin stopped just outside of the door, before the next in line could even pass him. He pulled a checkbook from his pocket, flipped it open, signed it and took those heavy strides over to Jiro - the "not Yuri" half of the duo - to tear the blank check out of the book and hand it to him.

"What's this?"

"A gift from her. Don't waste it."

With that, his steps took him to Leo just to snatch his phone from him before he had time to process that anyone had approached him. "The fuck! What the hell is your problem- this is theft, you know." Jin held it comically high above his head, keeping it just out of reach. "Like hell I'm going to let a brat like you to take advantage of the situation for your social media. Until she says it's okay, you can figure out what to do with your free time without it. It's not theft, it's insurance." "Cap, are you seriously going to let him do whatever the fuck he wants?" Alan made exactly two seconds of eye contact with Jin before answering. "Yes." He could handle the rest after his turn was finished.

================================================

after read author's notes: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

finally. just to reiterate a two things: 1) this part took me 3 days to finish lol, that means if the writing style feels different, it was probably written on a different day. 2) i made the decision to break this up further because tumblr is dumb and my web browser lags like ass longer the post is - and this is obviously a very long one.

also, insert comment about agápē wordplay here lmao that was on accident and it's 👌

thank y'all so much for taking the time out of your day to indulge in my what was supposed to be a small series of prompts but actually turned into a full length novel LMAO

#tokyo debunker #tkdb #tdb #mc with disabilities #my writing #mc x tokyo debunker #mc x jiro kirisaki #mc x yuri isami #mc x lucas errant #mc x kaito fuji #mc x tohma ishibashi #mc x jin kamurai #apparently there are proper ship tags for mc and the cast #but i joined the party late #and i'm too afraid to ask what they are (。_。)

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icesapphireserpent · 22 days ago

Text

Ford’s POV here

My parents love survivor so over Father’s Day we were watching it. Now all I can think is how stupid good Stanley would be at it?

Just modern Stanley watching reality tv when motels have it available. Endurer is his favorite. He loves the drama and calling out liars while he’s chugging cheap beer. He likes the host David and that he doesn’t put up with bullshit. The episodes where the loved ones show up are… he usually changes the channel if it’s that one. Unless he’s already hammered. Then he blubs like a baby. It’s one of those nights he sends an application to the show. He’s a little too honest about why he needs a million dollars. Figured a sob story like getting back to family might help. It’s not like they’d ever pick him with his records. But he gets a call three weeks later.

Stan is ecstatic. A warm beach? Constant swimming in the sea? Paradise. Sure there’s not a lot of food, but when is there ever? Changes pretty quickly when they win fishing line. Finally gets to put those sailor skills from high school to use. And Stanley is used to being chummy with people who have it out for him.

It’s not easy. Stanley tries to stay unseen both not too good or too bad. But Stan’s a big personality and on a tribe specifically picked out of the ruthless contestants. Yeah.. he should have been less charismatic in the interviews leading up to this. Should have held off on going so hard on the social aspects of the game but it’s so damn easy! Plus that one guy was pretty hot Stan had to kiss him before the alliance voted him off.

Might be why he was on the chopping block the next time. But Stan couldn’t help flaunting a little. He’s never been good at anything, much less a game (without cheating or card counting). It really was dumb luck he saw the immunity idol in Rick’s bag. Can’t believe that idiot didn’t even plan to bring it to the tribal council.

So Stan makes it to the merger. He makes it to the final five. He can taste that $1 million. And sure Pa wanted millions plural but it should be enough to get Ford as many Master’s and Doctorates at that stupid fancy school he always wanted. But all that hope dries up the next morning.

He’s first awake but Bianca is the one who finds the note for the Endurers. She makes him go wake everybody up so she can read dramatically to the group.

“For weeks you’ve called this island your home

Now we’ll make it so you are not alone~!”

She gasps and Stan’s heart sinks. Fuck. He’s not gonna have anybody.

“Todays challenge comes in pairs

So someone comes to make it fair!”

Who writes this crap anyway?

And despite everything the group picks up on Stan’s mood change. He tells the group he’s fine he tells the camera in an aside he had fun while this lasted.

They make it to the challenge area and one by one everyone gets some body. A parent, a kid, hell Bianca was family-less but her girlfriend showed!

Stanley’s alone.

To rub salt in the wound David walks over to him. “Now Stan you said that you didn’t have anybody.”

“Yeah. You gonna be my pity partner?” It doesn’t get the laugh he wants.

“As much as I’d love to I don’t think your brother would appreciate that.”

Holy shit Shermie? He has a bunch of kids to look after.

But it’s not. It’s FORD. Ford is walking across the sand. Stan doesn’t even realize he’s running until he full body tackles Ford.

“I’m still fucking pissed at you.” Ford hissed.

“Well you can be pissed once I get you that million dollars.” Stan promised.

“…what?”

It’s then that David confirms that the loved ones are here to stay.

Ford as buff as he is now is not good at lying. Ford has also never seen the show.

The rest of the show is Stan and Ford fighting and hijinks-ing their way through the game.

#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #gravity falls au #GF survivor au #ToE

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mewritestufflol · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 3: A Vote for Fate...?

Pairing: Kang Dae Ho x Fem!OC Kang Eun-ji

Warnings: Squid game level violence, reunion,Slow Burn,Angst,Graphic Violence,Death,Blood and Injury,Psychological Trauma,Guilt,Emotional Manipulation,Survival Horror,Mild Language.

The players stood frozen in place long after the mechanical voice announced the end of the first game. The bodies still lay where they had fallen, eyes wide, blood soaking into the dirt beneath them. The silence was suffocating.

Eun-ji's breaths were shaky, her fingers digging into her palms. Her entire body ached from how tense she had been, but she forced herself to stay upright. She couldn't show weakness. Not here.

Beside her, Dae-ho remained still, his gaze sweeping over the surviving players. His grip on her wrist had loosened, but he hadn't let go.

Then, the front gates creaked open. The masked guards stood in perfect formation, rifles slung across their chests.

"All players, return to the dormitory."

No one moved at first. No one wanted to turn their back on the bodies. But what choice did they have?

One by one, they shuffled toward the exit.

Eun-ji didn't realize she was holding her breath until she stepped through the gates and the doors slammed shut behind them.

The first game was over.

But the nightmare was just beginning.

The atmosphere inside the dorm had changed. The once-noisy room was now filled with heavy silence, broken only by quiet murmurs and the occasional choked sob. Eun-ji sat on the edge of her bunk, staring at the floor. The number of players had decreased significantly. Earlier, the room had felt crowded. Now, the empty beds stood like grave markers.

Across from her, Dae-ho leaned against the metal frame of the bunk above him, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

Eun-ji let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do I look okay?"

Dae-ho didn't respond. He just kept watching her, studying her like he was trying to figure something out.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I just—" She shook her head. "I knew this was bad, but I didn't think it would be this."

Dae-ho exhaled through his nose. "It's worse than you think."

She glanced at him. "You seem awfully calm about this."

He looked away for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "I've seen worse."

Eun-ji frowned. He never talked about his time in the marines. But now wasn't the time to pry.

Suddenly, an alarm buzzed, cutting through the tension in the room. The screen flickered on as the masked manager's voice echoed through the arena.

"Congratulations for making it through the first game. Here are the results of the first game."

The giant pig-shaped bowl hanging from the ceiling was now filling up with money, bills fluttering down like a messed-up kind of snowfall. And beneath it, the sound of digital trilling echoed through the massive room—sharp, jittery, almost like an excited robot losing its mind.

"Out of 456 players, 91 players have been eliminated. Three hundred sixty-five players have completed the first game. Congratulations again for making it through the first game."

A desperate cry rang out. "Sir! Please don't kill us! Please don't kill us. I beg you! As for my son's debt, I will do whatever it takes to pay you back! Please forgive us!"

The masked manager remained unmoved. "There seems to be a misunderstanding. We are not trying to harm you. We are presenting you with an opportunity."

Eun-ji's fingers curled into her palms as she watched the exchange. Opportunity? What kind of twisted game was this?

Then, a familiar voice rang out. "Clause three of the consent form. The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. Correct?"

Eun-ji turned her head to see Player 456, Gi-hun, stepping forward.

The masked manager nodded. "That is correct."

A murmur of hope spread through the players. Could they actually leave?

"Then let us take a vote right now."

"Of course. We respect your right to freedom of choice," the manager replied. "But first, let me announce the prize amount that's been accumulated."

"The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91. Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated. If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share."

Eun-ji's mind raced. Could they actually just walk away?

"Each person's share would be 24,931,500 won."

A frustrated voice shouted from the crowd. "Fuck. We almost died, and they're giving us 24 million? That's fucking bullshit."

The masked manager continued calmly, "The rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly."

"So if you're the only one to survive, you get 45.6 billion?" someone asked.

"That's correct."

A mix of excitement and dread swept through the room. The stakes were clear now.

"Now, let's begin the vote. If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers."

A tense silence followed. Eun-ji's heartbeat pounded in her ears.

Was this her chance to leave? But if she left, then what?

Next chapter 4

Please tell me how it is and make sure to comment<3 and if you wanna be added to the tag list.

Headers credit: @sisterlucifergraphics tags: @silas-222

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honeydixonn · 6 months ago

Text

Back to Friends, Myung Gi

four, x’s and o’s

6200 words

The mother and son stepped forward, trembling. The dim fluorescent lights cast long shadows over the cold concrete floor. Her knees hit the hard surface with a hollow thud, her body quivering as she clasped her son close, shielding him with what little she could muster.

"Sir! Please, don't kill us! I beg you!" Her voice cracked, desperation twisting every syllable. She clutched at the boy's threadbare clothes, pulling him down alongside her as tears streamed down her dirt-streaked face. "For my son's debt, I'll do anything! Please, forgive us!" Her head bowed repeatedly, almost striking the floor, her sobs echoing through the vast, sterile space.

The son, too stunned to resist, clung to her arm, his face pale and drenched with tears. She shook his hand, anchoring him to the floor as though their lives depended on the gesture alone.

"Don't just stand there!" she pleaded, her voice rising with panic. "Beg for his forgiveness!"

Around them, others began breaking, their fear spilling over into action. More bodies threw themselves to the floor, knees scraping against the unforgiving surface as pleas rose like a chorus, raw and unfiltered.

Nari stayed frozen, watching from the upper bunk, her chest heaving in quiet, controlled breaths. Her body wanted to move, to join the desperate mass, but her legs locked stiffly beneath her. Fear held her still, her mind racing.

From the shadows, the masked man's voice pierced through the chaos like the sharp edge of a blade. "There seems to be a misunderstanding." His tone was calm, measured, but devoid of any warmth.

The people groveling on the floor hesitated for a moment, their cries faltering as they glanced up.

"We are not here to harm you," he continued, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.

A bitter laugh rose in Nari's throat, but she swallowed it, her gaze narrowing as her fingers gripped the edge of the bunk. If she weren't so afraid of dying, she might have shouted at the absurdity of his claim.

"We are presenting you with an opportunity." His words echoed eerily in the sterile room, his calm demeanor contrasting with the raw panic in the players' faces.

An opportunity? Nari's stomach churned. This wasn't an opportunity. It was a sadistic spectacle, a game designed to turn them into pawns for someone else's twisted entertainment.

Then, a voice broke through the tension—a voice filled with conviction.

"Clause three of the consent form!"

The players turned, heads swiveling toward the man who had spoken. Player 456 stepped forward, his face taut with fury. "The games may be terminated upon majority vote, correct?" His question was sharp, cutting through the room like a knife.

The square-masked figure paused, the silence stretching as he responded. "That is correct."

The room stirred with murmurs, hope flickering faintly in the eyes of those who'd been begging moments before.

"Then let us take a vote right now," 456 demanded, his voice unwavering as he stared down the masked man.

The square mask tilted slightly, as if weighing the request. "Of course," he finally replied. "We respect your right to freedom of choice. But first, let me announce the prize amount that has been accumulated."

The masked man raised a remote, pressing a button. The lights dimmed as a mechanical hum filled the air. The ceiling opened, revealing a massive golden piggy bank that descended slowly, glowing under spotlights.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as a series of metallic clinks echoed above. Stacks of bills slid down a transparent tube, funneling into the piggy bank. The players, who had been pleading for their lives moments earlier, now stared in mesmerized silence, the allure of money drowning out their fear.

Nari's breath hitched as she found herself standing with the others, drawn toward the light reflecting off the pile of cash. The sight was hypnotic, the promises it held almost tangible.

"The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91," the masked man announced. "Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated. If you quit the games now, the 365 of you can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share."

A murmur spread through the crowd, confusion and greed mingling in their expressions.

"How much is that?" someone asked, the question pulling everyone from their trance.

The masked man didn't hesitate. "Each person's share would be 24,931,500 won."

The response landed like a punch to the gut. Anger replaced hope on many faces.

"Fuck!" Nam-gyu spat, his voice dripping with frustration. "We almost died, and they're giving us 24 million?"

"Twenty million?" Thanos echoed, his outrage evident. "You said 45.6 billion!"

The masked man remained calm, his voice unwavering. "The rule is that 100 million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly."

Nari's hands trembled as she clutched the hem of her shirt. The money was so close, yet so far. It whispered promises of a new life, of debts erased and burdens lifted. But at what cost?

Her stomach churned as the masked man continued, his words cold and calculated.

"If you survive all six games, the total prize pool of 45.6 billion won will be yours to divide among the survivors. Or, if you're the last one standing, you'll claim the full amount."

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them like a shroud.

"All right, let's vote," the masked man said, snapping them back to the present.

The circle-masked men slide away the floor panels, revealing glowing X and O symbols embedded in the ground. One for life, the other for freedom.

Nari's heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the glowing symbols, the light reflecting in her wide, fearful eyes. The choice seemed simple, yet impossibly heavy. The stakes were higher than ever, and the next decision would define everything.

Sticking a red and blue line down the center to separate the sides, a table was placed at the front with two buttons. "If you wish to continue the games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers."

"Player 456." The players murmured among themselves as he stepped out from the crowd and approached the center column.

"It's all pointless," a woman called out from the top of the bunk beds, her voice grating on Nari's nerves. "You didn't choose to come into this world, and you can't choose when to leave it either. The gods decided your fate the moment you were born."

Player 456 ignored her rambling, walking past her and stepping up to vote as her voice dissolved into the background. He pressed the X button with a firm hand, the sound of confirmation echoing through the room as the screen updated: one vote for X, none for O.

"Once you finish voting, take the patch you are given and place it on the right side of your chest," the mechanical voice instructed.

A drawer opened, revealing a thick velcro patch, red with a white X emblazoned on it. The head figure motioned toward it, and 456 pulled the patch out, affixing it to his chest with quiet determination.

"Stand on the side you have chosen," the voice continued.

He stepped to the red side, his gaze hard and steady on the screen above.

"Player 454."

A woman bolted forward, her urgency palpable as if she were on a mission. Without hesitation, she tapped the blue O button, barely taking a moment to deliberate.

Nari felt conflicted, her heart twisting as she watched. The gravity of the choice weighed on her—there was no undoing a decision once it was made.

456 cast a glance at the woman, his expression darkening with disgust as she confidently walked to the blue side of the room.

"Player 388."

Nari's thoughts snapped back to reality as the familiar number was called. She watched him step forward, his steps hesitant, before finally pressing the blue button. Even he wanted to stay? Was blue the right choice?

"Player 333."

Myung-Gi walked slowly to the buttons, his gaze lingering on the red button for a moment before being irresistibly drawn to the blue. They both needed the money—why wouldn't he choose to stay?

With uncertainty written all over his face, Myung-Gi pressed the blue button. The patch was handed to him, and he reluctantly placed the blue marker on his chest. His hands trembled slightly as he stepped to the blue side, his mind clearly wracked with doubt. Had he made the right decision? Was Nari going to make the same choice?

Nari's brows knitted as she eyed the numbers on the screen. The tally for "yes" was climbing. He wanted to stay—should she follow his lead?

More players moved forward to vote, each one shifting the balance of the decision. The screen's count flickered with each choice, the outcome swinging toward staying.

Then, player 456 stood up, cutting through the tension and halting the votes.

"Wait a minute, everyone! You can't do this," he shouted, turning to face the remaining players who hadn't yet voted. His voice was desperate, his eyes pleading.

Nari froze as his gaze swept over her, sincere and broken.

"Come to your senses! Don't you see? These aren't just games. We will all die if we keep playing!"

Her breath caught in her chest. She had trusted him this far. He had known about the first game, and he had done what he could to protect them. If he was saying they needed to leave, maybe he was right.

"We have to get out of here now," he continued, his voice rising with urgency. "With a majority vote, we can! We must stop here!"

An older man, player 100, stood up, his voice sharp as he barked back. "Who do you think you are? Why do you keep egging people on like that?"

The old man stalked toward 456, his expression twisting into disdain as he looked him up and down. Now standing face-to-face in front of the other players, the tension between them was palpable.

"This is our only chance to change our lives," player 100 snapped. "What gives you the right to decide for the rest of us?"

"You scared us by saying they'd shoot us before the games even began!" Player 254 shouted, her voice ringing out as she stepped forward from the circle side. "You were going on about how we'd die, and I almost did because I got so nervous!"

"How did you know they were going to shoot us?" Player 226 pointed an accusatory finger at 456, his face twisted with suspicion. He moved to the center of the room, his voice rising above the murmurs. "Are you one of them?"

He stepped next to player 100, who glared at 456 with seething hatred, feeding the tension in the room.

"Are you conning us all by pretending to be a player? Who is this guy?" Player 100 snapped, his tone venomous as he turned toward the men in pink. His scowl deepened as he marched past 456, his eyes burning with anger. "Did you plant him to mess with our heads?"

Nari watched helplessly, her heart pounding as the confrontation unfolded. Each word being hurled back and forth only made her decision loom larger, its weight crushing her.

The room was a chaos of clashing sides—some pleading for the games to continue, others begging for their lives to be spared. Nari felt paralyzed, her mind spinning. She couldn't focus on anything except the glowing numbers on the screen, their movement blurring in her vision.

"I have played these games before!"

The roar cut through the pandemonium, silencing every voice in the room. Nari blinked, her breath catching in her throat. Had she heard him correctly?

"I have done this before!" 456's voice was raw with emotion as his hands clenched at his sides, his frustration palpable.

The players froze, their focus now locked on him.

"I knew about the first game because I've played it before!" he continued, his voice trembling but resolute. "I played these games here three years ago. And everyone who was with me..."

He paused, his lips quivering as the memories crashed over him like a storm. His gaze dropped, the flashes of the past playing vividly in his mind.

"Died here."

The room stood in stunned silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Player 226 still refused to believe him, his agitation growing with each word. "If they all died, how did you survive alone? Wait... are you saying you were the sole winner?"

Nari watched as 456 gulped, his silence confirming the accusation. A wave of horror ran through her as his answer sank in.

"Only one...?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyes darted to Myung-Gi, standing on the blue side of the room. Despite everything, she still cared for him. Yet, it dawned on her that he hadn't bothered to look for her—not in this game, not when it mattered most.

People were dying around them, and he still acted as though she didn't exist. Did he care about her at all? Did he even know she was here? But he had to know—just as she had known about him.

Her breath quickened, anxiety tightening her chest. A single question burned in her mind: Was she doing all this just to go home to a life where nothing had changed?

Before she could process the thought, a roar erupted from the crowd. Cheers and cries of triumph filled the room as the majority made their decision—they wanted the games to continue.

As the celebration grew louder, 456 moved toward the remaining players who hadn't yet voted, desperation etched into his face. He begged, pleaded with them to choose to leave, his voice cracking under the weight of his words.

Nari's gaze softened as she watched him, his eyes darting from face to face until they locked with hers. His voice broke through the noise, calm yet piercing.

"If we keep playing, more people will die," he said, his tone urgent. "That could be you."

He opened his mouth to say more, but the cold, unmistakable click of a gun interrupted him. A guard with a triangle mask stepped forward, pressing the barrel roughly against 456's back.

"From here on, we will not tolerate actions that disrupt the voting process," the guard declared, his voice sharp and mechanical. "Now, let's resume the vote. Player 228."

Nari's throat tightened as tears began to well in her eyes. It felt as though the warning wasn't just meant for everyone—it was meant for her.

A warning of her fate if they kept playing. What could she do?

The gun stayed fixed on 456 as the guard shoved him aside.

"Player 114."

Nari froze for a moment as her number was called. The line of players had thinned, leaving little room to hide. Myung-Gi, standing on the blue side, could see her clearly now as she emerged from the shadows of the bunk area.

Her eyes were bloodshot, her face dotted with dried blood, yet to him, she was still the most captivating woman he'd ever seen. His gaze followed her as she walked forward, head lowered, her steps hesitant. Unconsciously, his feet moved closer to the edge of the line, desperate to see her better.

"Nari..."

Her head tilted slightly at the sound of his voice. Her sniffles broke the silence as she glanced up, catching him staring at her in shock.

She looked at him differently now—wounded, guarded. Gone was the warmth she once held for him. He missed that look, the way her eyes used to light up for him before he ruined everything.

"Nari, I..." His voice faltered, the words stuck in his throat.

His mouth hung open, as if trying to summon the courage to explain everything, but no words came. He watched helplessly as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She took a step forward, her anguish written across her face, until the masked leader's voice rang out.

"Please continue the vote. If you wish to stay, press the O button. If you wish to leave, press the X button."

Her head snapped back toward the stand, her body stiffening. Her gaze flickered between the voting station and Myung-Gi—the man who had once been her closest friend.

Taking a deep breath, Nari turned away from him, refusing to meet his eyes again. Her tears didn't fall as she swallowed her emotions, her face hardening.

She remembered.

She remembered the night he left her sitting alone in that crowded restaurant. How she'd worn her best dress, her heart swelling with anticipation, only for each passing minute to chip away at her excitement.

She remembered the ticking clock, every second amplifying her heartbreak, until her sorrow was buried beneath a carefully crafted facade.

And she remembered how he never reached out—never called, never explained, never told her the truth. She had waited for something, anything, to prove he cared. But all she had been left with was silence.

As Nari approached the voting station, she pressed her lips together, bracing herself for the choice she had to make.

She cared for him—she truly did—but the hurt he caused wasn't something she could forget so easily, even if she had forgiven him in her heart months ago.

Nari stepped up to the podium, her hand hovering uncertainly between the two buttons. Her fingers trembled as her gaze flicked to the top of the screen. The votes were razor-thin, separated by only four points.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself before pressing down on the button. A light ding echoed through the room, cutting through the tension like a knife. A quiet groan rippled through one side of the room.

"Ha Nari," Myung-Gi whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief. His eyes widened as she turned to face the group, a blue patch now displayed on her chest.

Her gaze didn't rise to meet his. She stared at the ground, her steps slow and deliberate as she made her way to the circle side, distancing herself from the others.

Myung-Gi swallowed hard, his throat dry, his feet shifting restlessly. He couldn't lose her again—not like this. They needed to talk.

As Player 007 stepped up and voted to leave, the tally shifted, tying the vote at 181 each. The tension in the room grew suffocating, the weight of the decision crushing everyone present.

Player 006 approached next, quickly pressing the X button and giving the red side a narrow lead. Nari groaned quietly, her stomach twisting in knots. She hoped all of this wouldn't be for nothing.

When Player 004 cast their vote to stay, a wave of cheers erupted from the blue side. Excitement surged through the group, but Nari remained still, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

She wanted to go home—desperately. But deep down, she couldn't shake the truth that lingered in her mind. The life she'd left behind was no life at all. It wasn't worth returning to. It wasn't living.

That was the only reason she chose to stay.

"Lastly, Player 001."

The room fell silent as the final player stepped forward. The votes were tied at 182, and both sides erupted into cheers, pleading for their cause, hoping he would choose their letter.

Nari's eyes followed him as he made his way to the podium. He was a mature, distinguished-looking man, his hand hovering between the two buttons. The seconds stretched, each one dragging out painfully as everyone held their breath.

Finally, a light beep sounded. The circles had won by a single vote.

The O side exploded into cheers, some players jumping and shouting in celebration, oblivious to the grim reality of what they had secured—a death sentence for most.

Nari's chest tightened. Regret clawed at her, though not completely. Everyone here had their own selfish reasons for choosing to stay. She had hers too.

Across the room, Myung-Gi threw his head back, his face etched with regret. He silently cursed his decision, wishing he'd voted to leave. Staying here felt like willingly walking into a death trap. How could any of them know if they'd be next?

Nari avoided his searching eyes, retreating into the shadows by the corner of the room. She could see his number, 333, flashing between the gaps in the bunk beds as he wandered through the crowd. His head eventually fell in defeat, realizing he wouldn't find her.

The sound of metal screeching cut through the air as a large door opened. The masked circles pushed in carts loaded with water bottles and lunch boxes, arranging them into four neat lines.

"Please gather in line to receive your meal," the square-masked overseer instructed, his voice echoing from the platform above. He stood rigid, watching the players shuffle into lines like restless cattle.

Myung-Gi spotted her at the far end of the room. The number "114" stretched across the back of her jacket, a familiar figure he couldn't mistake. He hurried toward her, tapping her shoulder as he slid into the line behind her.

"Nari, please," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Can we talk?"

A sigh escaped her lips as she turned to face him, her expression weary. His pleading face, his slightly quivering lip—it was a sight she once found endearing.

"Myung-Gi," she said, her voice carrying both exhaustion and restraint.

His heart ached at the sound of her voice. He hadn't heard it in months, and now that he did, it hit him harder than he expected. But she looked so tired—tired of him, tired of everything. It was the most broken he'd ever seen her.

"Would you even answer what I ask?" Nari's voice was soft but firm, her eyes dim as she turned fully toward him. He stood in front of her, his broad frame blocking the light. Myung-Gi bit his lip, hesitating for a moment before tentatively reaching for her hand.

"I will," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I promise. We can talk while we eat, okay?"

Nari nodded slowly, her movements cautious as the line shuffled forward. When the masked man handed her a lunchbox, she offered him a quiet "thank you," her voice barely above a whisper. Myung-Gi gave the guard a tight smile before following her to the bed she'd chosen—a bottom bunk tucked in the corner.

"Don't get crumbs on my sheets again," she said, attempting a small joke to lighten the mood. But her voice wavered, and her eyes betrayed the weight of her emotions.

A faint chuckle escaped Myung-Gi's lips as he settled beside her on the bed. "I'll try my best," he replied lightly before his tone softened. "So, what did you want to ask, Jagi?"

Her heart stuttered at the nickname. It had been so long since she'd heard it, and now it felt foreign, almost unreal.

"I—why?" she began, her hands trembling slightly as she set the unopened box aside. Just the thought of the conversation made her lose her appetite.

"Why?" he echoed, his brows furrowing in confusion as he twisted open his water bottle. He poured a little onto the edge of his shirt and began dabbing gently at her face, trying to clean the dried blood smudged across her skin.

"Why did you leave me?" Her voice cracked as she forced the words out. "Why didn't you tell me goodbye? Why didn't you give me a simple explanation? Why was it just... nothing?"

Myung-Gi froze, his hand pausing mid-motion as he blinked rapidly, struggling to find the right words. He glanced away briefly, his gaze darting toward the ground before returning to hers.

"It all happened so fast," he finally said, his voice trembling slightly. "People were hacking my phone, following me in the streets, Nari. I had to change my number, disappear... I thought if I stayed, it would only put you in danger. I just wanted to protect you."

Nari's eyes searched his face, her sharp gaze trained on him, watching for the telltale signs of deceit she had learned to read so well. His lips twitched slightly, but his brown eyes held steady, locked on hers, desperate and pleading.

"None of that protected me," she said, her voice quieter now but filled with an edge of bitterness. She took a shaky breath before continuing, "And I know you didn't know... but three of the people who fell apart because of Dalmatian found me."

Myung-Gi's hand stilled against her cheek, his expression crumbling into one of shock and guilt. He stared at her, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came.

His eyes widened in shock, his grip on her hand tightening instinctively. "What happened, Nari?" he asked urgently, his voice trembling with concern. His pupils dilated, betraying the worst fears swirling in his mind.

She hesitated, her throat tightening as the memories came rushing back. "A few weeks after you left," she began, her voice shaking, "I was walking home from work, and they stopped me at the bus stop. One of them grabbed me... started shouting about how I owed them money."

Myung-Gi winced, his shoulders slumping under the weight of her words. The image of her in danger burned in his mind, and guilt consumed him. This was all his fault. If only he'd stayed and faced his mistakes, she wouldn't have been dragged into his mess.

"They said... if you couldn't get them the money, then I'd have to," she continued, her voice breaking slightly. "So I had to pay them my entire paycheck every week—for the last five months."

Tears pooled in her eyes as she spoke, her voice thick with emotion. "I couldn't afford my rent anymore. I had to sell my house. My phone bill, my bus pass—they all sent my bank account two million won into the negative." She swallowed hard, her gaze falling to her lap. "I've just been bouncing from house to house, staying with coworkers or relatives who'd take me in. It's been... it's been hard."

Knots twisted in Myung-Gi's gut, each word cutting deeper into him. Regret and self-loathing filled his chest, suffocating him. He couldn't even look at her anymore; his shame was too heavy to bear.

"I know it won't be enough," he said softly, his voice trembling as he reached for her other hand. He held both of her hands gently in his, lifting them to his lips and peppering them with light kisses. His head bowed low, as though the gesture might somehow convey the depth of his remorse. "But I have to say it. I'm sorry, Jagi. I am so, so sorry."

Nari's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she looked at him, her expression torn between pain and lingering affection. "Gi," she said quietly, "I forgave you a long time ago. But... I'm still hurt." She pulled one hand away to wipe at her eyes, trying to steady herself.

"You left without a word," she continued, her tone firm but tinged with sadness. "No explanation, no goodbye. You just... ghosted me. I had to find out what happened from the news."

Myung-Gi flinched at her words, the guilt visibly crushing him. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Nari hated the way her words seemed to pierce his soul, but he needed to hear it. He needed to understand.

The pain he had unknowingly inflicted on her didn't deserve to be dismissed so easily. Myung-Gi's voice trembled as he finally spoke, "I don't know what to say. Now you're here in this game, and... I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

Nari tilted her head, studying him, her own anxiety rising at his words. "It's okay. We can protect each other. We're still friends, you know?"

Friends. The word hit him like a blow to the chest. Myung-Gi forced himself to smile, but inside, the title churned his stomach. Friends? That wasn't what he wanted. It never had been.

His feelings for her had grown quietly but steadily since the day they first met on the college bus. He never dared to act on them, always afraid of pushing too far and ruining what they had. So, he followed her pace, matching her steps and burying his deeper emotions.

Until that night—just days before her birthday dinner. It had changed everything for him. He thought it had changed things for her, too. How could they go back to being just friends after sharing something so intimate? But she seemed to want to, so he had no choice but to suppress it.

"Yeah... friends," he finally replied, forcing the words out. His lips pressed into a thin line as he busied himself with opening his lunch box.

The display of food inside gave him a convenient distraction. Nari quietly went to take a bite of rice when, suddenly, another egg was placed in her container.

"You love eggs," Myung-Gi said gently, a small smile breaking through his inner turmoil.

Her cheeks flushed pink as she glanced at him. "Thank you," she murmured, bowing her head slightly before taking a delicate bite of the egg.

For a moment, things felt almost normal. Almost.

"Enjoying your food?" A sarcastic voice cut through their fragile peace.

Nari froze mid-bite as Nam-gyu appeared, glaring at them with undisguised irritation. Myung-Gi's body tensed immediately, his posture stiffening at the unwelcome presence.

"I couldn't eat," Nam-gyu continued, his tone dripping with venom. "After seeing everyone get shot dead, you two still have a damn appetite?"

He slammed his spoon into his tray with a loud clatter, his agitation radiating off him. His glare fixated on Myung-Gi, as if daring him to respond.

"That crypto ruined my life too. That's why I'm here—to make money," Thanos announced, suddenly appearing in front of them. His presence felt like an intrusion, his sly wink at Nari quickly replaced by a scowl aimed at Myung-Gi. "That's right. You'd better make a lot of money. Because of that damn coin, I lost over 500 million won—the money I earned busting my ass rapping."

Nari's eyes widened in shock. 500 million? Her whisper barely escaped her lips, but Thanos caught it and smirked. "Yes, beautiful. 500 million. You'll help pay it, won't you?"

Myung-Gi's jaw tightened, his fist gripping the edge of his lunch container, jealousy and anger simmering beneath the surface. "I'll pay it. Now leave. Let us eat." His glare locked onto Thanos, just as Nam-gyu snatched the tray of food from Myung-Gi's bed.

"You little shit, eating like a damn pig," Nam-gyu sneered, waving the stolen tray mockingly.

Nari immediately intervened, leaning forward. "Give it back," she demanded, her tone firm despite her nerves.

Nam-gyu merely laughed, shaking his head. "No."

Thanos grabbed the tray next, scooping a spoonful of rice and toying with it. "You want it, señorita?" he teased, holding the rice inches from her lips. "Take a bite, baby."

Before she could respond, Myung-Gi slapped the spoon from Thanos's hand with enough force to send rice scattering to the floor. His voice was sharp, low with barely contained rage. "Leave her alone."

Thanos's smirk twisted into a sneer. Grabbing a handful of rice from the tray, he squeezed it into a sticky ball. "How about you?" he said mockingly, shoving the rice into Myung-Gi's face with a cruel laugh. Myung-Gi stumbled back, wiping the mess from his face, while Nari gasped.

"What's wrong with you?!" she yelled, her voice trembling between anger and disbelief.

Thanos laughed darkly, leaning closer to Nari and patting her cheek like she was a child. "Nothing, baby."

That was the last straw. Myung-Gi lunged at him, tackling Thanos to the ground in one swift motion. "Don't touch her!" he roared, his fist poised to strike.

Before Myung-Gi could land the punch, Nam-gyu yanked him off Thanos, twisting him around and landing a solid blow to Myung-Gi's face. Myung-Gi staggered, only to receive a swift kick to his side that sent him sprawling to the floor.

"Stop! Get off!" Nari shouted, rushing toward the chaos. Before she could intervene, Nam-gyu grabbed her arm, holding her back. "Let me go!" she yelled, stomping on his foot with enough force to make him yelp. Freed, she ran forward just as Thanos continued kicking Myung-Gi, who had curled into himself, shielding his face with trembling hands.

Without hesitation, Nari grabbed Thanos by the collar and yanked him away. Her fist swung instinctively, knuckles connecting with his chin in a sharp crack. "What the fuck?" Thanos growled, stumbling back in shock.

Before he could retaliate, a calm yet commanding voice cut through the chaos. "Enough!"

Player 001 stepped into the scene, his authoritative presence halting everyone in their tracks. His eyes scanned the group, sharp and disapproving. "Boys, what are you doing? No fights during meal time. There are elders present. Mind your manners—and leave the girl alone."

The distraction gave Nari just enough time to kneel beside Myung-Gi, pressing a cold water bottle to his swollen face. Her hands trembled as she whispered, "Are you okay?"

Meanwhile, Thanos scoffed, stepping up to Player 001 with defiance. "You're lecturing me? You're in this shithole too, old man. Stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids." His mocking hand waved dismissively in 001's face, daring him.

001's expression darkened, his calm demeanor replaced by a chilling intensity. "What did you just say?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.

Thanos repeated himself smugly, but before he could finish, 001's hand shot out, gripping his neck in a vice-like hold. Nam-gyu rushed to help, only to be stopped mid-charge with a swift kick to his shin that sent him crashing to the floor near Nari and Myung-Gi.

"Son of a bitch!" Nam-gyu hissed, clutching his leg.

001 didn't even glance his way as he shoved Thanos back, glaring at him with black, unwavering eyes. When Thanos tried to swing at him, 001 ducked smoothly, delivering two precise blows to Thanos's abdomen and solar plexus.

"Wait—" Thanos gasped, staggering forward and clutching at 001 for balance. But 001 grabbed his arm and twisted it sharply behind his back. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the room, followed by Thanos's pained scream.

With two brutal kicks to Thanos's chest, 001 sent him sprawling to the ground, wheezing in agony. He bent down, his hand locking tightly around Thanos's throat as his fist hovered menacingly in the air.

"I'm sorry," Thanos choked out, his voice strained as he struggled against the hand constricting his windpipe.

"Apologize to the girl and her friend," 001 commanded, his grip tightening slightly, sending Thanos into a panic.

Thanos's purple-haired head turned just enough to catch sight of Nari and Myung-Gi on the floor. Myung-Gi's head rested in her lap as she gently dabbed at his wounds, her expression tense but calm.

"Now," 001 pressed, his voice sharper, his fist still raised and his eyes burning with warning.

"I'm sorry," Thanos gasped, his voice barely audible. He winced, struggling to get the words out as his remaining air slipped away.

001's eyes remained locked on him, his grip unyielding. "Say it like you mean it."

"Please..." Thanos croaked, his voice desperate.

Finally, 001 released him, shoving him backward with a force that sent him sprawling onto the ground. Thanos gasped for air, clutching his throat as he crawled away. The room erupted into scattered applause and cheers, a mix of relief and awe.

001 took a slow step back, his expression calm yet unyielding, before turning his attention to Nari and Myung-Gi. He walked over to them, his presence commanding the room into silence once more.

"Are you two alright?" he asked, his voice softer now, though the darkness in his eyes hadn't faded.

Myung-Gi pushed himself upright with some effort, his hand instinctively reaching to touch the tender spot on his cheek. He glanced up at 001, gratitude shining in his swollen eyes. "Yes, thank you."

001 offered a hand to help him to his feet, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm Young Il," he said simply, his voice steady and composed. "And you?"

#lee myung gi #myung gi #im siwan #myung gi x reader #player 333 #squid game #squid game 2 #squid game fanfic #squid game wattpad #yim siwan

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namsu-corner · 1 day ago

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Fave Five Poly Au Regression Headcanons!!!

These are headcanons for my au where my favorite five squid game characters are in a polyamorous relationship together!!!

The characters are: Thanos, Nam-Gyu, Min-Su, Myung-Gi and Dae-Ho! (In no particular order)

I always say it, but I’ll say it again: NSFW DNI!!! Go away!!!

Note: These headcanons do minorly talk about diapers/padding, so keep that in mind if that makes you uncomfortable. But do note that it is NOT sexual.

FEEL FREE TO USE THIS AU / THESE HEADCANONS!! TAG ME SO I CAN SEE THOUGH BECAUSE I LOVE THIS AU

(In this au, they’re the five that win the games after voting to leave during the finals. They were the final five, and couldn’t bare to go in anymore. So altogether they do have the won that was the prize. Rich babies)

- Age Ranges and basic info for them all! (They’re all flips!!!)

Thanos - “Cis” Male - He/Him/Any - Pansexual - Little age range is 2-9

Nam-Gyu - Trans Male - He/Him - Gay - Little age range is 1-5

Min-Su - Intersex Nonbinary - He/Him - Bisexual - Little Age Range is 2-4

Myung-Gi - Transfeminine Nonbinary Male - She/He/They - Bisexual - Little Age Range is 3-6

Dae-Ho - Cis Male - He/Him - Bisexual - Little age range is 1-15

Headcanons!!!

- They all live together!!! In a big house they bought with their prize money!!!

- There’s not really a “set caregiver.” They all regress when needed, and whoever isn’t regressed will take care of the regressed one/ones. If they’re all regressed, then good luck to them.

- They have three bedrooms in the house. One for Thanos and Nam-Gyu, one for Min-Su and one for Dae-Ho and Myung-Gi. But!! They all switch around! Sometimes all five of them will bunch up in one bed and cuddle. It’s a very tight fit.

- Min-Su’s bedroom has become the default nursery. He struggles with tossing and turning in bed anyways, and he has little liftable bars on the sides of his bed. So sometimes that’s used as a crib for anyone who may need it. That’s also where they keep a changing table, since all five of them need padding for various reasons.

- unfortunately, there’s almost always a nightmare everynight. Someone will wake up from one and have different reactions.

Regressors waking up from nightmares headcanons (insane angst warning! Mentions of trauma and death)

- When Thanos wakes up from a nightmare, he’ll sit up and rush out of bed to find somewhere to hide. Luckily he’s not quiet, so he wakes someone up and they’re able to comfort him.

- When Nam-Gyu wakes up from a nightmare, he’ll start wailing loudly. He won’t register that he’s got someone in bed with him, and he’ll have to wait for that person to wake up and comfort him. He usually pushes and cries, thinking it’s a guard and not one of his caregivers.

- Whenever Min-Su wakes up from a nightmare, he’s usually alone in bed. He’s bad at sleeping with other people when regressed, since he tosses and turns and kicks. He’ll sit up and look around the room, and immediately start hallucinating in the dark. He’ll see Se-Mi, his previous caregiver, and will start sobbing out for his mama. Someone will then come in to comfort him, and if it’s Nam-Gyu then Min-Su will start SCREAMING. he absolutely breaks down. Of course, he’s forgiven him for what he did, but in his little mindset then he thinks that Nam-Gyu is going to get him next.

- whenever Dae-Ho wakes up from a nightmare, he usually just cries quietly. He has nightmares from both the games and his terrible childhood, especially his dad. Most of the time he ends up wetting himself during those nightmares, but he usually always sleeps with at least one person, so they’ll wake up and change him if he’ll let them.

- Whenever Myung-Gi wakes up from a nightmare, they’ll jerk awake and stare up at the ceiling. Their mind runs wild, and they get a little confused on why they’re sad. They usually dream of Jun-Hee and their baby, and they just cannot fathom the fact that they were a parent for a few short days. They’ll get all sad, despite not fully understanding why, and then sob loudly until they’re comforted by someone.

Back to the normal headcanons!!!

- The five really like to play games together, especially the games they played during the squid games. It helps them make those games innocent again, reclaiming them in a way.

- Min-Su’s favorite is red light, green light. He squeals and giggles everytime he turns around and the other’s are closer to him. It’s so exhilarating and fun!!!

- Thanos and Nam-Gyu like mingle, but it’s kind of hard to play with only five. So they’ll play the music and dance around , and then when it stops they do a musical chairs type thing!! It’s fun!!

- Dae-Ho likes hide and seek!! He was used to hiding a lot as a child, so playing it helped make hiding fun and not scary!

- Myung-Gi likes to play the mini games from the six legged pentathlon, especially jegi! He’s really good at it and is super proud of it. His record is 26 times in a Row!

- Myung-Gi really likes bath toys, and she has an entire collection that she is so very proud of. She does not let anyone else use them unless they’re in the bath together (they’ve got a huge bathtub. One with water jets. It can fit like three people in it. Bath time is chaotic.)

- Min-Su and Thanos have fallen in LOVE with those trolli gummy popsicles. They like to let them thaw and then make them wiggle around before they eat them. They giggle and fight with them sometimes, so they’re really sticky afterwards. Sticky baby hands… get a wipe before they touch an iPad.

- speaking of iPad… they each have their own iPad.

- (stealing this idea from my moot @thanossssss (ily dude/p)) Thanos’. iPad. Is. So. Nasty. It is cracked, there’s crumbs between the case, it’s sticky, it has dried snot on it. It’s disgusting. No matter how many times you clean it, it’s still nasty. Eugh

- The rest of them are pretty good with their iPads, but Myung-Gi sometimes has tantrums when he loses a game and throws his iPad. There’s a few cracks on their iPad.

Sorry for the yap session !!!!

#age regression #squid game agere #sfw agere #fandom agere #sfw age regression #squid game #agere headcanons #squid game age regression

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kallie-den · 7 months ago

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Rescue Hound Chapter Three

Kione grapples with the consequences of what she's done to Sartha - and faces up to what Sartha needs

This is a Warhound story! The preceding stories can be found at this tag

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

—

I’ll save you, Sartha. I promise

Those words, drawn out of Kione by a poisoned, unnatural faith, curdle in her heart as she passes the night in Sartha Thrace’s arms. At first, they felt like a blessing. Not for Sartha. For Kione. There’s an inimitable sense of power to promising salvation to someone—to Sartha Thrace, of all people—and feeling her trust you. Feeling her melt into your own body, sobs subsiding and fear falling away as she believes. That’s intoxicating. That’s divine.

But it doesn’t last. Once Sartha settles into a heavy, peaceful sleep, Kione is left awake and alone with her thoughts, which increasingly circle around the terrible repercussions of what she has done.

They both wanted it. Didn’t they? It was hardly out of character for Sartha. And she’d certainly seemed passionate enough. Desperate, even. Like she had pent-up urges to vent. It was probably good for her to get it all out of her system. Has Sartha ever once complained about getting a chance to fuck Kione? Is it really such a big deal?

Yes, Kione knows. Of course it is. Because she did it by using the words that imperial handler has put in Sartha’s head.

Restful sleep isn’t coming. And Kione is realizing she’s the scum of the earth.

Even basking in Sartha’s body heat strikes her as a sin. Before long, Kione can’t take it. She needs to be somewhere else. She needs to be back in her quarters so she can beat herself up in private. As Kione extracts herself from Sartha’s arms and prepares to leave, she casts a glance at the muzzle she put on Sartha’s head.

It’s truly awful. A symbol of every violation that was inflicted on her friend. It would be a mistake to leave it with Sartha. A crime to let her wake with it on. Kione should slip it off, take it with her, and throw it away.

But after the way she just wielded it, she can’t even bring herself to touch the cursed thing.

Kione puts on her jumpsuit and slips out of Sartha’s quarters empty-handed. Maybe she’ll find a bottle to swipe before she retreats into her own. She needs that, right now. Oblivion. But she can’t face going to the bar. She can’t face being witnessed by another living soul. She just has to hope that at this time of night, the only people awake on the rebel base are the lookouts posted outside.

No such luck. Just as she’s closing the door to Sartha’s room, a rebel soldier comes around the corner and catches her. Her eyes go wide, and for a brief instant, Kione feels transparent, like all her sins are visible to the eye. She goes still. She doesn’t know what to do.

It’s even worse than that, it turns out. Kione quickly sees that from the rebel soldier’s perspective, all she’s done is caught Kione making the walk of shame. Her suspicion is confirmed when, a moment later, the rebel does the worst thing she could possibly do. Calculated, seemingly, to bring Kione the maximum conceivable level of gut-wrenching guilt.

She flashes her a roguish, knowing wink.

***

It’s an entire day before Kione leaves her quarters. Isolation does nothing to quell the froth of shame writhing in her gut, but that’s nothing compared to knowing that she’s out there, somewhere.

Sartha.

How can Kione face her? How can Kione ever face her again? More than once, she makes up her mind to run to the hangar, climb in Theaboros, and fly a thousand miles away just so she doesn’t have to. But each time, as soon as her hand touches the door, what freezes her in her tracks is the simple fear that as soon as she opens it, she might find her friend standing right there.

What kind of look will she have on her face, when Kione sees her? Kione’s dark dreams answer that question a hundred different ways when she finally makes herself settle down to try and sleep.

When she’s awake, there’s little for Kione to do but ask herself an endless stream of questions: how could she have done that to Sartha? Why did she get so angry after their sparring session? Why hadn’t she been able to stop herself?

And why had it all felt so fucking good?

She thinks about the imperial handler, too. The one she saw on Ancyor’s comms log. She’s the one who brainwashed Sartha. Has to be. What kind of person do you have to be to do something like that? To rip open someone’s mind and brand those three words into their thoughts to serve as a collar they can never slip? Kione already knew it had happened, of course. But until last night, she hadn’t even begun to grasp the sick artistry of the brainwasher’s craft. It haunts her, now; the memory of the handler’s eyes, as sharp as scalpels as they seemed to stare through the screen and through time, into Kione’s soul.

The handler is a monster. One look at her and Kione’s certain of that. But after what she did, is she really any different?

All her many questions are nothing more than a spiral. They lead Kione inward and downward, inexorably, through fits of crying, of self-punishment, of vicious ideation. The weight of her actions hangs on her, a heavy, cold sweat, and everything she’s ever felt about Sartha Thrace tastes like poison.

In the end, hunger is what drives her from her self-imposed, self-pitying isolation. The gnawing in Kione’s belly overtakes the gnawing in her head and, as despicably unearned as any act of self-preservation feels, she makes up her mind to slip out of her quarters, steal down to the canteen, and swipe something to eat. If nothing else, she’ll need food in her belly if she decides to run.

Head down, long jacket covering her jumpsuit, it all goes just fine until Kione reaches the canteen and finds Sartha’s already there.

Waiting for her.

There’s no use trying to duck beneath her notice. She’s keeping an eye out and as soon as Kione enters the room, Sartha’s on her feet and headed her way. Kione is a deer in headlights. Her blood is ice. This is how it’s gonna be, huh? Sartha wants to expose her. Have it out in front of a crowd. It makes sense. It’s safer, Kione figures, and guarantees that everyone will know exactly what she’s done. Kione will be lucky not to get executed on the spot.

She doesn’t try to flee. Kione accepts her fate. She deserves it, right?

When Sartha reaches her, the expression on her face is unreadable. But when she speaks, the distinct, earnest adoration in her voice is as stark and shocking as a thunderbolt.

“Hey, Kione,” Sartha says, a touch breathily. “You need to eat, right? I already got us a table.”

After a long moment, Kione replies with an awkward, jerky nod. Her hunger is instantly forgotten, so she simply follows Sartha over to where the hero is sitting. She can’t help but notice that Sartha doesn’t have a tray of her own. Just waiting then, not eating. For a moment, Kione resists the implications staring her in the face. The stay of execution she’s received isn’t comforting. It’s horrifying. But as they sit down, Kione’s forced to acknowledge that the expression on Sartha’s face isn’t unreadable at all. It’s the expression Kione’s put on the faces of dozens of girls by rocking their world after feeding them some stupid pickup line about feeling a connection. The blush. The parted lips. The eager, awe-filled hope in their eyes. She’d know it anywhere.

But on Sartha? It’s so wrong.

“You OK?” Sartha asks. “I got worried. Wasn’t sure where you’d gone when I woke up.”

“You got… worried?” Kione repeats dumbly.

Sartha just smiles at her. “Of course.”

Kione can’t stop staring at her. She doesn’t know what to say, and she’s too busy grappling with her feelings to try and figure that out. A moment ago, her veins were full of ice. Now they’re hot, and flooded with something sticky and intoxicating.

Sartha was worried about her.

It’s not that she didn’t care, before. Sartha was never a bad friend. Not exactly. But she was under a thousand pressures and had a million people vying for her attention. She was the hero of rebellion, and her eyes were always set on the far horizon. Not the kind of friend to count on for if you’re a little quiet and sad and need somebody to take notice.

Until now, apparently.

“Um…” Sartha begins, after the awkward silence has dragged on for a little while. Her visible anxiety is a wonder. “About last night… I’m sorry.”

Kione thought she’d already found the limit of her own capacity for surprise. She was wrong.

“You’re sorry?” she splutters.

Sartha nods. She looks ashamed.

“Why?” Kione asks in a hushed, incredulous voice.

“When we sparred,” Sartha begins. That’s what she wants to talk about? “I disappointed you. I completely fucked up. You were right. You were absolutely right. I need to try harder. Gotta get my head back in the game.” She looks across the table at Kione hopefully. Hoping for forgiveness. “I’ll do better next time.”

It’s everything Kione thought she wanted to hear—and it makes her sick to her stomach. Numbly, she shakes her head.

“No, but…” she stutters. “That’s not… I was…”

Her clear discomfort only seems to fuel Sartha’s penitence. She leans in, voice infused with fresh eagerness.

“I’m sorry,” she insists. “You were right, Kione. I needed to hear it. All of it. I really did.”

“N-no,” Kione groans. “I should be…”

She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want how this makes her feel. She doesn’t want this Sartha.

“Please, Ki,” Sartha presses. Why does she look so damn happy? “I’ll do better. I can do better. I mean it. I’m sorry.”

“Stop!” Kione snaps. Sartha flinches. The wounded look on her face doesn’t make it any easier.

“But-“

“Don’t!” Kione hisses. If she hears one more ‘sorry’ from Sartha’s lips, her head is going to split open. “Understand? Just… don’t. Do not apologize, Sartha.”

Appallingly, a strange light appears in Sartha’s eyes. She sits up very straight and nods.

“Yes, Kione,” she pants.

A fresh wave of nausea passes through the mercenary. No. No, no, no. She has to fix whatever she broke.

“Last night,” Kione attempts. “Uh… after we sparred, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Sartha nods. Gods, she’s hanging on Kione’s every word.

Kione looks down. Something in Sartha’s manner makes it damn near impossible to bring it up, but she has to try.

“I came to your quarters,” Kione forces out through gritted teeth. “I said… some things. No, I mean, I said… something in particular. Some words.”

“Ah.” Sartha hangs her head. Kione senses that she’d be apologizing for something right about now, if not for her instruction. “I guess I’m still a little messed up, from when they… took me. I’m afraid I don’t remember that much about what happened.”

Kione blinks. “You don’t?”

Sartha shakes her head. Pink stains her cheeks and she speaks in a very quiet, secretive voice.

“I mean, I remember a little. Memories kind of bleed over, you might say. From the other me.”

After all that heat, Kione goes cold again. She feels feverish. She feels insane.

“So you do remember?” she presses, even though it pains her.

“We hooked up, right?” Sartha grins sheepishly.

“No,” Kione replies. “Or, well, yeah, sure, I guess. But what I mean is-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Sartha interrupts. Kione realizes she looks a little pained too.

“I kinda have to, Sartha,” Kione presses on. “Especially after I used-“

“Look, um,” Sartha interrupts again. “I wanted it. Let me just say that much, Ki. I wanted it. And it was really, really good.”

Now Kione’s the one blushing like a rookie with a crush. “You did?”

“Of course,” Sartha tells her. As much of a ghost as she’s been these past weeks, in moments like this, her smile still has some of its former radiance. “We’ve hooked up plenty of times, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

It’s so tempting to just agree with her. To simply bask in Sartha Thrace’s favor. To wonder if, perhaps, all the yearning Kione felt the night before wasn’t just one-sided.

Kione Monax has never been very good at resisting temptation.

“I guess so,” she concedes.

She wanted it. Sartha wanted it. They both went a little too far, and clearly the details are a little mutually embarrassing. In that sense, is it really that different from some of Kione’s other misguided conquests?

“So there’s no problem?” Sartha asks hopefully.

Kione wouldn’t go quite that far. There’s one important boundary to set before they can dispense with this.

“Let’s just agree,” she says, blushing. “Not to let that happen again. I mean, maybe sometime, we can… y’know. Again. If we both truly want to. But not like that. With you, Sartha, I don’t want it to be-“

Once again, Kione is interrupted. Not by Sartha. By her own growling stomach. Now that her anxiety is settling, the hunger is coming back. It’s making her just as light-headed.

��Gods, Ki,” Sartha says, face a mask of concern. “Haven’t you eaten?”

“I guess not,” Kione admits. “But seriously, let’s-“

“No, wait,” Sartha stands up out of her chair. “You need some grub. You stay right here, Ki. Let me get you something.”

She hurries off before Kione can mount a protest. Once again, it’s her concern that proves intoxicating. Nobody else in the canteen is sitting close enough to listen in on their hushed conversation, but a couple of rebels quickly pick up on the fact that Sartha is fetching a meal on Kione’s behalf. Some of the jealous looks Kione gets are truly filthy. As usual, looks like that scratch her pride and demand in reply a big, smug, shit-eating grin.

Maybe that’s why she can’t quite find it in herself to broach the subject again once Sartha trots back with a laden tray, looking every bit as proud as a dog with a stick.

***

After that, Kione promises herself that she’ll force the issue. That she’ll have a real conversation with Sartha about the way she took advantage of that imperial trigger phrase. She really means it, too. It’s important. She has too much respect for Sartha to leave her apology unsaid.

But in the end, it’s easy to just… not.

Sartha obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. She breezes past all of Kione’s feeble attempts to touch on the subject. Plus, it’s not like Kione is thrilled at the prospect of explaining to Sartha that she feels like an abusive piece of shit for what she did, and that it’s disturbing how Sartha doesn’t seem to view it in the same light.

Why force that talk when, instead, Kione can simply stay quiet and enjoy the new bond she shares with Sartha?

That’s exactly what she ends up doing. In the wake of her silence, everything returns to normal. Not normal-normal, of course. Sartha’s still damaged goods, and most of her rebel comrades are still plainly, hopelessly unable to cope with that. But it’s closer than ever before, weirdly. Contrary to Sartha’s fears, what Kione did to her doesn’t send her back to the infirmary. If her betrayal is a fresh, deep wound in Sartha’s psyche, a reminder of how her imperial brainwasher opened up her soul and hollowed it out, it doesn’t show. Quite the opposite.

Now, Sartha is better.

Not all the way. But there’s a fresh brightness to her smiles. They seem less forced. Everybody senses it. Her comrades start waving to her again, and she waves back. When they let their hero-worship show, she accepts it with a gracious nod and an easy, modest comment. The rebel doctors closely monitoring her psychological health are all smiles. According to them, she must be healing. Bouncing back. Soon enough, they reckon, she’ll be back to her old self.

And if she’s always at Kione’s side, hanging on the mercenary’s every word? Why, clearly all she needed was a good friend to lean on.

Hearing that puts one hell of a vicious knot in Kione’s stomach.

But not for long. With Sartha at her side, there’s only so much time she can spend wringing her hands. It feels like a waste. Sartha is doing well, isn’t she? Even the doctors think so, and they’d know, right? Besides, doesn’t Kione deserve this? She's been a good friend to Sartha, despite a couple of lapses. She stuck with her when nobody else did. Sartha’s affection starts to feel, more than anything else, like simple recognition.

She still has reservations. Kione can’t quite shake the worry that all of this points to a nameless sickness within the rescued hero. Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t push Sartha to try piloting Ancyor again, even though it seems like she would if Kione asked. It’s growing difficult to tell what Sartha genuinely wants, and what she simply thinks Kione wants. But perhaps, after everything she’s been through, putting her in the cockpit of a peerless, hundred-ton war machine isn’t actually the wisest move.

Once or twice, her reservations build to the point she’s tempted to tell someone. The doctors, maybe. About Sartha’s trigger phrase, if not the way she used it. That seems like something they should know, doesn’t it? It seems like it might be important. Really, extremely important.

But then Kione will mention—off-handedly and thoughtlessly, of course—that she needs something and Sartha will bounce up and race off to find her exactly what she’s looking for. When she gets back, she’ll flash Kione this eager, hopeful look until Kione says ‘thank you, Sartha’, and then Sartha will show her the brightest, most contented smile Kione has ever seen on the hero’s face.

The temptation fades. The gods are in their heaven. All is right with the world.

Until the night there’s a knock at Kione’s door.

Kione is just bedding down to sleep when she hears it. She sits up and frowns. That’s weird. Nobody ever comes knocking, and the base is all quiet tonight. Everybody else shipped out on some mission. Apparently not one worth paying Kione for. Given everything that’s been happening, she probably shouldn’t be surprised when she opens the door to her quarters and sees Sartha standing there. But she is.

Sartha never comes to knock on her door. It’s always the other way around.

“Hey, Ki,” Sartha says. The look on her face is fathomless. Sad and eager and ashamed and gleeful all at the same time. “Can I, uh, come in?”

“Sure.”

Kione steps back and lets her in. Once she gets over her surprise, she can’t keep herself from grinning. It’s perfect. It’s what she always wanted. Sartha Thrace, here to climb into her bed. Kione’s turned on already.

“What’s up, Sartha?” Kione asks, playing it as casual as she possibly can. A bit of a fool's errand, given that she probably looks like the cat that got the cream. But she really, really wants to get Sartha to say it.

“Not much.” Sartha sounds decidedly flustered as she steps inside and closes the door. That’s good. That’s great. “You busy?”

It’s funny; Kione hasn’t seen as much of her today as she’s become used to. When they had lunch, she seemed a touch listless. But now, Sartha’s all over the place. Frenetic. Manic. Practically vibrating, and she keeps looking all over everywhere like she’s afraid to let her gaze settle.

As far as Kione’s concerned, it’s perfect.

“Not really, I guess.” Kione stretches lazily. “So, uh, what brings you here?”

Getting to watch Sartha squirm for a moment before she answers is better than Kione could have hoped. “Um…” she replies slowly, voice fraying from the sheer, bubbling tension. “Actually, I… was hoping we could, maybe, do something together. Like before.”

It’s a little mean, but Kione can’t quite bring herself to not smirk and laugh. Gods, Sartha! She sounds like a schoolgirl with a crush. It’s flattering, really. Kione knows she’s a great top. She doesn’t get as much feedback about being a bottom. Sartha’s the only woman in a position to give it. Clearly, Kione’s ass is quite the prize.

It’s desperately tempting to throw herself at Sartha already. To savor her warmth once more. As tarnished as she is, Kione knows she’d still taste like the sun. But Kione reckons she can go for just one more tease. One more bout of squirming.

“Oh, like what, exactly?” she asks, feigning confusion as best she can with this dumb, horny grin on her face. “Not sure what kind of stuff you mean.”

Sartha wraps her arms around herself and squeezes tight. She glances away in desperate embarrassment, and it’s everything Kione could have hoped.

“You know… this?”

Every bit of Kione’s glee turns sour when Sartha sticks a hand into one of the big pockets in her bomber jacket and fishes out the muzzle.

"What the…” The ghost of Kione’s smile remains etched onto her face, and she lets out an inadvertent, nervous titter as hairs rise on her spine. “Y-you’re joking, right?”

“No.” Sartha shakes her head. She’s blushing and embarrassed, but something else is moving through her too, compelling her to hold the muzzle out reverently toward Kione like an offering. “I-I need it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sartha.”

Kione’s stomach is churning. Why did it have to be this? Why couldn’t it have just been sex?

“Why not?” Sartha pleads. Her eyes are wide, and a jagged, needy light shines from within them. Kione has seen this before, or something like it. She knows it for what it is: addiction.

“Because….” Kione can’t figure out how to explain it; it’s so blindingly obvious that the fact Sartha can’t see it is damning. But it’s so hard to just say ‘no’ to her. That’s one skill Kione has never got the hang of. Instead, she tries bargaining. “OK, um, you want me to… put the muzzle on you? And then we fuck? Shit, if that’s what does it for you then sure. Seems a little dark, but who am I to blame a girl for developing a few kinks after going through it?”

The forced lightness in her voice is a feeble attempt at manifesting. Kione is hoping Sartha won’t say the thing she was always, inevitably going to say.

“N-no. I mean, yes, um. We can fuck if you want to. Yes. Absolutely. But that’s not…” For a moment, Sartha squeezes her eyes closed. Shame and need are fighting a battle within her. Need wins. It was always going to win, and it leaves her leaning in ever closer to Kione and visibly salivating when she opens her mouth to speak. “I need you to use the words.”

Kione lets out a whimper.

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, no, no. No way, Sartha.”

Sartha takes another step toward her, but the muzzle is between them. Kione steps back. That thing terrifies her.

“Why not?” Sartha protests.

“Holy shit, Sartha!” Kione splutters. “That’s so many different kinds of fucked-up I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Why?” Sartha asks again.

Kione is about to deride her for her childishness until she realizes: it’s a real question. On some level, Sartha simply doesn’t get it.

“Gods,” Kione says quietly. “Don’t you see? Those words are what they did to you. A way to control you. It’s not right. People just… they just aren’t supposed to have something like that.”

Sartha goes quiet for a long moment. She looks down—then up again, and Kione sees that her plea for sanity skated off Sartha like a pebble across ice.

“But,” she says eventually. “I need it.”

Kione is on the verge of tearing up. “No,” she begs. “You don’t.”

She's still in there somewhere, isn’t she? The Sartha Thrace that Kione remembers. The ace that pushed her to her limits. The hero that made her want to be better. The woman who never needed anything. Not even Kione.

“It makes me feel whole again,” Sartha explains miserably. It’s like she’s half-aware of how abjectly awful what she’s saying is—but only half. “That’s all I want. To feel good. To be… to be free. That’s what I get from my… other half. Without that, it’s just me. And I feel everything, all the time, weighing me down. Whenever anybody around here looks at me. I can’t do it, Kione.”

The pain in her voice makes it so damn hard. Kione wants so badly to be the one who makes her stop hurting. But it’s too awful. She’s forgiven herself once, just about. No more second chances.

“No, Sartha,” she says, with all the firmness she can find. “You can do it. You really can. I believe in you. Or, you… you can at least try, yeah? If it sucks, if it hurts, I’m there for you. But anything’s better than pulling on the levers they stuck in your head. Hells, there’s so much we don’t know about what they did to you, or how. We don’t know what they were using you for. We don’t know why you were traveling in Ancyor like that, on your own, when we intercepted you. So… you need to stay clear of all of it, OK? You need to get those words out of your head and forget about them. That’s what you need to heal from. Right?”

That’s as heartfelt as Kione gets. She looks long and deep into Sartha’s eyes. Praying to see clarity. Praying to see hate. Hatred might mean she understands, at least, the extent of the violations committed against her. Mostly, though, Kione hopes that they can embrace and fall into bed together, shed tears together, find comfort together. As friends and equals. As more, perhaps.

It’s a stupid dream, of course. Kione should know better. Now she gets what’s coming to all stupid dreamers.

Sartha blinks, and when her eyes open again, she’s gone. Just as gone as when Kione put her off the leash. This time, though, it’s not Hound. Not Sartha’s other self. It’s just the part of Sartha Thrace that is nothing but need.

And need can fight dirty.

“It’s funny,” Sartha says. The way she smiles at Kione, crooked and bleak, is more unnerving than anything. “How you’re saying all this now. Where were all these reservations the other night, Ki?”

“Wha-“ Kione’s guts churn so violently she almost gags. She’s never seen this Sartha before, not once.

“You keep pretending you don’t want it.” Sartha’s eyes are vast and dark. Empty. There’s nothing inside them. Kione feels swallowed up by their gaze. “But you do. Why not just do what you want with me? That’s all I’m offering you.”

“Gods!” Kione gasps. “N-no I don’t.”

“You do,” Sartha insists. She’s unsteady. It’s like she’s drunk. “Be serious, Ki. You’ve been on cloud nine ever since it happened. Just do what you want.”

Another gut punch. The truth itches at Kione’s skin. She can’t deny it, and she can’t stop feeling devastated by the sudden realization that if she keeps saying ‘no’, all of Sartha’s doting adoration will be over.

“You want me to be all yours, right?” Sartha whispers, and it’s all poison. “Always have. All you have to do is say the words.”

“S-shut up,” Kione snaps violently. She can’t handle this Sartha. Not even for a moment.

Sartha’s smile widens still further, but there is absolutely no joy in it. “You know how you could make me shut up?”

“Fuck!” Kione flinches away from her, aghast.

She was right the first time. This is addiction. But still, she hadn’t been prepared for this: for the withdrawal, for the addict who’ll say anything. It’s even more pitiable than the forlorn depression, but that doesn’t stop it getting under Kione’s skin.

Gods, Sartha. That handler. What did she do to you? How did she crawl this deep into your heart?

“Just give me what I need,” Sartha wheedles, advancing on her, not giving her an inch of space. “One more time, at least. Can’t you do that for me, Kione? Don’t you owe me that? Come on. Make it up to me.”

“No!”

“Why not? Why not just do it again?”

“B-because it was rape!” Kione’s been nursing that bitter truth for days. Saying it out loud is a perverse kind of release.

Until Sartha licks her lips to make them wet, then parts them as she looks up at Kione, eyes shining, breath coming in wet pants of deranged craving.

“Don’t you wanna rape me again?”

Kione lets out a wet grunt of pain. It sounds a little too much like a moan for her liking. She’s dizzy. She needs to get out of here. All the ultra-honed merc alarm bells in her head are ringing. This is dangerous. This is her own personal hell.

“You could.” Sartha seizes her advantage. “Any way you want. I made you feel good, right? You want me to fuck you again, Ki?”

Kione’s back is against the wall, and there’s nowhere else to go. Sartha is pressed all the way up against her. The broken hero’s body heat is another vector of attack. This close, Kione can see the burning fever in Sartha’s face. She looks crazed. Like she barely knows what she’s saying.

Only that it’s working.

“Or,” Sartha whispers. “You could fuck me instead. How about that, huh? You could finally have my body. All of it.”

Her voice is so breathy. Feminine, melodic, seductive. It’s so wrong for Sartha Thrace. But who could ever resist it? Not Kione, that’s for sure. It’s more than just dizziness that’s making her light-headed. She’s sick to her stomach, but there’s more to her appetite than just her stomach. To her utter horror, Kione realizes that she’s hard.

A moment later, Sartha notices too. That’s even more horrifying.

“It’s n-n-not…” Kione stammers pathetically. “I’m n-n-not…”

It’s not that she wants to fuck Sartha. That’s what Kione’s trying to say. It’s not about sex. It’s about attention. It’s the way that, right now, she is the focal point of Sartha Thrace’s existence. She has eyes for nobody else. It’s not Kione’s fault she’s completely, hopelessly intoxicated by the experience. How long has she admired Sartha? How often has she wished she could be that good? That strong? That principled and hopeful? All those good, earnest, honest yearnings are crucifying her now. That’s what Kione wants to say.

It’s kind of a lie, unfortunately. Cause she also really does want to fuck Sartha.

“Just say those three words for me,” Sartha promises, “and I’ll be all yours. You can make me anything you want. Anything you need.”

“N-n-nooo,” Kione whines.

“C’mon.” Sartha wheedles. She nestles her leg between Kione’s thighs and raises it so that it presses against her cock. That has Kione seeing stars. “Don’t you want me?”

“Yyyyes!” Kione cries. “Or… I m-m-mean…”

Now she’s admitted it, is there really any point pretending?

Yes. She wants it. Kione wants it so bad. Of course she does. She wants the dependence. She wants that moment when she felt herself reaching into Sartha’s broken head and playing with the pieces. She wants to be Sartha’s everything. She wants to be her god.

And Sartha wants it too. So what’s the problem?

All of a sudden, it’s on the tip of her tongue. Kione wants to say it. It would be so easy to say it. Everything after that would be so easy too. Maybe she could order Sartha to back off. Maybe she could use the words just to get some space to clear her head. Or maybe she and her hound would be swept up in each other until the morning, and morning is so far away. Not having to think and be strong until morning would feel amazing.

“O-Off… The…”

“Yes,” Sartha pants. “Gods, yes, Kione.”

She can sense Kione’s will breaking. In the face of her impending victory, her seductiveness evaporates. Once again, there’s nothing in her eyes but gnawing, bitter need. It makes Sartha look like a black hole into which you could pour everything, forever, without filling it. She starts tearing up, and they are the tears of someone finally approaching the end of their pain.

They reveal that, in the end, Sartha never actually wanted Kione. She just wanted to be nothing at all.

Kione brings both her hands to Sartha’s chest—and shoves her off. Sartha doesn’t resist. She seems stunned that Kione found the strength. In that instant she’s like a lost child, as she looks at the merc.

“Not like this,” Kione says. Her voice is ragged, but it's firm. It’s not that she doesn’t want Sartha. It’s just that if she says ‘yes’ to her now, she’ll never get from her what she truly wants. “Not like this.”

Then, all over the rebel base, alarms start blaring. And everything goes to shit.

***

It feels like it’s been an eternity, even though it’s just twenty minutes later that Kione is standing in the hangar bay on the boarding pier next to Theaboros, making the last few essential pre-launch checks—and watching, from a short distance away, as Sartha does the same with Ancyor.

To most people—to all the mechanics watching from the sidelines and saluting with stars in their eyes—it probably looks like she’s her old self again. Sartha Thrace, getting back in the saddle. Just where she always belonged. Kione can see different. She can see how Sartha’s hands are shaking. She can see the fear—the abject terror—in the hero’s eyes. After their sorry spectacle of a duel a few days before, she can see the painful truth.

Sartha can’t do this.

But she’s going to try, because they asked her to. Her comrades. The people she’s been fighting for all these years. Damn her, she always lets them ask too much of her.

Admittedly, it would have been hard to say ‘no’ to this one. As soon as the alarms started sounding, Kione went for her radio and found they were already calling for her—her and Sartha both. She was preposterously grateful for the interruption until she heard the sitrep:

An imperial recon force is sweeping the sector, and heading straight for the rebel base.

It’s far from unprecedented. Rebels and imperials play a constant cat-and-mouse game with one another, as the empire tries to ferret out rebel positions while the rebels try to keep them hidden. It’s the only way to wage an asymmetric war. Battles and fronts have to be chosen with care; the rest of the time, strength must be conserved and secret.

To that end, rebel fighters are skilled in the art of misdirection. They know just how to put together an ambush in a way that throws imperial hunters off the scent and leads them somewhere else entirely. This time, there’s just one problem.

Everybody is already sortied and out of range, lending assistance to a fight in a neighboring sector.

Plus, the imperial patrol is a lot beefier than usual. The scant few rebel pilots that remain to be deployed aren’t enough to head them off. Not without Sartha.

“I’ll do it,” Kione offered, when they asked. “Send me out. You know my fees. You know I’ll get it done.”

Put the money front and center. Can’t let them know how off-kilter she is. Can’t let them know how much she cares about keeping Sartha Thrace out of combat.

Unfortunately, they already had their wallets out. They want Kione out there. But they want Sartha too. Even then, they said, they’ll be outnumbered. Without Sartha to even the odds, there’s no way.

Kione grimaced when she heard that, and again when she checked the reports for herself and saw that it was probably true. All the same, when they turned to Sartha and told her that they were sorry it was so soon, but that they had no choice, Kione was shaking her head and mouthing ‘please’ behind their backs.

Sartha locked eyes with her, then turned to the base commander, saluted, and said: “You can count on me.”

So here they are, mounting up. Everyone in the hangar has eyes for Sartha Thrace. All the rebels are betting their hopes and dreams on her glorious return to the battlefield. Meanwhile, Kione is looking past the heroism, past even the shaking, fearful hands, and searching for a sign of the broken, needy, hollowed thing she encountered in her quarters just minutes before.

Fuck. This is going to be a disaster.

But since she can’t just say that out loud and expect anybody to listen, Kione remains miserably silent as Theaboros, Ancyor, and just two ramshackle rebel mechs shudder to life and file out of the hangar to march across the blasted landscape to war.

Single file, they follow the bed of a long-dried river that crests several nearby hills as it leads away from the rebel position. It’s the kind of thing few imperial map-makers take notice of; with luck, the scouts will be in the valley below and easy to take by surprise. Kione would love to take the skies and find them herself; Theaboros’s wings are back online, although she’s been warned to be careful with them. Smarter to simply follow the rebels, though. This is their terrain. They know it, and it knows them. Unlike Theaboros, all of their mechs are painted the exact color of the dust their feet are kicking up. They might look like heaps of junk, but they’re built smart.

All machines, someone familiar. says over the radio, head’s up. We’re closing on their last known position. I’m running command and comms, so keep it clean and listen to me.

It shouldn’t make much difference given all the different kinds of hell Kione’s wading through, but for some reason, the little light-bulb moment of recognition she gets at the voice is enough to pierce through it all and, just for a moment, bring her actual, heartfelt joy.

“Radio girl!” she calls out, delighted.

There’s a derisive snort. Radio girl is trying to sound scornful but even over the crackling comm link, Kione can tell she’s smiling.

I have a name, you know, she retorts.

“Yeah?” Kione is smiling too. “Get us back to base in one piece, maybe I’ll think about learning it.”

That gets a laugh out of the rebel. That’s a win, in Kione’s book.

Is this where I tell you to buy me a drink instead? radio girl says. I guess at that point we could just call it even.

“No, no, no,” Kione tuts. “No drinks? Where’s the fun in that? Let’s get twice as drunk instead.”

She hears more laughter over the radio—then another voice. One Kione’s not familiar with. Another rebel pilot.

Merc, stop flirting! the other pilot snaps. Focus.

Not one who’s been introduced to Kione’s unique charms, then.

It’s one hell of a request. Where’s the fun in a scrap if you’re not flirting? Might as well join the empire, and have nothing to say besides ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’. But Kione’s willing to play nice and keep her mouth shut, given the circumstances. Maybe she can have her pleasure later, instead, if she wows miss wet blanket in combat and then tracks her down once they’re back at base.

Kione blinks. It’s been weeks since she’s had a thought like that. Piloting Theaboros against the imperials is starting to make her feel like her usual self again. She can’t believe how good the idea of spending a night all wrapped up in someone who isn’t Sartha sounds.

I see them!

Radio girl’s not flirting now. She’s all business, and so is Kione. A few more steps and Kione sees them too. Almost two dozen black shapes passing in several columns, no more than two hundred feet down the hillside. The rebels are in perfect ambush position, but even so—four perfect shots and four perfect kills would still leave them outnumbered more than two to one.

And that’s assuming Sartha does her part. Kione casts a glance back at Ancyor. During their march, she hasn’t said a single word.

Everybody get in cover and pick your targets. Before they leave our kill zone. Get ready. On my mark.

Kione obeys silently. This is no time for her smart mouth. She unholsters Theaboros’s rifle and levels it carefully at her chosen target. A short distance away, Sartha does the same. That’s good. At least she’s present enough for that. Maybe they’re not totally doomed.

They wait, and the wait is murder. The imperials inch closer and closer at a lazy pace until they’re passing the closest point their path will take them to the rebel ambush. Their reactor signatures should be well-shielded by the terrain, but at this distance all it would take is for one of those idiots to look up. It occurs to Kione to quickly pray that each member of their impromptu squad is aiming at a different hostile. It’s always truly, comically grim when that part of an ambush goes wrong.

Now! Fire!

At radio girl’s word, the rebel squad opens up. The ripping roar of two large autocannons tears open the air and fills the valley beneath with smoke and, a moment later, the crack of Ancyor’s jezzail is punctuated by the crash of its victim collapsing to the ground, disabled. That gun might be Sartha’s sole concession to long-range combat, but it would be a mistake to assume she doesn’t know how to use it. Even now, it seems.

Kione is the only one who isn’t shooting yet. Oh, she’s pulled the trigger. Her weapon just takes a moment to actuate. In the cockpit, Kione feels her entire mech thrum as Theaboros’s reactor spins up, juicing the long, unwieldy rifle in its hands with antimatter. Turns out, that stuff is good for more than just floating. Turns out, controlled micro-annihilations play ungodly havoc with magnetic fields, and with enough charge and the right design—concentric rings firing in sequence around the barrel—you can accelerate a heavy, solid, ferrous slug to sanity-defying speeds until it pierces straight through the core of the first target it hits, comes out the other side, and lodges in the cockpit of the second.

A railgun.

While Theaboros opens all its external vents and literally lets off steam, Kione smirks. Two-in-one. Now that’s a shot. Maybe she should raise her fees again.

Her smirk fades when even as five of them fall, the rest of the imperial patrol pulls together and begins to return fire with alarming alacrity.

Imperial pilots are invariably unimaginative, but they sometimes prove annoyingly professional. These ones have been drilled well. They shift rapidly into a defensive formation and take what cover they can, and soon enough the sounds of their guns utterly drowns out all of the rebel weaponry combined. Most of them are Dorus, and Kione’s never had trouble putting those down, but there’s a newer model with them too. A Xiphos, according to Theaboros’s targeting data. It opens up with more than just gunfire; a large, shoulder-mounted mortar fills the air with deadly hail that threatens to blast the rebel cover apart, leaving them all exposed.

Uh-oh.

It’s not the lethality of their firepower that keeps Kione and the others hopelessly pinned down. It’s certainly not the accuracy either. It’s the sheer volume. Kione is forced to huddle against the bank of the dried river, and the constant whipping and screaming of shells above her head leave her no opportunities to line up a shot. Trying to withstand it for even a moment would be a death sentence.

When you boil it right down, a mech is a giant tin can with a little squishy grape inside. Kione knows you don’t need to punch holes in the can to pop the grape. Rattle it around enough, and you’ll be left with nothing but pulp. Keep whaling on it, and little shards will shear off and start flying around the inside like bullets. Spalling. Bad way to go. Whale on it with something that goes bang, and you can propagate an internal pressure wave that makes the grape implode. Worse way to go.

Kione doesn’t fuck with small arms fire. Armor is a last resort.

That’s why—as usual, when things get rough—Kione is thinking about bolting. It would be so easy this time. All she has to do is turn around and fly away. They’d never catch her.

Giving radio girl mixed signals really would suck, though. And Kione can’t leave Sartha behind, of course. Especially not now.

While she’s fighting to formulate some kind of plan, the rebel who snapped at Kione for flirting gets impatient. Bad move, but easy to do when you’re sitting in a ditch getting shot at. She stands up, ready to shoot, ready to lead the charge, roaring defiance over the radio. Moments later, her mech’s torso is simply gone. The legs are left to topple over like dominoes.

Well, shit.

Kione grits her teeth. The odds are awful and getting worse. Sitting tight isn’t going to help. But the thing is, Kione knows she and Sartha have been through worse. As bad as it is, they can do this.

All they need is a hero.

Kione looks over at Ancyor. Oh no. Sartha isn’t even trying to shoot back.

But she wouldn’t leave Kione out to dry. Would she? When Kione truly needs her, she’ll rise to the occasion. The mercenary is sure of it. Which means all she has to do is force the issue.

“Sartha!” Kione yells down the radio. “Remember Pathyris? Let’s go!”

Before Sartha can tell her not to, Kione guns Theaboros’s flight system and rockets up into the sky.

It’s one of those dumb moves that anybody would tell any rookie pilot to never ever do, no matter how much of a hot-shot they think they are. Never. Be. The. Distraction. The thing is, though, Kione’s beloved Theaboros makes for a truly excellent distraction. The sight of it floating into the sky, all six wings extended and shimmering with anti-matter, will catch anybody’s attention. It makes her target number one, but it always takes Kione’s enemies a moment to adjust their aim. Even once they start shooting in the right direction, Theaboros is maneuverable enough that, if she really needs to, Kione can spend a little time dancing with bullets.

All in all, you couldn’t ask for a better ploy to let Ancyor break cover, charge straight at the imperial lines, and get stuck in right where it belongs.

It works—but only because they’re both really that good, and only because they both really, truly trust each other. Kione trusts Sartha not to keep her waiting, and to put the bad guys down before they can land a solid hit. Sartha trusts Kione to take the flak and be her eyes in the sky, and to use her railgun to blow apart anyone who threatens to put holes in Ancyor.

It’s the kind of tactic nobody would ever teach. Kione and Sartha have honed it over and over, fighting back-to-back against long odds. It’s something only they can do. It is their bond made manifest.

And Sartha isn’t moving.

Kione spares a precious millisecond to switch over to a private comms line. “Thrace!” she cries. “I’ve got you covered. Get in there. We need you.”

All she hears coming over the radio is sobbing.

I can’t do it, Kione.

Sartha’s letting her down. Again. And now they’re all gonna die.

“Sartha!” Kione screams. The shots are getting real close now. She doesn’t have much longer. “Yes, you can! You can do this! Please!”

Even now, even after everything, Kione can’t shake the deep-seated conviction that, at any moment, her hero is going to spring into life and save her. But it’s beginning to dawn on her that she won’t. She really won’t. Sartha isn’t a hero. Not anymore. She’s just scared and helpless, and nothing Kione sobs or begs or yells will change that.

Except one thing.

Kione doesn’t want to say it. She really doesn’t, even now. But she’s realizing that all her guilt and reservations, all that effort spent saying ‘no’ to Sartha, in her quarters—it was all for nothing. All her pleas were wasted breath. It’s a little embarrassing it took her this long to figure it out. Sartha would never come begging to Kione’s quarters and Sartha would never let Kione die like this, and so Sartha is gone. Dead. All Kione rescued on that bridge was a husk. A shell. Nothing more.

But Kione still cares about the husk. And more to the point, a husk has its uses. That imperial handler clearly knew as much. Now Kione’s learning the same lesson. And she will make use of the husk of Sartha Thrace, oh yes. With the right leverage, she’ll be everybody’s hero once more. She’ll be the shining star all those rebel mechanics need to see. And she’ll get Kione and radio girl out of this mess in one piece. Kione will make sure that happens.

Whatever it takes.

“Sartha,” she says into the radio, and the certain knowledge that this will work makes her voice calm and firm. “Off The Leash.”

The sound of growling and slavering is what lets her know that she’s going to be OK. Isn’t that funny? It’s not the dashing, cool, brave Sartha Thrace that saves her.

It’s the faithful, brainwashed, obedient Hound.

She doesn’t need to be told what to do. She’s a good dog. Already, she’s breaking cover and sprinting at the enemy. All Sartha’s hesitation is gone, replaced by a fathomless rage that these prey-things dare to try and hurt Kione. Kione can sense the current of her thoughts. They’re seductive. Kione feels herself pulled into that same feral, violent mindset.

And why fight it? Now that they have Ancyor barreling toward them, the imperial mechs are starting to step back and split their fire. The pressure is receding. In its wake, in the sky, Kione is supreme. Beneath her, the imperials look like ants. Ancyor takes enough pressure off that Kione can take aim with her railgun and turn another one of them into a cored, melting heap.

It’s that Xiphos. Kione starts laughing. New model? It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Don’t they know? Kione has Sartha Thrace in the palm of her hand. She can do anything. She’s a goddess.

All it took was using those three little words.

Why did she waste so much time fighting it?

It feels amazing. The ego trip is unbelievable. Wielding Sartha like the greatest weapon ever forged feels so good. Even the dependency feels good. Kione loves that Sartha needed her to do this. That’s real power. It’s more power than all her merc money ever earned her. Now all she wants to do is ride it out. She wants more.

Is this how the imperial handler who brainwashed Sartha gets to feel all the time? She’s been in Kione’s dreams ever since she saw the recording, in her black leathers and with her sharp, icy gaze. She seemed, even in that brief glimpse, more than human. Perhaps Kione is starting to understand why.

And she yearns to revel in this moment of apotheosis.

“Sartha,” Kione laughs into her radio. “Kill for me.”

Hound whooping with glee and snapping her jaws is all the answer Kione needs.

Split, disorganized fire isn’t even close to enough to put a beast like Ancyor down. Once Hound makes it into melee combat, the fight doesn’t last long. She has all of Sartha’s skill, and Sartha is a legend for a reason. Dorus have basic CQC capabilities, but those do nothing at all to keep them from being ripped apart by Ancyor’s hulking limbs as the hellhound of a mech ducks, weaves and leaps through their fields of fire without taking a scratch. A predatory spider amongst the ants. It’s only moments before their squad cohesion collapses, and after that, it’s just a matter of picking off stragglers. Hound gets most of them. Kione takes out a few, as the mood takes her. Even radio girl manages a couple. She’s still alive, and a better pilot than Kione has been giving her credit for.

And then the imperials are all dead. It’s over.

All it took was letting Sartha off the leash.

The elation of turning defeat into victory washes away the regrets Kione might have had. This is good, she sees. This feels too good to be wrong. It’s saved them, and isn’t that a message? Now Kione is sure. The Sartha Thrace that was cowering uselessly in that ditch doesn’t deserve Kione’s anguished scruples. The Sartha Thrace that was begging for oblivion back in her quarters doesn’t want them, and will never appreciate them. It was all pointless.

Kione gets it now. Sartha Thrace needs a handler.

It’s time for her to step up. Duh.

—

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