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headdinthewall · 1 day ago

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SHOCKING DATES ── g.clarke ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : in which you face your first INSIDE challenge and spill some personal anecdotes. a/n : i kind of was supposed to publish this tomorrow because today was supposed to be an arthurtv one shot but i’m drunk and cba to write it so i’m giving you this early x pink = reader interview in room 19 blue = george interview in room 19 content : friends to lovers ,, mentions of sex & sexual experiences ,, sexual innuendos

( part two to my inside series ! )

─────── THE SIDEMEN THAT were present for the first challenge of Inside Season 2, were Tobi, KSI and Simon. They stood smugly with presenter cards in their hands, behind a large, curved desk that had six seats on one side and five on the other. In the middle of the room was a small table with two chairs on either side of it, almost like a romantic date scene.

You all took your seats, you deciding to sit between Mya and Mandi. George was on the other side of the table, between Milli and Farah.

“Insiders, welcome to your first challenge; Insider Dating.” KSI introduced enthusiastically, looking at each individual person.

Simon continued the explanation, “Today’s challenge, you’ll be getting to know each other. But, to pass the challenge and save losing money from the prize fund, you must simply ask each other two questions.”

“It’s not quite that simple.” Tobi countered, “You must answer your questions whilst enduring a distraction. Or you can bail by just hitting that red buzzer there.” He gestured to the big red button on the centre of the table.

“Each Insider on the date will have a menu containing two questions to ask, and also what distraction you will be served.”

“So, if you decide to bail and hit the red buzzer, or you don’t answer your questions to our satisfaction, you will fail the challenge and you will lose £10,000 from the pot.”

People’s jaws dropped and eyes darted around, looking at each other.

“PK and Cena—“ KSI completely butchered the pronunciation of her name. “Yes, Cena.”

“It’s Cinna.” She corrected, knowing he was doing it to annoy her.

“Cena.” He said again, firmly. “Please take your seats.”

The requested duo stood and made their way to have their ‘date’, whilst everyone clapped supportively for them.

“You are now free to open your menus.” KSI announced, and as they did he spoke, “On the menu for today, you … have Ratatouille.”

“What does that mean?” PK asked dumbly, to which George exclaimed,

“What do you mean, ‘What does that mean?’?!”

Everyone began talking, the girls covering their mouths in disgust at the realisation of what the couple were going to have to do.

“PK, you’re going first.” KSI stated, and the man began fidgeting uncomfortably as the animal people walked in with a cage of about five or six rats.

“They’re so cute!” Milli awed, completely contrasting to PK’s panicked shouts.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! That’s my only fear.”

As they neared him, he jumped up, screaming and hollering and running away.

“Sit down!” Cinna shouted at him.

“It’s not that bad, they’re actually really harmless.” You said with a shrug.

“You would do that?” Mandi gaped, pointing to the rats.

You nodded, “Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re crazy.”

PK sat back down, putting his hood up and locking in as Cinna asked his questions and the rats were placed on him.

“Show me your best chat pick up line.”

“Ay, you’re a ten out of ten. If I could— If I could— If I could do you today, I would do you twice— twice in a row.”

Everyone laughed at his horrible attempt.

“I’m not gonna accept that!” KSI announced.

“Say it again! Say it again!” Cinna guided him through the panic.

“If I could have you today, I would have you today and tomorrow!” PK said in a rush, but more cohesively than whatever he said before.

“Who do you think should pay the bill on the first date and why?” Was his second question.

“I should pay the bill because I am a senior man, I’m a diplomat—“

“Senior man?” You cackled, leaning on Mandi as you both laughed.

“— And I feel like my life depends on— I’m a provider.”

George started snapping his fingers as Cinna and Farah clapped in encouragement.

“Oh my God, I’m gonna poo myself!” PK groaned.

“Alright, PK, you’ve passed.”

A loud round of applause followed as the rats were passed on from him to Cinna, who was much more calm and composed.

“From first impressions alone, who do you think you’ll get along with the least, and why?” PK asked.

“It might be …” Cinna moved, looking at all the Insiders. “No, no. Actually, you know that? It might be you.” She pointed at Farah.

“‘Coz I’m loud.”

“No! No! That’s not even the reason. The only reason is you’re like a shopkeeper, dominant personality, which I normally, like, am non-confrontational, so I avoid.”

“I’m not confrontational either—“ Farah argued.

“You’re arguing with her about it.” George said, pointing out that she was only confirming Cinna’s point.

“How do you respond if someone is getting on your nerves?”

“Um … I kind of don’t really respond, ‘cause I just get really nervous. I might tell them but, like, I’m not really confrontational.” Cinna answered.

“Cena, you have passed.” KSI said, still pronouncing her name wrong on purpose.

As the rounds continued, you got a sneaking view of what to somewhat expect for your own round. Jason and Farah got paired up, in which their ears were being pierced throughout their questioning. Jason was gobsmacked at that, literally speechless.

“Jason, man, you ain’t speaking.” KSI noticed. “You alright?”

“My ears is fucked up!” He said.

“It’s gone get more fucked up!” George mocked his American accent, throwing up peace signs.

Everyone burst into laughter, you cackling at his quick witted response.

His eyes were cemented on you, to which you didn’t really notice, as you were too busy finding amusement in his jokes. It didn’t seem to matter to him that the rest of the room was laughing at him too, but the fact that he had cracked a smile on your face was the highlight of the moment to him.

The third round was Mandi and Dylan, where they had chickens feeding off of their hands while they answered — a rather tame round, especially compared to the next one.

Milli, Whitney and Mya all sat around the table, having to withstand an entire, longer set out, questioning with a tarantula crawling around on their head. Milli firmed the whole questioning, screaming at points, but it all became pointless as Whitney freaked out, flapping her arms about manically and accidentally dashing the spider on the floor in the process.

“Nah, that was true fear.” Farah defended Whitney.

You blinked in shock at the reaction, knowing full well you probably would’ve done the same. She seemed to be in true, honest distress as she sat back down, shaking, not even listening as KSI announced that 10K had been deducted from the prize money.

“The last round … George … Reader.” Simon announced smugly. “Please go to the table.”

“You’re not fucking slick.” You grumble, standing up, “I see what you’re doing, y’know.”

Tobi shrugged at your statement, “It’s all part of the game.”

“Good luck, my love.” Mandi said as you sat down.

“Okay, you are now free to open your menus.” Simon told you. “So, on the menu for you two is … Shocking Questions.”

George looked confused for a split second before it hit him, “Oh.”

“What? What does that mean?” You mutter. “Shocking Questions?”

“We’ll be getting shocked.” He said, deadpanned.

“Electric shock?” You gasped.

“Exactly. Yeah.” He nodded affirmatively.

Mandi spoke, “I think you guys might have it the worst, y’know.”

“Okay, George, you’ll be answering the questions first, so, reader, please ask the first question.”

“What is your worst online dating experience?”

“Um …” George looked around expectantly, waiting for the shocks to start. “Okay, um … I matched with somebody on—“ His body fully jerked as a buzzing noise came through, “Oh! That’s a lot of power!”

You laughed, going to hold your hands out but just as he went to take them you pulled them back, “Wait no, coz electricity flows and … it’s not my turn yet.”

“What?!” He exclaimed.

“The shock will go from you to me!” You replied.

“Wait, is that true?” Mya asked.

You looked over your shoulder and shrugged, “I failed Physics, so maybe.”

Everyone laughed at your revelation and your turned you attention back to George as he shouted your name.

“I matched with somebody on Hinge, um, and I was speaking to them for about two days. We had voice notes back and forth, it was really fun. And then—“ Another full body jerk and grunt, “Fucking hell! Um, then I tried to meet up with them, but turns out they weren’t real. I was there for an hour and a half.” Another shock and repeat of, “Fucking hell!”

“I came back home, reverse Google image searched them and … they weren’t real.” Another shock, “Fuck, that’s a lot, Ow!”

“Can we please have the second question?” Simon chuckled.

“Oh my God, please can it be a quick one? Oh my God, that was actually quite bad.” George begged you, hands out.

You laughed at his suffering, clapping but composing yourself for his sake, “If you had to snog, marry—“

“Oh, fuck!” He whined, burying his face into the crook of his elbow.

You snorted, putting your foot up his trouser leg for a bit of emotional support, “If you had to snog, marry and avoid three Insiders, who would they be and why?”

“Both genders?” He joked, making KSI cackle loudly.

“George, honey, focus!” You said, grabbing his hands as well. “Snog, marry, avoid!”

“Snog … Snog Mya, marry you, avoid you.” He turned to Farah as a shock ran through him, “Sorry, Farah, you’re quite loud.”

“We’ll take that answer, we’ll take that answer.” Simon laughed, clapping. “George, could you please ask the first question?”

“I’m scared.” You whispered, gripping George’s hands tightly.

“Oh, so you can’t withstand the passive shocks from me but I have to do it for you?” George scoffed playfully.

You screamed, jumping as the shock hit you. You gaped in disbelief at the power, panning to the Sidemen and then back to the cameras.

“George! Ask the questions!” You shouted.

“I can’t ask her that!” He defied.

“George, fucking ask it!” You clenched your hands tightly in preparation for the next electric shock.

“Uh … What’s been your worst bedroom experience and why?” He asked.

“For fucks sake— Ow!” You squeaked. “Uh … Just, the time I lost my virginity, I guess— Shit! It was just … I was sixteen and it hurt and I regretted it after and I was kind of freaked out because the guys dick was twitching and shit and I didn’t know that was possible!”

KSI once again cackled at the answer, clapping his hands.

“Sixteen?!” Cinna exclaimed in shock.

“The guy was my boyfriend of two years.” You lifted a hand to wave her concern off, and another shock jolted your body, “Fuck! I don’t like it! I really don’t like it!”

“Hey! Hey!” George called out, shaking your hands, “Next question?”

“No, I don’t like it! I have such a bad pain tolerance!” You whinged, fidgeting in your seat.

“Don’t look down, just look at me.” He instructed and you did as he said. “Oh this is insane as well! Okay, um, which Insider do you think is the best in bed?”

“What the fuck you guys?!” You screamed at the Sidemen, “Why are all mine about shagging?!”

“They’re trynna call you a slag.” Mandi tutted, shaking her head.

“Uh … Uh …” You screamed as you got another shock, “Make it stop!”

“It stops when you answer the question!” Milli shouted at you, trying to help guide you through it with George.

“Or if you press the button.” Simon shrugged.

“No. You’re not pressing the button. Answer. Which Insider do you think is a top shagger?”

“Don’t ever rephrase a question like that again— You sound like Stephen!” Your voice went high pitched as you got another shock.

“You! You! I know— THINK! I think you!”

“Was that … Did I hear an ‘I know it’s you’ in that exclamation?” Tobi teased.

“Yeah, reader, you’re not fooling us, we’ve seen that music video.” Simon smirked.

“Wha … I haven’t?” KSI frowned.

“They fucked in a music video.” He said.

“What?!” The entire group exclaimed.

“That’s what you did in the video?! Oh my God, I thought it was just a cute little— Oh my God!” Jason exclaimed in utter shock.

“Can we stop with the shocks now?! It really hurts!” You complained.

Simon agreed, clapping and signalling for the electric shocks to cease.

You and George returned to your seats, both panting and flushed.

“Insiders, you have now completed your first challenge of the series.” Tobi congratulated.

“And you only lost 10K. PK how do you feel about that?” Simon stepped in.

“Uh … not great.”

“The George fucking reader thing hurt him.” Jason teased, making everyone laugh.

PK waved his hands about and chuckled before hiding his face in the collar of his shirt.

“Got him!”

“Well, now you all know each other a little bit better. You can make your way back inside, and we’ll see you soon.” Tobi concluded the challenge.

“I think the first challenge went really well. We only lost 10K, which was good considering some of the questions were quite … revealing, and the challengers were tough. I didn’t like the shocks.” You shook your head. “I’ll be having words with the Sidemen once I get out of here. But … yeah— Also! I want to preface, me and George did not have sex in the ‘Too Much Ain’t Enough’ music video, it was just simply implied by the camera shots.”

As the group walked through the corridor, going to go to the living room, Mandi stopped in her tracks as she took notice of two people in the bedroom.

“Hello?” She said, stunned. “Are you guys the new guys?!”

“That’s fucking Patrice Evra!” George hissed in your ear, shaking you excitedly.

“George, I don’t know who that is.” You whispered back.

“Man U player, proper famous. Don’t act like you don’t know him, that’s embarrassing for you.” He scoffed, arms hung over your shoulders from behind as everyone moved to greet the two new people.

“Don’t fan girl over him, that’s embarrassing for you.” You quipped back, shrugging him off as you approached to introduce yourself.

“Hi, I’m reader!” You smiled as you hugged him gently.

“Hello, nice to meet you. Patrice.” Patrice said, accent thick.

“Lovely to meet you, George.” George followed, giving a nice shoulder touch.

You greeted the next new comer, smiling, “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m reader.”

“Yeah, nice to meet you too.” He hugged you back, “DDG.”

“DDG?” You repeated, making sure you got the letters the right way around.

“Yeah, yeah.” His hands lingered on your waist for a little until you stepped back.

“I can’t lie … I don’t know either of these people.” You laughed, subconsciously playing with the fluff of the sofa. “I know that probably sounds really bad, and my dad’s probably cursing at me through the tellie right now saying ‘Reader, that’s Patrice Evra! That’s Patrice Evra’ but … yeah. No idea. And DDG? No clue. Farah and Whitney seemed gassed though, apparently he’s a rapper, so I wouldn’t know. Not my type of music— unless it’s Tyler and ASAP.”

After the excitement of newcomers died down, people split off into their own groups. You, Cinna, George, PK, Dylan and DDG stayed in the living/ dining room.

You were sat on one of the bar stools, listening to DDG.

“I think we should, like, budget.”

“That’s what I think. Like, £1,000 a day.” PK agreed.

“Well that’s just stupidly unrealistic. Look at the price of things in the shop.” You said.

“It’d be like, all right, we gone spend … Let’s spend 200 bands, right? So we can enjoy ourselves in here, and then work together on the challenges.” DDG explained his thought process.

You shared a look with George, both of you sharing the same notion that this idea just wouldn’t hold up at all, not with the attitudes of some of the people in here.

“We’ll budget, but then they’ll counteract that by just upping everything.” George debated.

Mandi walked in then, listening to the conversation but rounding the table and moving towards you, standing behind you and putting her arms over your shoulders.

“Yeah, but I feel like if we get all our spending out the way, it’s like, all right, cool.”

“Well that’s what we thought, but then—“ Cinna was cut off.

“No, no, I agree, I think we can do it.” Dylan nodded.

“So we just spend early?”

“We’ve been doing great.”

“I think we should go ahead and spend how we wanna spend, but only spend, like 200.” DDG said.

“I feel like this kind of conversation is easier to have now. If you had it at the beginning it was,” Dylan mimicked people talking over each other, “Fucking everyone was talking.”

“Whoever wins gotta at least get 200. 2-300.”

“I wanna talk to you.” Mandi whispered in your ear.

You nodded, grabbing your water bottle and slipping out of the chair.

You briefly grazed George’s arm, “Be right back.”

He nodded, watching as you and Mandi walked out of the dining room.

─────── YOU AND MANDI were sat in the bedrooms on your bed, simply gossiping and talking about how the challenge went and your opinions on everyone so far.

“So, what’s this thing about you and George then? With this music video. You shagged?” Mandi whispered, constantly looking around to make sure no one else was here.

“No, not in the music video—“

“Not in the video? So in real life?”

“No! No, me and George haven’t shagged at all!” You laughed quietly, “It was just … like the way they produced the video it was suggestive. I mean the song is about having passionate sex with someone, so the music video obviously had to reflect it.”

“Was it weird filming that?”

“Uh … a little, at first? I dunno, it took about a week or two, and you kind of get comfortable and used to it after a while. We literally filmed it in a replica of their apartment so it was more realistic.”

“I think you fancy him, y’know.” Mandi guessed, eyes looking at you as if she saw through you.

“Mandi!” You groaned, tipping your head back.

“If you do, I get it. He’s fit, girl.” She added, “But, if you’re gonna look at him with fuck me eyes every time you interact, at least own it.”

“What?!” You screeched.

“Shh!” She cackled, both of you observing the area to see if you’d alerted any unneeded attention, “You literally— Oh my God, reader!” She started counting incidents on her fingers, “You told him that you were leaving to have a talk with me, not to mention the challenge! You said you think he’d be the guy with the best dick game, and he said he’d marry you. Then the whole ‘look at me, you’re okay’ bullshit!”

Your jaw wobbled as you tried to come up with a defence, “It’s not— It’s just cuz we know each other so we’re comfortable.”

“Kiss me arse, ‘we’re comfortable’. If you two don’t fuck like this is Love Island in here in the next week, I’m gonna be a disappointed mother.” Mandi pretended to scold you. “I don’t even care if I get out, my new mission is to win at least £200,000 and have put you and George together.”

“Mandi!” You gasped at her vulgar words, “One, that’s an insane thing to say. And two, we won’t, but if we did, there’s literally no where to do it!”

“See, I got you thinking about it now, ennit. Yeah, you want him badddd, girl.” Mandi teased. “You’re hella smart and sneaky, y’know, putting up this cute, innocent girl persona with all your pinks and whites, you’re a horny bitch. I see you, I recognise that in you. We’re the same.”

You two high-fived with a laugh.

The gossip session had lasted so long and was so in depth that you’d completely missed the call for dinner.

George walked into the bedroom with three pots of rice and beans, and your whispering immediately stopped.

“Hello, females.” He said jokingly, holding out two pots.

Mandi opened hers with caution and then shook her head, “I’m upgrading.” Then, she left the room.

“Upgrade or suffer?” George asked, holding out the pot.

“I’ll suffer with you.” You sighed and rolled your eyes dramatically as you took the rice and beans.

He sat down on your bed, and you enjoyed a little meal date in silence, sharing soft looks and glances every now and then.

“What were you talking about?” He asked, breaking the silence.

“Oh … y’know … just girl talk.” You shrugged nonchalantly. “She was kinda talking about how she feels like a trio with Whitney and Mya, but like they like each other more than they like her as a group.”

“Oh, really?” George hummed.

You nodded, covering your mouth with your hand, “I just told her, like, don’t get too jarred about it, because it’s only for a week, and then … y’know? It’s whatever after that. But if she’s really affected by it then get close with other … people …” Your sentence died off as PK strutted into the bedroom, Mya and Whitney giggled as they followed behind.

George’s mouth clicked as the three of them went into the dressing room, “I see what you mean.”

You raised your eyebrows and you both stood, moving towards them.

Whitney laughed as you both caught them scoffing chicken down in the corner. Mya gestured for you two to join and George snorted.

“You are not sly.” He said.

“Come on, you’re part of us!” Mya grabbed you and pulled you closer.

“Did you think you could walk past us and us not know what you’re doing?” You giggled, accepting a chip from PK.

“Get in here.” Whitney told you two.

George put on a voice, “We’re not getting tagged in amongst the ruffians!” And he took your hand to guide you back to the bedroom.

“Why are we the ruffians?” Whitney asked.

“You’re eating chicken and chips in the corner.” He said in a fake stern voice before laughing.

“George, it’s his food. He’s sharing it.” She tried to persuade him, “See, reader’s eating it as well.”

“The chips are good.” You hummed through food, making Mya and George cackle.

You all ended up sat around the make up tables, sharing a couple of chips, when an alert dinged.

You and George stood, shuffling out of the room and towards the shop as there was an unclaimed item.

“What is it?” You hummed as everyone else began filing in.

He opened the food box, “It’s chicken and chips but it’s cold now, and it was a fucking grand.”

“No one ordered that.” Milli said.

Whitney walked over, touching the chicken, “Well, it’s lukewarm, actually.”

All the other girls began poking at it too, as if it was some deranged science experiment.

“Yeah, and it’s got everyone’s fingers on it as well.” George added. “Which is good fun.”

“You don’t like fingered chicken?” You teased, wiggling your eyebrows.

He smirked at you and winked cheekily, making you burst into a cackle.

All the girls began eating the chicken and chips, whilst George walked off, dramatically exclaiming, “I cant take it here anymore!”

“You’ll live, Georgie!” You shouted over your shoulder as you shared a chicken wing with Milli.

The rest of the group was confronted about the unclaimed purchase of a meal upgrade, and then you, Milli, George and Farah went out to the shop, laughing as Farah confirmed a buying of a jiggly ball, costing an extortionate amount of money — £4,000.

“That is so not worth it.” You laughed, thought reaping the benefits of the new toy by passing it between you and Milli.

“That is not worth the money. That is so not worth the money.” George stressed with his hands on his head as you all walked back to the living room, kicking the ball between you.

“That was 4,000!” Cinna said as Patrice played with it, annoyed and confused as to why they spent so much money on a stupid jiggly ball that would probably pop by tomorrow.

“Ay, tomorrow we’re gonna have a meeting in the morning. And it’s gonna be a dictatorship!” PK ordered.

You and George were sat in Room 19, your feet tucked under your bottom.

“I mean, the prices are obviously extortionate, for what it is. Potentially, in the future, it could become more of a problem, because we have no idea how much we’ve spent.”

“I think it’s already a problem. I mean … four grand on a jiggly ball? And how many meal upgrades in one day? Ridiculous.”

“This one here’s just chatting shit about everyone.”

“No, I’m not! I’m just saying it how it is! Meal upgrades are unnecessary, you can stomach rice and beans for a couple of days and you can go a week without … without buying a fucking four grand ball, which you wouldn’t even buy in any other circumstances.”

People were all congregated on the sofa again, feeling lethargic and tired after a heavy first day. You were all just talking about how harsh your first challenges were.

You were slumped back against the leather, head slumped against George’s shoulder and your legs draped over Mya’s lap. Your fingers mindlessly toyed with the fabric of George’s joggers.

The TV dinged, and a big £1,000,000 was displayed on it, and everyone got prepared to see how much it had gone down by in one day.

The numbers dropped rapidly before slowing down at £964,450.

The Insiders began cheering and clapping for each other, celebrating the ‘lack of money’ they spent.

“36 grand? Why are we clapping?” George judged, adjusting his position slightly and bumping you in the process, “Oh, sorry, my darling.”

Your face flushed and you struggled to hold back a smile at the sweet pet name he’d assigned to you. It was weird because he’d never been this flirty before, never this forward. Maybe it was the fact that you two were finally in a somewhat secluded environment away from the constant foolishness and mockery of your friends, that you felt like you could be yourselves.

“It’s only gonna get more expensive!” George stressed to the group, completely brushing over the fact that he’d unknowingly sent a tornado into your tummy.

“I think we should treat ourselves.” Whitney proposed.

“Treat yourselves for what? Spending 36 grand?” You snorted.

“Money is upped, babe. We wouldn’t have actually spent 36 grand in one day.” Whitney snarkily replied.

“Well, we literally just have.” You gestured to the TV, “That’s not just a number. That is literally 900,000 Great British pounds.”

“Shall we see if they’ve changed the menu?” Farah asked.

“No!”

“Just— Let’s have a look!” She exclaimed.

“Why do you want to have a look?” Patrice countered her idea.

“If you go and look, it’s just going to tempt you to buy things.” You mumbled, tone groggy and tired. “There’s no point.”

“No we’re not. Sometimes we just like to look.” Farah defended herself.

“Bro, we’ve got seven more days in here. Seven more days.” Dylan emphasised.

“Thank you!” Mandi pointed, taking his statement the wrong way, “As in we should live our lives! Is that— Is that what you’re on?”

The girls (Whitney, Milli, Farah and Mandi) completely ignored the fact that the prize fund was already lower than expected, and ran off to the shop, purchasing items without conferring.

“You not going with them?” George muttered, playing with the ends of your hair.

“I’m too tired.” You coincidentally yawned. “I’m waiting for the sweet, sweet voice of Tobjizzle to announce bedtime.”

More quarrelling happened, with PK and Whitney ordering two proseccos each and draining the prize fund even further.

You honestly didn’t care anymore — well, obviously you did, because it was still possible money that you could be taking home — but it was exhausting trying to reason with people who wouldn’t listen, so you just gave up.

The moment the notification came through signalling the lights would be going out, you were the first person off the couch, moving towards the bedroom immediately.

“She’s gone!” Milli laughed, following you, “You’re fucking funny!”

“I’m also fucking knackered.” You grumbled, sitting down and removing your makeup.

Then, you went to the ‘bathroom’ and brushed your teeth, smiling as George passed and made eye contact with you through the mirror.

When you were done, you swiftly changed into the blue Inside tracksuit shorts and a white tank top and walking back to the beds.

You picked up your bunny stuffed animal that you’d had for a long time, as you slipped into bed and rested your head back on the pillows, the lights still bright and on as everyone bustled about.

Whitney and Mya were still messing about in the other rooms, basically refusing to come to bed and it was slightly aggravating you.

George came back into the room, hair messy and no longer styled. You subtly ran your eyes over his frame, taking in the sight of him in a relaxed, scruffy manner. You’d seen him like this before, of course, but it was still a sight for sore eyes. He patted the top of your head and then got into the bed next to yours, reaching his foot out and kicking the frame, shifting your bed slightly.

“George!” You whined, huffing as you now had to get out of bed to straighten it up.

“Oh my God, there must be a ghost!” George gasped dramatically.

Milli, who hadn’t heard the rest of the conversation, stopped in her tracks, “What? Ghosts?”

You giggled slightly and tugged George’s hair before getting back into bed, “No, George is just being a knob.”

“Oh, okay, good. Because I was about to say, reader, me and you are sleeping in the same bed!”

The three of you laughed and you let out a subtle sigh of relief as the rest of the group began filing back inside to actually go to bed.

You gasped slightly, “I don’t have my ASMR videos to watch.” You whispered to George, who puffed his cheeks out in an attempt to swallow his laugh. “It’s not funny! They help me sleep!”

“You’ll just have to suffer then.” He said.

You glared at him and rested your arm across the locker between you and looked at him with an expectant smile.

He rolled his eyes sarcastically and put his fingers on your forearm, dragging them back and forth along your skin. His nails were dull and short, so left no marks, but you did feel your eyes slipping shut due to the relaxing strokes on your arm.

“Are they, like, together?” DDG whispered to PK.

“I’ll be real with you, I got no idea. They say no, but look at that.” PK answered. “Why?”

DDG shrugged, “Confused, y’know?”

PK smirked slightly, “You think she’s leng, ennit?”

“Leng?”

“Fit, attractive.”

“Oh, mmm, yeah, she’s aight.” DDG hummed.

“You sneaky fox.” PK laughed, rolling over.

You and George, oblivious to the nattering around your situation, laid in total bliss, you on the brink of unconsciousness and George’s wrist and arm tired from dancing his fingers along your arm, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop until he was 100% sure that you were satisfied and asleep.

tags :: @oliviahanessian1 @wherethezoes-at @clarkey4life

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benisbeaaaaans · 19 hours ago

Text

The Magician

“Tell me the truth.”

The card grasped in his hand remained unmoving, despite its nature. The figure on it held his cane over his chest, his uncovered left eye closed. In the silence of the Truthless Recluse’s room, he could hear the faint breaths of the figure ensnared in the card, confirming that his facade wasn’t real.

“Answer me! Why did you lie? Why did you lie to me my whole life!?” He demanded once more, his fingers creasing the card.

The man on the card shifted, discomforted by the grip. “I never lied, Nilla.”

“You have no right to say my name. You know what I am, now,” He scoffed.

“You mustn't allow Shadow Milk Cookie to influence you like this-”

“You know nothing. My whole life has been a lie, no thanks to you. He’s at least shown me that.”

“... You believe us to be the same entity,” Blueberry Milk Cookie sighed.

“Is that an incorrect assumption to make?”

“No. Yes. It’s- listen, what I am, it’s- … I… Don’t know how to explain this to you in a way you would understand…”

“I kept you hidden to explain everything to me. Do not keep me waiting. They’ll come back to find you eventually.”

“...” Blueberry Milk’s eye cracked open, meeting the searing gaze of the shadow of the child he raised. “I… Am a manifestation of the Light of Truth. A manifestation of the half of the Soul Jam that was not corrupted. An entity that existed only to take you away from the land I knew would only do you harm until you were strong enough.”

“Strong enough to what?” Truthless Recluse demanded.

“It was prophesied that the Beasts would be released one day. Your destiny as the Soul Jam holder was to stop that day from becoming a tragedy, along with the others. I was only meant to last long enough to bring you to Crispia. I was meant to die after I got you to a suitable family. But…”

The card’s gaze dropped, as if ashamed. “I ended up surviving thanks to those people I thought would do you well to be raised by. Telling me how they were so happy that they saved the ‘father’ of this little boy, spared of the tragedies of life so young.”

“So you felt guilted into raising me.”

“Of course not-! Nilla, you have to understa-“

“I FORBADE YOU FROM CALLING ME BY THAT NAME, YOU LIAR!”

“… Pure Vanilla Cookie,” he corrected, eyes falling closed once more. “I spent my life in the most wonderful way I possibly could have chosen to. That is what you fail to understand of me. I still could have died. I still could have been gone without a trace, fulfilling my duty. But when I saw you as that child, in an unknown place, without me- nothing more than a voice for you to meet again in your journey- it made me want to be as I was assumed to be. Not out of an obligation or guilt, because I was all you had ever known, and you were all I could ever care for again.”

The room fell silent. The card remained unmoving, just as it had been before, clenched in the hand of the Truthless Recluse. The words and their weight were ambiguous as the tension suspended them, a painful process that was reflected in the looks on the faces of father and son.

Then, all at once, Blueberry Milk Cookie felt his stomach drop, and staggered to his feet, free from the card prison.

“Leave me,” Blueberry Milk turned, seeing the same form sitting on the bed he had once been held at the mercy of, and he realized all at once that his son’s posture looked like that of an old man, hunched and pained, perhaps a reflection of the weight of everything upon those cloaked shoulders.

He didn’t press further on Pure Vanilla, though. He knew in that moment that it didn’t matter if he believed him or not. The sheer pain he felt radiating from him was enough to tell him that he was not to be disturbed any longer, and with a somber nod he wasn’t even sure he saw, Blueberry Milk turned away, walking with a hesitant gait out the door, that fell closed with a soft click of the latch.

And it was as that door closed that he felt rage seep into his very soul. Knowledge and balance be damned, he was done with his alter ego and the horrid actions he had taken. Tormenting children, tormenting his son-

There was barely a second thought as he rushed down the hall, towards what he could only guess was a game, waiting just for him.

#writing #my writing #patron of truth au #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run au #blueberry milk cookie #shadow milk cookie #light of truth #pure vanilla cookie #truthless recluse

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followyourfleart · 2 days ago

Text

ᴄʟᴀᴜsᴇ 𝟼: ʙʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ

Word Count: 19.1 k (quick little help that you probaly want to check out if you want to read this chapter)

Pervious/Next

One, Two, Three

You shoved your body up from another push-up, eyes locked on the kitchen wall like it had personally offended you. Aspen thumped her tail against the floor in solidarity—or judgment. Hard to say with her.

She was growing faster than your patience this morning. Either she was eating twice her weight in kibble, or she was in some kind of dog puberty growth spurt. Odds were good it was the former.

Four, Five, Six

It wasn’t even morning. Correction: it was deep into the afternoon. And for the first time since working for Tommy’s , you’d asked to leave early. His reaction? Like you'd just sprouted a second head and offered to speak fluent chicken.

“You… you wanna leave early?”

“Yeah. Got some party to go to.” You bounced on your heels, hands clasped behind your back like a Girl Scout with a secret.

He blinked at you, head tilted like Aspen when she hears the treat bag. Uncanny.

“Well, yeah. Sure. Take it. It’s just Friday.” His eyes flicked to his computer at the ping of a notification, then snapped right back to you. “But, did you check my emails about—”

“The site, the billboard, and that conference,” you listed, ticking each one off on your fingers.

“Not just any conference,” he said dramatically, standing up straighter like he was about to deliver a motivational speech. “The Southern Union of Contractors, Key Innovators & Tradesmen!”

You blinked. “You mean... SUCK IT?”

Tommy doubled over laughing like you were the reincarnation of Richard Pryor. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but look at this baby.” He spun his laptop around with the flair of a proud dad at a science fair.

You leaned in, scanning the event page. Apparently, it was a huge deal for southern contracting companies—25th annual, hosted in Dallas, full of suits who thought wearing jeans with a blazer made them “approachable.”

Dallas. Of course it was Dallas. Back when you were in New York, it was the go-to Texas city when corporate wanted to "dip a toe" into the South without feeling like they’d left the comfort of a Manhattan boardroom.

You didn’t hate Dallas. But compared to New York? It was like comparing an apple to the orchard it fell from—familiar, but not quite the same flavor.

“This is impressive. How’d you guys get in?”

“That’s the thing,” Tommy said, his voice dropping like he was about to tell you a family secret. He jabbed a finger at the screen. Sure enough, there it was—Miller & Miller in tiny font at the bottom of the attendee list. “We were on the waitlist forever. But then one business went under.”

You raised a brow. “You probably shouldn’t sound that excited about someone else’s company going bankrupt, Tommy.”

“Oh, details,” he waved you off like you’d just suggested flossing. “Anyway, I need you there. And we’ll be workin’ on ideas, future projects. Maybe get some partners on our side.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Who’s we?”

“You know, me, you, Joel.” Tommy grinned. “We’re gonna be takin’ a road trip!”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what now?”

He beamed, clearly pleased with himself, like this was the fun twist ending to your Friday. “Yup. Little ol’ company getaway. Hittin’ the road like the Three Amigos. Except instead of sombreros, we’ve got matching polos and clipboards.”

“Oh sure,” you said, nodding slowly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sounds relaxing. Nothing I love more than a cozy weekend in Dallas, surrounded by power tools, overpriced coffee, and Joel sunny disposition.”

Tommy snorted. “Come on, he’s not that bad.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, okay, he’s… Joel,” he admitted, lifting a hand in surrender. “But he listens to you. Sort of. Occasionally. When the moon is full and the wind’s blowin’ due north.”

“So… never?”

Tommy shrugged. “That’s why you’re comin’. Keep him from scowlin’ anyone into the afterlife. And maybe stop me from accidentally signin’ us up for some kind of contractor deathmatch.”

You groaned and rubbed your temples. “Fine. But if I end up duct-taped to a hotel chair listening to Joel grumble about permits for three hours, I’m blaming you.”

“I can live with that.” Tommy tossed you a wink, already swiveling back to his computer like he hadn’t just signed you up for a weekend in contractor hell. “Pack light. We leave in a month.”

Forty-one, Forty-two, Forty-three

“Sugar Cubes, you tryin’ to break my record or somethin’?”

Your elbows nearly gave out. You dropped to your knees, panting like a dog after a squirrel chase, and turned toward the voice.

Your dad stood in the doorway, sipping orange juice from a mason jar like it was moonshine. He gave you a look somewhere between impressed and concerned. Aspen had completely given up on pretending to care—she was belly-up, paws flopped in the air, casting heart eyes at your dad like he hung the moon.

“I already broke your record,” you panted, wiping your forehead. “What was it? Two hundred and… thirty?”

“Two hundred thirty-seven,” he said, his voice going all mock-offended, like you’d insulted a sacred family heirloom. “Got that tryin’ to beat Raymond back in the day. Man put up five hundred like he was makin’ a sandwich. I about died.”

You grinned, already knowing the story but letting him tell it anyway. “Didn’t you throw up in your helmet after that?”

“Hell no.” he paused. “Okay, yes. But it was a controlled throw-up.”

You burst out laughing, rolling over onto your back, chest heaving. “I’m putting that on your tombstone. Clyde: Veteran, Father, Controlled Thrower-Up.”

“Long as it don’t say lost to Raymond, I’m good,” he said, lowering himself to sit beside you on the kitchen tile, knees cracking like fireworks. He gave Aspen a scratch behind the ears, and she responded with a sigh that sounded suspiciously smug.

You reached for your water bottle, wiping the sweat from your forehead. “That sigh had an attitude. She’s definitely your daughter.”

Your dad gave a proud little shrug. “She gets it honest.”

You took a swig of water, then glanced at him. “So... are Ray and Lorraine still terrorizing Austin, or did someone finally tell them Sixth Street isn’t Bourbon Street?”

He chuckled. “Oh, they’re still there. Last I heard, Lorraine was offended a food truck didn’t have linen napkins, and Ray got into a shoutin’ match with a guy on an electric unicycle. He said the thing 'hovered like the devil and smelled like patchouli.'”

You snorted. “Sounds like a successful trip so far.”

“Well, they’re comin’ down by Tommy’s office. Lorraine says she wants to ‘inspect the office.’”

Your jaw clenched. “Oh, hell no. I just got that place looking halfway respectable. She’s gonna walk in and say something like, ‘It’s got potential,’ and then leave twenty catalogs for indoor plants.”

“She’s already mailed Tommy a mood board.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I swear, if she calls my desk ‘cute’, I’m gonna lose it.”

“Joel’s already on edge. Ray’s been teasin’ him about ‘finally having a woman in the office with a spine.’”

“Oh, please, that’s only because I showed him those pictures of me receiving awards. I didn’t even win those, just held them up.” You mimed it dramatically—chin up, smile tight, two hands gripping an invisible plaque. “Classic corporate decoy move.”

Clyde let out a wheezy chuckle. “Fake it till you make it, huh?”

“Fake it till they give you a raise. And make it through eight hours of hell.”

“Ray says you remind him of Lorraine when they first met.”

Your eyes widened. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or scared that that came out of nowhere.”

Clyde chuckled. “Both’s a fair reaction, sugar. Lorraine’s the only woman I know who could lace a man’s boots and then kick his ass with ‘em.”

You laughed. “Seriously, though—how the hell did Ray manage to marry her? She’s like the definition of Southern grace. And he’s… well. Emotionally constipated in cargo pants.”

Your dad leaned back on his palms, stretching his legs out with a grunt. “I was there, remember? I saw the whole trainwreck unfold.”

“You’ve told me bits,” you said, raising a brow. “Didn’t it involve juice and somebody taking a fall?”

“Oh, it involved more than that,” Clyde said, smirking at the memory. “It was spring of ’65. Me and Ray had just gotten a weekend pass from Fort Hood. One of our sergeants dragged us to this little church social nearby to blow off some steam. I thought it’d be boring—potluck, polka, bad lemonade. But Ray shaved for the occasion.”

“He shaved?” you echoed. “Voluntarily? That’s suspicious behavior.”

“Exactly,” Your dad agreed. “Soon as we got there, he saw her. Lorraine Whitmore, fresh from her last year at UT Austin, wearin’ a baby blue dress and lookin’ like a damn debutante dipped in sunlight. Ray locked up. I mean it. Man went full statue. I was halfway to calling for medical.”

Yoou grinned.“No way. He froze?”

“Stared at her like she was a landmine he wanted to marry,” your dad said. “Didn’t say a word. Just shuffled over with this dinky little cup of punch, held it out to her like it was a marriage proposal. She gave him this polite smile—real lady-like—and goes, ‘Aren’t you gonna say hello, soldier?’ And you know what he does?”

You blinked. “Don’t tell me…”

“He saluted her. I swear on your mama’s favorite casserole dish. Full goddamn form. Right hand to the brow like she was his commandin’ officer.”

You collapsed into laughter. “Oh my God, no he didn’t.”

“He did,” Your dad said, wheezing a little himself. “And to make it worse, he tried to show off by carryin’ six foldin’ chairs at once and walked straight into a bird feeder. Left a dent in it. And in his pride.”

“That’s perfect,” you said, wiping a tear from your cheek. “So what, Lorraine just… fell for him after that?”

“Oh, hell no. She spent the next three weeks calling him ‘sir’ just to screw with him. But he kept showin’ up to church brunches with that same stupid punch cup in hand like he was tryin’ to finish the damn conversation.”

“And she let him?”

“Lorraine’s got a soft heart. She said she could tell right off he was a good man, just didn’t know how to say anythin’. Told me once it was like datin’ a brick wall with good shoulders.”

You cackled. “That’s exactly how Joel acts.”

Your dad’s narrowed his eyes slightly. “Must be that Miller blood. Runs deep.”

“Guess it missed Tommy, then.”

He gave you a look, but didn’t press. “Anyway, Ray might be about as expressive as drywall, but he’s always been loyal. And once Lorraine gave him a chance, he stuck by her like glue. Thirty-something years later and he still opens her car door and gives her his last sip of Dr. Pepper.”

“Romantic and dehydrated. Impressive.”

“You joke,” Clyde said, “But that kinda quiet loyalty? It sticks.”

He went still on sticks. You heard it—that little hitch in his voice he tried to mask. The kind of silence that said too much.

Your breath caught, eyes flicking to the side. Your mama. Still alive, but not really here. Thirteen years in a care facility, stuck in the same gray space between yesterday and gone. Just there.

“Tell me about you and Mama,” you said, nudging him, your voice quieter than before. You scooted over until your head settled in his lap, the late afternoon sun painting a soft, honey-colored glow across the titles.

He didn’t speak at first. Just rested a calloused hand on your shoulder and tapped his thumb against the curve of your arm like he was keeping time with a memory.

“She had this look,” he finally said, voice low. “When she got mad—but real mad, not the kind where she was yellin’—she’d go dead quiet. Chin up. Eyes narrow. And I swear, you could feel the temperature in the room change.”

You smiled a little, recognizing it instantly.

“She had that look when we first met,” He went on, stroking your hair absently. “She was standin’ outside the PX on base, arms crossed, wearin’ this yellow dress like she had no idea it could stop a man’s heart. She was mad as hell about somethin’—I still don’t know what. But I asked her what she was waitin’ on, and she said, ‘For men to stop bein’ fools.’”

You snorted. “That sounds about right.”

“I married her six months later,” he said, grinning. “Had to. She kept me up at night, even when she wasn’t there. Drove me crazy. I’d never met someone who could make me feel so damn alive just by lookin’ at me like I was a problem she hadn’t decided how to solve yet.”

His hand was still moving in your hair. Gentle. Slow.

“She was funny, too. Not always in the ways folks noticed. But she had this dry wit—sneaky. She’d say somethin’ under her breath and watch you get it five seconds too late, then just raise one eyebrow like, finally caught up, huh?”

You closed your eyes. You remembered that.

He grew quiet. A different kind of quiet.

“She wasn’t made for peace, Sugar Cubes,” Your dad said, softer now. “She grew up in a house where love was a weapon. That kind of thing... it doesn’t leave clean. I thought if I loved her hard enough, loud enough, I could drown it out.”

He shifted beneath you, sighing through his nose.

“I still think that sometimes. That if I’d done one thing different—one more thing—she’d still be here, really here.” He cleared his throat, like he was pushing the ache back down. “But she’s safe now. And that’s what I hold on to.”

You looked up at him.

“And she loved you,” he added. “Fierce and messy and more than she ever knew how to say. When she held you that first time—hell, she shook. Couldn’t believe you were real. Said you were the first thing in her life that didn’t feel like a punishment.”

Your throat went tight.

Clyde leaned back against the wall. “I don’t talk about her because folks wanna put her in a box. Tragedy. Cautionary tale. But that ain’t what she was. Not to me. She was fire. Wild, and too much, and the best damn thing that ever happened to me.”

He smiled down at you, weary but warm.

“And I’d do it all again, even the hard parts. ‘Cause she gave me you. And I wouldn’t trade that for a damn thing.”

You didn’t say anything at first—just reached for his hand and held it.

Clyde squeezed back. Not too tight. Just enough.

A quiet passed between you, warm and heavy, like an old quilt you didn’t mind carrying for a while. But then—like flipping a switch—your dad cleared his throat, sniffed once, and patted your arm.

“Alright now,” he said, voice bouncing back to normal like it hadn’t just been cracked in two. “Ain’t no use sittin’ around cryin’ under the Lord’s sun when we got things to do.”

You rolled your eyes, wiped under them with the sleeve of your shirt. “You were the one cryin’, sir.”

“Hell I was. That was allergies. We got trees. And emotions are weak. I’m a man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grinned, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Speaking of men with emotions, you know Tommy’s dragging me and Joel to that Dallas conference?”

Clyde lit up. Like, lit up.

“No kiddin’?” he beamed, face folding into a grin so bright you had to squint at it. “You’re goin’ with him? You, Joel, and Tommy?”

You blinked at him. “Wait. Why do you sound like he just got invited to the Oscars? It’s a bunch of construction guys standing around in name tags talkin’ about scaffolding.”

Your dad let out a short laugh and slapped his thigh. “You’re kiddin’, right? Baby girl, Tommy’s been wantin’ to go to that damn conference since his company was just an idea. He used to sit on this porch and read brochures like they were scripture. You know how many times he’s said, ‘One day when I’m real legit, I’ll be shakin’ hands in Dallas’?”

You sat back a little, lips parting.

Because... no. No, you hadn’t known that.

You had brushed him off. No, not just that. Been completely clueless. How did you not know something so big about the man you used to sit in trees with?

And that was it.

Now, the words landed differently. He wasn’t just dragging you along. He wanted you there.

Guilt pressed low in your chest. You should’ve shown him more enthusiasm. You should’ve seen it—that this wasn’t just a work trip.

You looked over at your dad, who was still grinning to himself like one of his boys had just won a medal. Then you looked at Aspen, who was snoring dramatically in the shade like she had a full-time job.

I won’t mess this up, you told yourself quietly. Not for Tommy.

Not for the guy who always had your back, even when your ideas were half-baked and your attitude was worse. Who made space for you in a world of drywall, boots, and union jokes without once asking you to shrink. Who believed in you on days you didn’t even return the favor.

Your dad was still smiling beside you, the kind of crooked, lopsided grin that only came out when he was proud. “Boy used to talk my ear off about that conference,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Said it was the big leagues. Said when he finally made it there, he’d know he wasn’t just some kid in a truck with a power drill and a dream.”

Your chest tugged. “He didn’t tell me any of that.”

“He wouldn’t,” your dad said, glancing at you. “Wouldn’t want to make it a big deal. He’d rather act like it’s just another Monday.”

You snorted. “Well, I thought it was just another Monday. I gave him, like, zero reaction. Nada. I think I asked if the hotel had Wi-Fi.”

Your dad chuckled. “Guess that’s why you’re goin’. To make it right.”

“I’m gonna try,” you said, then sighed. “I already packed a blazer. That counts for something, right?”

He gave you a look. “What color?”

“…Beige?”

“Christ,” he muttered. “You wanna support him or put everyone to sleep?”

You laughed and reached for your water, flicking a blade of grass at his shoe. “You’re real mouthy for someone whose knees sound like microwave popcorn.”

“I’m mouthy because my wisdom multiplies with every crack,” he declared proudly, standing up with a grunt that immediately disproved his point. “Now c’mon. Get me cleaned up before Aspen tries to eat the hose again.”

You glanced at your dog—belly up, one eye cracked open, pure mischief loading in her brain like a virus.

“Too late,” you muttered. But still, you stood, brushing off any dust, thoughts already skipping ahead to Dallas. To Tommy. To make it count.

You were going to get this right. You had to.

Your dad was steps ahead, scooping up Aspen, who immediately tried to lick off his face. They suited each other—no matter how much she grated your nerves or how many shoes she’d turned into chew toys.

You clapped your hands together, shaking your brain out of its sluggish pause. Just then, your phone buzzed.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: Hi! Is this Tommy’s friend?

You would’ve ignored it—unknown numbers usually meant spam, scam, or someone trying to get you to buy life insurance for your dog. But Tommy’s name caught your eye. So, you tapped out a response.

[YOU]: Yes, can I help you?

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]: This is Sarah. Joel’s daughter?

You straightened a little. That wasn’t what you expected.

[YOU]: Oh, hi Sarah!

[SARAH]: Hi! My dad just got me my phone, so Uncle Tommy gave me a list of numbers.

You smiled, despite yourself. You didn’t know much about Joel’s daughter, even though you knew all about her mom. From the dinner on your first day, to the sleepover last Sunday, she seemed sweet. She had a pretty smile and good manners that put Joel to shame.

[SARAH]: I hope it’s okay I texted! Uncle Tommy said you’re really cool. :)

You blinked at the message, then snorted. That little charmer.

[YOU]: It’s more than okay. And Tommy is a liar, but thank you.

There was a short pause before her next message appeared.

[SARAH]: LOL I kinda figured. He said you “keep everything in line.” That true?

You smirked, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

[YOU]: I try. Someone’s gotta.

[YOU]: Especially with those Miller brothers around.

[SARAH]: Haha yeah, I believe it.

[SARAH]: Uncle Tommy says you do all the “real work.” My dad just grunts at people?

Your fingers paused for half a beat before you responded. Sarah’s tone was playful—lighthearted, teasing—but there was still that little knot in your chest. The one that always tightened at the mention of her dad.

You ignored it as you went to your couch and flopped onto it.

[YOU]: That’s pretty accurate. Though sometimes he grunts at me, so maybe I get special treatment.

You regretted it the second you hit send. Too pointed. Too close to the argument you still hadn’t moved past.

But Sarah didn’t comment on it. Thankfully.

[SARAH]: Haha I knew it. You probably scare him tbh.

[SARAH]: Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I like knowing the people my dad works with. Especially the cool ones.

You relaxed a little, letting the warmth of her words settle in your chest.

[YOU]: Hi right back. And I’m glad you texted, really.

[SARAH]: Cool. I’ll let you get back to being the boss of everyone.

[SARAH]: But if I ever need help messing with Uncle Tommy, can I text you?

[YOU]: You better.

You locked your phone and set it down beside you, but your fingers lingered on the screen for a second longer than necessary.

Sarah.

It shouldn’t have surprised you that she’d text, not with how tight she was with Tommy. But still… it threw you. You had to get better at separating the two. Sarah and her mother. And Joel did say she left…

Not that you minded Sarah. She was sharp. Sweet, in a kind of dry-witted way that reminded you of someone else you weren’t trying to think about right now.

You sighed, leaning back against the couch and letting your eyes fall shut. Talking to her wasn’t the hard part. Thinking about why it had gotten to you… that was harder.

Your phone buzzed again.

You didn’t rush to check it, assuming Sarah had more to say.

But the name on the screen made your heart hiccup in your chest.

[JOEL MILLER]

You stared at it. Joel never texted you. Not even back when things were good, when you could go a full day at work without wanting to strangle each other.

You opened it. The only text before was when you drunkenly texted him, and he replied with a noncommittal ‘huh’.

[JOEL]: Why are you talking to Sarah

That was it. No punctuation. No greeting. Just straight to the point, in that signature Joel way that somehow felt accusatory even through a phone screen.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the echo of your last argument flashing back like a gut-punch. You hadn’t spoken since that blowout. And you had no interest or reason to strike up a conversation. Only bland emails bounced back and forth about the site.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

[YOU]: She texted me. Said Tommy gave her my number.

[YOU]: I didn’t go hunting her down, if that’s what you’re asking.

You hit send before you could second-guess it, then immediately regretted the sharpness. You shouldn’t have to defend a text conversation with a kid, but still, this was Joel. His kid, his rules.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

[JOEL]: Just didn’t expect it.

Right. Sure.

You set the phone down in your lap, staring at the screen. He didn’t apologize. Of course he didn’t. Joel never said sorry, not unless someone was bleeding—and even then, it came out in a grumble.

But the fact that he even reached out at all?

That was something. Even if had underlying tones of ‘never contact my daughter again’

And that—that—stung more than it should’ve.

You didn’t respond. You turned your phone over so the screen faced the couch cushion and got up without checking it again.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

May 2nd, 1987

You were finally doing this.

After two weeks of scheming, bribing, and lying through your teeth like a seasoned politician, it was all paying off. Your dad was out of town for a welding convention in Houston. The neighbors were pacified with a pie and a promise. The party was winding down, the mixtape was warbling faintly through the floor—Madonna, Prince, maybe some Peter Gabriel if someone hadn’t flipped the tape—and your bedroom door was closed.

And locked.

And your skirt was up.

Chris’s hands were under it, moving like he was searching for buried treasure—eager, a little clumsy, definitely confident. He smelled like cheap cologne and chewing gum and something you could only describe as "teenage boy desperation."

You were in your room, on your bed, birthday balloons sagging against your dresser like they were already judging you. A single red Solo cup sat abandoned on your nightstand, lipstick ring smudged on the rim. Your "best night ever" looked like a still from a John Hughes film—but one of the deleted scenes they couldn’t show on cable.

Chris—your boyfriend for exactly two and a half months—was older by six whole months and wielded that seniority like a badge of honor. You’d liked him since he passed you a folded-up note in second-period bio that read:

Wanna skip lunch and do something actually fun?

Underneath, a very poorly drawn winky face.

You thought it was charming.

At the time.

Now you were halfway in his lap, knees sinking into the mattress, the comforter bunching beneath you, his breath hot and fast against your neck.

“Hey,” he murmured, lips brushing your collarbone, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You nodded automatically. It felt like muscle memory more than honesty. “Just… first-time nerves.”

He grinned. Smug. Like he’d been waiting to hear that. Like it made him some kind of expert. “Nothing to be nervous about. I got you.”

You gave him a shaky smile in return—more politeness than passion—and let him kiss you again. Deeper this time. More tongue. Less finesse. His fingers crawled up your ribcage like they were on a mission. The cold shock of his touch under your bra made you flinch, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered like it was something he’d heard in a movie and wanted to try out.

It should’ve meant something. But it didn’t.

Not really.

You exhaled a sound—somewhere between a sigh and a non-committal moan—and leaned back. You were doing everything right. You were letting it happen. You were performing.

This was supposed to be special. Electric. Transformational.

Instead, it felt like you were following steps in a school play you hadn’t auditioned for.

Chris kept going, more confident now. His hand fumbled with your jeans, knuckles scraping skin, the metal button resisting him just long enough to be awkward.

“Relax,” he chuckled. “You’re so tense.”

“I’m trying.”

He paused then, just long enough to look at you—really look—and something flickered in his face. You wanted it to be concern. It was probably frustration.

“You wanna stop?” he asked.

There it was.

Your golden parachute. Your emergency exit.

You could say no. You could say not like this.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d invited him.

Because you’d thrown this party.

Because your friends downstairs thought you were finally going to lose your virginity and join their sacred club of Knowing Things.

Because you were tired of waiting.

So instead, you kissed him again.

And let him keep going.

He reached for his wallet like it was all part of the choreography—pulling out the foil square, tearing it open with his teeth. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like you weren’t lying there in your birthday dress and borrowed courage, trying to ignore the feeling in your gut that said: Maybe this isn’t it.

“This okay?” he asked, rolling the condom on.

You nodded. Because nodding was easier than explaining the thousand doubts crowding your head.

And maybe a small, rebellious part of you did want it.

Maybe not him, exactly, but the moment. The autonomy. The forward motion.

So you let your legs fall a little wider. You tilted your chin up like you’d seen in movies.

And he moved between you.

Hand braced beside your head. Weight shifting.

Lining up—

CRASH.

The door exploded open so violently, the knob dented the drywall.

“HEY!”

The voice cut through the room like a goddamn buzzsaw.

You yelped. Chris practically threw himself off the bed, taking half the comforter with him, tripping over his jeans. You scrambled for the sheet, heat blooming across your face so fast it felt like your skin was on fire.

And there—standing in the doorway, hulking and furious, every muscle in his broad frame wound tighter than a coiled spring—

Joel.

Wide shoulders, heavy boots, jaw clenched like it might crack. His chest heaved like he’d run a mile. Maybe he had.

“What the fuck is goin’ on in here?”

“Shit!” Chris squeaked, frantically trying to get his jeans over his boxers without suffocating himself. “Jesus, man, what the hell—”

“You shut your mouth and get the hell outta this house,” Joel barked, taking one slow, menacing step forward.

“Joel!” you shrieked. Your voice cracked. Your dignity evaporated. “You can’t just barge in here!”

“Your dad asked me to check in.” Joel’s eyes never left Chris—shark eyes, flat and predatory. “And thank God I did.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Chris flailed, one sock on, condom still on, hair standing up like he’d been electrocuted. “She said—she said it was okay—”

“Out,” Joel growled. “Before I call her father and let him decide what happens next.”

Chris looked to you, eyes wide, like you might save him. You said nothing. You were too busy trying not to spontaneously combust.

Then finally—finally—you managed to speak. “Wait—Chris, don’t go.”

Joel’s head snapped toward you like a guard dog catching movement. “The hell he ain’t.”

“Joel, you can’t—”

“I absolutely can. And I will. You think throwin’ a party while your dad’s gone gives you license to play house with some dumbass who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doin’?”

“He’s not some dumbass—he’s my boyfriend—”

Joel turned to Chris. “Still standin’ here. Still breathin’. You got a death wish?”

Chris put both hands up, slowly, like Joel had a gun and not just a tone that could level buildings. “Dude, I’m sorry. I swear we weren’t—nothing happened, alright?”

“Chris,” you said again, this time sharper. “Stay.”

He flinched like you’d hit him. “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

Joel stepped forward again. “Get. Out.”

Chris hesitated a beat too long. Then bolted.

No shoes. No condom. No spine.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence.

Heavy and hot.

You sat there on the bed, still wrapped in your sheet, skin buzzing like it had been shocked.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose.

Like he was counting backward from ten so he wouldn’t kill somebody. Possibly you.

"Are you done?" you snapped, still clutching the sheet around you like a makeshift suit of armor. “Or do you need to punch a hole in the wall just to make your point?”

His jaw clenched. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s insane.” You shoved off the bed, blanket wrapped like a toga, heat crawling up your neck. “What the hell, Joel? You just barged in here like a lunatic—on what, some kind of neighborhood Dad Patrol mission?”

“Your dad asked me to check in. I didn’t expect to walk into a goddamn brothel.”

You laughed—harsh, unbelieving. “A brothel? Are you kidding me? That’s my boyfriend.”

Joel took a slow step forward, like he was holding himself back from pacing or breaking something. “You’re eighteen. You don’t know what the hell you’re doin’.”

“I do, actually,” you hissed. “That’s the entire point of being eighteen. I get to make my own decisions now. Even the messy ones.”

“You call that a decision?” he shot back, gesturing broadly at your room like it was a crime scene. “Looked more like a mistake waitin’ to happen.”

You squared your shoulders. “So what if it was? That’s my mistake to make.”

Joel shook his head, scoffing like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Unbelievable. You throw a party behind your daddy’s back, sneak some high school punk upstairs, and you still think you’re grown?”

“He’s not some punk! He’s my boyfriend. He cares about me—”

“He had a condom in his wallet and your bra halfway off before I even made it up the damn stairs,” Joel bit out, voice low and furious. “That ain’t caring. That’s convenient.”

You flinched. Then glared. “And what would you know about it, Joel? About what I want, or what I’m ready for?”

“I know you weren’t ready,” he said, quieter this time—but it hit harder. “I saw your face.”

Your throat tightened. Your grip on the sheet slipped slightly. “You don’t get to do this.”

“I already did.”

“You don’t get to come in here, act like some pissed-off dad, and ruin my night because you think you know what’s best for me.”

“I do know what’s best for you,” Joel said sharply, stepping in closer, voice dropping to that dangerous murmur he used when he was trying not to yell. “Because I’ve seen what happens when girls let boys like that tell ‘em what they want. You don’t even like him.”

“I—” You faltered. “That’s not the point.”

“No? Then tell me what the point is. ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, it looked like you were just goin’ along with it ‘cause you didn’t know how to say no.”

You were trembling now. Not from fear. From rage. From shame. From the way he looked at you like he saw everything you were trying so hard to cover up.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you whispered. “Seriously. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not your responsibility. I’m not some poor little girl you have to rescue from her own hormones.”

“No,” he said, voice tight. “You’re not. But that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna stand there and watch you get used.”

“And what, you think you know how to fix that?” you snapped. “You think storming in like some goddamn sheriff and chasing off the guy I wanted to sleep with is gonna make me—what? Feel grateful?”

Joel’s eyes were molten. “No. But it’ll keep you from makin’ a memory you regret.”

You stood there, panting. Too angry to cry. Too mortified to yell anymore. Your cheeks were hot, your chest heaving, and Joel looked like he wanted to either strangle you or pull you into a hug just to get you to stop shaking.

Instead, you said:

“Get out of my room.”

He paused. Looked around at the crumpled blanket, the sagging balloons, the red Solo cup bleeding cherry stains on your nightstand. Then back at you.

His expression shifted. Hardened.

“You’re comin’ with me.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Joel’s voice was calm in that terrifying, steely way—like he’d already made the decision and was just giving you the courtesy of hearing it out loud. “You’re comin’ back to my house.”

“The hell I am,” you snapped.

“Yes, you are,” he said, already reaching for your jeans off the floor. “You’re gonna sit your ass down and explain yourself to Lorraine and Raymond like a goddamn adult—since that’s what you keep insistin’ you are.”

You froze. “What?”

“You heard me.” He tossed your pillows onto the bed, his eyes narrowed. “You wanna act grown? Then you can walk into that house, look my mama in the eye, and tell her what the hell you were doin’ up here. Tell Raymond, too. Pretty sure he’ll love hearin’ about the party you threw while your daddy’s outta town.”

Your stomach dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he said without hesitation. “And I am.”

“Joel,” you warned, gripping the sheet tighter.

“Get proper. You’ve got five minutes.”

“You can’t force me to go to your house like I’m some little kid getting sent to the principal’s office.”

He crossed his arms. “Try me.”

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest. He wasn’t bluffing. Joel never bluffed. Not when he was pissed off like this. And the thought of having to sit across from Lorraine—sweet, gentle Lorraine who made you peach cobbler every birthday—and explain why you were half-naked in your bedroom with a guy?

Your skin crawled.

Raymond was even worse. Your dad’s best friend. Army buddy. The man who’d once carried you on his shoulders during the Fourth of July parade when you were six and still told the story like it was yesterday.

“Joel,” you said, voice cracking. “It was one night!”

“One night,” he scoffed, sharp and bitter. “One night with a house full of strangers, no supervision, liquor everywhere, him in your bed—”

“His name is Chris!” you shouted, shoulders squared. “And he’s my boyfriend! Not some random guy I met behind a gas station!”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “That supposed to make it better?”

“It’s supposed to make it not your business!”

He took a step forward, looming, arms crossed tight. “You really think that? After everythin’? After what your daddy’s trusted me with? After Raymond and Lorraine practically raised you alongside us? You think I’m just gonna watch while you blow up your whole damn life because some boy with a Jeep told you you’re special?”

You blinked, stunned. Your cheeks burned, your spine locked straight.

“You’re such a—” you bit your tongue, breathing hard through your nose. “You’re such a hypocrite. You get to screw around, do whatever the hell you want, and I kiss one guy and suddenly I need to be dragged in front of your parents like I’m on trial?”

“I’m protectin’ you!” he shouted, finally losing control. “Someone has to!”

“I don’t need protecting, Joel!” you screamed. “I’m eighteen! I can have sex with my boyfriend if I want to! I can throw a party! I can make decisions about my own goddamn life without your psycho caveman routine!”

You shoved past him, storming toward the door, heart racing, vision tunneling.

“I’m gonna go find Chris,” you muttered. “Someone who actually treats me like a person.”

But before your hand touched the doorknob, his hand shot out—rough and fast—grabbing your arm and yanking you back a step.

You froze. His grip was tight. Not painful, not bruising. But enough to stop you.

“Let go, Joel.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re not leavin’.”

You yanked your arm, but he held firm.

“Let me go.”

“I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not when you’re actin’ like this. Not when you’re makin’ choices that could ruin everythin’.”

You laughed—sharp and humorless. “Wow. You really think I’m that much of a screw-up?”

His fingers stayed clamped on your arm, that touch scalding now. His presence was too close, too solid, too sure of himself.

You stepped into his space, deliberately. Challenging. “Say it, then. Go ahead. Call me a fuck-up. Call me a mistake. It’s what you think, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, face taut, voice low. “You’re not a mistake. But you’re actin’ like a damn child.”

That hit like a slap.

Your stomach turned, heat rising in your chest until it bloomed behind your eyes. Rage twisted inside you—ugly, sharp, young. And his hand on your arm, like he had the right to put it there, made it worse.

You shoved him. Hard.

He stumbled back, caught off guard, boots scraping against the rug.

“Don’t you dare,” you growled. “Don’t you dare talk down to me like that.”

“I’m talkin’ to you like someone who gives a damn—”

“Bullshit!” you shouted, stepping up to him again. “You don’t give a damn. You just want control. You want to play big man, play dad, because you can’t stand that I grew up and don’t need your bullshit anymore!”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “No, sweetheart. I want you to stop actin’ like spreadin’ your legs gives you power.”

Your hand flew before your brain caught up.

Crack.

His head snapped to the side from the force of your slap. The sound echoed in the silence like a gunshot.

You stared at your hand. At the red mark already blooming on his cheek. At him.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, shocked—but still furious, still shaking.

Joel’s head turned back slowly. His jaw was clenched, the side of his face pink and blooming where your slap had landed. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at you through narrowed eyes, breathing steady and shallow like he was barely keeping himself from snapping.

“Always had a way of makin’ a mess and expectin’ everyone else to clean it up.” He muttered.

Your stomach dropped.

The heat in your blood flared white-hot.

You stared at him, stunned for half a second—just enough time for the insult to settle, to rot somewhere deep. Then you moved.

You lunged, shoving him back with both hands. He hit the floor with a thud, your body crashing down on top of his before he could fully brace.

“Fuck you!” you shouted, wild, breathless. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me!”

He grunted beneath you, hands catching your arms, but not pushing—just holding, restraining. His chest rose against yours, fast and hard.

“I know enough,” he spat. “You’ve been a goddamn headache since you could talk.”

“You’ve hated me since birth,” you seethed, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him up an inch. “You’ve never given me a single fucking chance!”

“I didn’t need to,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You blew it every time.”

You shoved him down again, harder this time. His shoulders hit the floor with a thud, and you didn’t move off him. Your legs tangled with his, your palms flat against his chest, pressing him down like you could crush the weight of his words right out of his lungs. Your hair spilled forward, a curtain around your face and his, heat and fury trapped between you.

Your breath hitched—because he just kept looking at you like that. Judging. Disgusted. Self-righteous.

“You act like my virginity was some kind of fucking heirloom,” you spat, voice low and sharp. “Like it was supposed to be kept in a glass box for your approval. For your timeline. Like it’s some delicate little flower that should never get touched.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.

“You know what?” you went on, your voice a growl, your chest nearly touching his with how close you leaned in. “Suck a dick, Joel. And fuck off.”

You shoved off his chest, but didn’t move away. Still straddling him. Still breathing fire. Still staring him down like you wanted to burn him alive with your bare hands.

And he—

He just stared.

Mouth slightly open, chest rising slow beneath you like he didn’t dare move. Like any sudden shift might set you off even worse.

But it was already too late for that.

“Oh, what, now you’ve got nothing to say?” you snapped, voice sharp and scalding. “That’s rich. After all the shit you’ve been spewing—now you’re quiet?”

Still, he didn’t answer. His hands were clenched at his sides. His brows pulled low, jaw tight—but his lips didn’t move.

You leaned in a little, just to see if he’d flinch. “You know what your problem is, Joel?” you hissed. “You think being older makes you smarter. Makes you right. Like the second I turned eighteen, you got promoted to some kind of morality cop.”

Nothing. Just the flick of his eyes—down to your mouth, up to your eyes, then away again like looking at you too long might undo him.

“Newsflash,” you went on, voice rising. “You don’t own me. You don’t get a say. I’m not some kid who needs to be protected from her own goddamn choices. I’m a grown woman who was going to have legal sex with her very legal boyfriend on her own birthday.”

Your voice cracked—just once—but it didn’t take the edge off. You were shaking now, hands curled into fists against his chest, your thighs pressing harder around his hips.

“You don’t get to barge in here like some holier-than-thou jackass and act like you’re disappointed in me,” you spat. “You don’t get to make me feel dirty or stupid or small. Not you.

He still hadn’t spoken.

Still just watching you—like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to argue back or drag you off him and shake the anger out of your bones.

Or maybe he wanted something else entirely.

You could feel the tension radiating off him. Like his body was caught in some war between logic and instinct.

But you weren’t done.

Not yet.

“So go ahead,” you hissed. “Lecture me. Punish me. Fix me. Isn’t that what you came here to do?”

He blinked.

And for the first time since you’d shoved him to the ground—he opened his mouth.

“I came here to stop you from wreckin’ yourself over some loser who’s not gonna be around in two months,” he said, voice tight, like every word tasted sour coming out. “You think I give a shit about the act? I give a shit that you don’t.”

You barked out a laugh. Bitter. Hollow. “Bullshit. You care because you think it means something. Like it’s a mark on me now. Like I’m ruined.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Joel.” You leaned in, venom burning at the back of your throat. “You don’t see me as a person. You never have. Just some little girl in the way. Something you were forced to manage.”

His jaw locked. He didn’t respond—because he couldn’t. You pressed on.

“I’m not a fucking project. Not a kid you get to lecture. Not a porcelain doll with a ‘Property of Joel’ tag stapled to her goddamn panties.”

His face twisted—shock, rage, something else you didn’t care to name.

You kept going. “You think you know everything because you’ve got two more years and a stick up your ass, but you don’t know me. You never did. You just liked it better when I kept quiet and did what I was told.”

Still no answer.

Just that muscle ticking in his cheek. Just those eyes—dark, unreadable, caught somewhere between insulted and gutted.

“You done?” he asked finally, voice low.

“Yeah,” you snapped, the word like a slap. “Now get the hell out.”

He scoffed, short and mean, before shoving himself upright. You rolled off him with a grunt, but didn’t stop watching. He adjusted his shirt, ran a hand through his hair like he was seconds from putting his fist through a wall. Then he threw a glare over his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck you,” he bit out, and stomped out of your room.

Your blood ran cold.

Because you knew that tone.

You’d heard it before—when Tommy crashed Joel’s truck in high school, when someone disrespected Lorraine at the grocery store, when Raymond caught that punk neighbor throwing eggs at his car.

Joel wasn’t leaving.

He was hunting.

“Joel—” you started, scrambling off the floor, but he was already halfway down the stairs.

By the time you hit the landing, he was in the middle of the living room, voice raised to a full roar.

“EVERYBODY OUT! NOW!”

Chaos. People go silent, and drinks spill. Laughter turned into panic.

“You psycho!” someone whispered.

“Shit, that’s Joel Miller—”

Heads turned. The music cut off. A few people froze like deer in headlights.

“I’m not fuckin’ kiddin’! This party’s over. You don’t move, I call the goddamn cops!”

Panic hit the room like a bomb. Solo cups were dropped. Someone knocked over a lamp. Shoes scrambled across the hardwood as people bolted, hopping over the porch railing, crawling out windows if they had to.

“ARE YOU INSANE?!” you screamed, shoving through the last few stragglers. “You can’t just kick everyone out like you’re the fuckin’ sheriff!”

“I just did,” he said, flat and loud, turning toward you with thunder in his chest.

“You’re not my dad, Joel!”

“No,” he shot back. “But maybe someone should’ve acted like one tonight.”

“Screw you!”

Joel barked a humorless laugh, but there was no smile on his face. “You already did that yourself the minute you let half the goddamn county wreck this house.”

You stormed up to him, chest heaving, lights still flickering from the music someone forgot to turn off. “You think this is helping? You think embarrassing me in front of everyone makes you the bigger man?”

Joel didn’t flinch. Just squared his shoulders like he’d been waiting for this. “Didn’t come here to be the bigger man. Came here to stop you from makin’ an even bigger damn fool of yourself.”

“Oh, fuck you!” you shouted, jabbing a finger toward the door. “You think I looked stupid before? No—now I look stupid. Because of you. You stormed in and humiliated me in front of everyone.”

“They shouldn’t have been here to see it in the first place,” Joel growled. “You turned this place into a goddamn free-for-all.”

“Then don’t!” you screamed. “No one asked you to come here. No one wants you in their life, Joel!”

The room fell suddenly, unbearably quiet. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

Joel stopped mid-step. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. His eyes—usually so guarded, so hard—flickered, just for a second, with something you hadn’t seen before. Hurt. Confusion. Maybe even disbelief.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even move. Just stood there, shaking his head slowly like he was trying to dislodge what you’d just said from his mind.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy between you. Your heart hammered loud enough you thought it might give you away—the rawness beneath your anger.

What the hell did I just say?

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t meant it—not like that. Maybe you’d wanted to hurt him. Maybe you’d wanted to win. But not like that.

Joel turned. Shoulders rigid, hands fisted tight at his sides.

“Joel—” you stepped forward, voice breaking before you could find the right words. “Joel, wait. I didn’t mean—”

But he was already walking, back turned to you, retreating toward the door with long, deliberate strides.

Panic clawed at your throat. “Joel, please. That’s not— I didn’t mean that.”

But he was already gone.

You heard the door creak open, the soft clunk as it shut behind him. The silence left in his wake was deafening. You stood frozen for half a second—barefoot, heart in your mouth, fists clenched at your sides. Then you ran.

Out the door, into the humid night air, the porch boards stinging your bare feet. The grass was cool and wet beneath you as you tore across the yard, dress whipping at your knees, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Joel!” you called, spotting him halfway down the street, back still to you, the wide set of his shoulders tense beneath his shirt.

He didn’t stop.

“Joel, please!” you tried again, louder, chasing after him like something in you would split wide open if you didn’t.

The streetlights flickered overhead, catching in your hair, casting long shadows across the pavement. You stumbled a little as you caught up to him, breathless and desperate.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said again, voice cracking. “I was mad. I—I wanted to hurt you but not like that. I didn’t mean what I said.”

He stopped. Not suddenly. Just a slow halt, like the weight of your words finally caught up to him. But he didn’t turn.

You stepped forward, barefoot on the rough asphalt, your voice trembling. “You’re not… you’re not nobody, Joel.”

Still nothing. Just the sound of cicadas buzzing and your blood pounding in your ears.

Finally, finally, he turned.

His face was unreadable. Shadowed, sharp, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. His eyes—those dark, infuriating, impossible-to-read eyes—landed on yours.

“I don’t need your guilt,” he said low, voice like gravel. “You made yourself real clear back there.”

You flinched. “That’s not fair—”

“No,” he cut in. “What’s not fair is me comin’ here, tryin’ to stop you from makin’ a mess of things, and gettin’ told no one wants me in their life.”

Your lip quivered, and you bit down on it hard.

“I’m not askin’ you to like me,” he said. “Never did. But you don’t get to pretend like you didn’t mean those damn words.”

You stepped closer, hand half-raised like you might reach for him. “I know,” you whispered. “Joel, I know. I just—I didn’t know how else to make you stop.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then shook his head slowly and turned again, walking away.

But something in you wouldn’t let it end like that.

“Joel—”

You rushed after him, feet slapping the pavement, dress whipping around your legs. You didn’t think. You just grabbed for him—fingers curling around his wrist, digging in, trying to anchor him to you like that might be enough to take it all back.

“Don’t walk away,” you said, breathless, raw. “Please.”

He stopped short. Didn’t face you. Didn’t look down at your hand on him. Just stood there, tense as a live wire, chest rising and falling in short, measured beats.

Then he snapped his arm out of your grasp like it burned him.

“Go home,” he bit out, low and final.

But you didn’t move. Wouldn’t. You stepped around him fast, bare feet slapping against the concrete, and planted yourself right in his path again. Your dress clung to your skin, the night air sharp and cold, but none of it mattered.

He tried to sidestep you.

You shifted with him.

“Move,” he said, harsher now. “Don’t do this.”

“No,” you said, voice trembling. “Not until we talk.”

He moved to shove past you—shoulder dipping, arm tight, every line in his body strung up and ready to snap.

But you didn’t budge.

You pushed back with everything you had, planting your feet, hands flat against his chest. He staggered slightly at the resistance, not expecting it—eyes flashing with disbelief, then something closer to hurt.

He looked down at you, jaw clenched, breath hot and ragged between you both.

He looked down at you, jaw clenched, breath hot and ragged between you both. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Not when I know I messed up,” you shot back, breathless. “Not when I know I hurt you.”

His eyes narrowed, skepticism creeping in. “So what, now you’re sorry?”

“I’ve sorry,” you said, voice trembling. “I just—I didn’t know how to say it. I was mad, and scared, and then you—” You stopped yourself before the words turned into something you weren’t ready to say. “I’ll do anything to make it right.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Just… staring. Like he couldn’t decide if he believed you or not.

“Anythin’?” he repeated, voice flat.

You nodded, even as your stomach twisted. “Yeah.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Just… staring. Like he couldn’t decide if he believed you or not. Then, he just turned and started walking.

You hesitated—then followed.

The two of you moved through the quiet night in silence, streetlights humming overhead. You crossed your arms tight against your chest, still in your damn dress, your feet bare on the cracked pavement. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving you cold and shaky and embarrassed as hell.

"God, why didn’t I grab some damn shoes?" you muttered, mostly to yourself.

Joel didn’t respond. Just gave a low grunt—something between annoyed and resigned—and kept walking.

You reached the gas station a few blocks down. Joel went in without a word. The door jingled behind him, then snapped shut.

You dropped down onto the curb with a frustrated sigh, tugging your dress down as you picked at a patch of dirt with your fingernail. Street was dead. Your skin buzzed with leftover anger, and guilt, and whatever the hell else was rolling around in your stomach. The whole night felt stupid. You felt stupid.

Why’d you have to say that?

Why’d he have to show up?

Why’d it hurt so damn much?

The door jingled again.

You glanced up. Joel stepped out, crumpling the top of a cigarette pack. He paused, took a long look at you—and then tossed something at you.

They were soft and ridiculous. Slippers. Pink, bright slippers. You hesitated a moment, then slid your bare feet into them, but damn if they didn’t feel like a warm hug after the cold pavement.

“So…” you started, fiddling with the edge of your dress, “Why are we even here?”

“Only had enough for smokes,” he said gruffly. “Couldn’t afford a lighter.”

“So where do I come in?”

“Your dad still has that lighter?”

“Yeah, but it… oh fuck you.” You grumbled, standing up, brushing gravel from the back of your thighs.

“What?” Joel asked, like he didn’t know damn well.

“God, if you wanted a lighter, just use your dad’s.”

“This is my favor. And my dad—”

“Would string you up to the ceiling and use you as decoration? Yes, I know,” you snapped. “I’ve met him.”

Joel just gave you a look.

You muttered something under your breath, something probably foul, and started walking. The slippers made dull, slapping sounds against the concrete as you trudged down the quiet road, Joel falling in step beside you. Neither of you said much. Just the occasional soft shuffling of your ridiculous new footwear, and the crackling silence that hadn’t quite decided whether it was still mad or just tired.

By the time you reached your house, your dress was wrinkled, your curls were wild, and you were starting to sober just enough to feel every ounce of regret thrumming in your chest.

You unlocked the door. Joel followed you inside like it was nothing—like he belonged there. Like this was just another Tuesday.

The air inside was thick with the leftover stench of warm beer, smoke, and sweat. Empty solo cups littered the floors, snack bowls overturned, someone’s jacket crumpled over a lamp like it got too drunk to hang properly.

Joel kicked aside a stray beer can. It clinked across the hardwood with a metallic whine.

“Hell of a cleanup,” he muttered.

You ignored him, stepping over a flattened bag of chips and weaving your way toward the hallway. Your dad’s room was just past the kitchen, still untouched, the door closed like it was the only part of the house that had any dignity left.

You pushed it open and slipped inside.

The room smelled like old leather and cedar wood. Your dad never changed anything—same bedspread, same framed medals on the wall, same little ceramic ashtray shaped like a boot from God knows what base.

You crossed to his dresser, yanking open the top drawer. Socks. The second held folded t-shirts and a mess of dog tags tangled like old chains. You fumbled through it, impatient, heart still jittery from everything you had said outside.

Then—there. Tucked beneath a cracked photo frame of you and him at a middle school science fair. The lighter. Black. Heavy. Scratched to hell.

You stared at it a beat too long before grabbing it.

Joel’s voice came from the hall. “You find it?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

As you stepped out of the bedroom, he held out his hand expectantly.

You didn’t move to give it to him. Instead, you lifted your hand, lighter dangling between your fingers. “You can’t smoke in here.”

Joel’s brows dropped into a scowl. “Seriously?”

You shot him a look. “My dad would lose his shit.”

He scoffed. “Pretty sure half the people in here earlier were lightin’ up every ten minutes.”

You crossed your arms. “Yeah, and they don’t live here. I’m going to beat their asses later. You want to join them?”

He stared at you like he wanted to argue, but instead just grumbled something under his breath and turned toward the front door.

You followed, trailing behind him with the fuzzy slippers whispering against the floor. The porch light was still on, a weak, yellow glow casting long shadows across the wooden planks. Joel stepped outside and leaned against the rail like he’d done a hundred times before. You came out behind him, the air cool against your skin, sobering and a little too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed on your shoulders, made your pulse loud in your ears.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the new pack, still crinkled from the gas station shelf. Peeled it open, took his time. He didn’t say anything—just shook one loose, placed it between his lips like it was muscle memory, a motion he could do blind.

You watched him, arms crossed lightly over your chest as your dress shifted in the wind. There was a beat of silence, then two, and then you stepped forward.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

Joel paused, eyes flicking over to you. He didn’t move, didn’t ask. Just let you come closer.

You flicked the wheel of your dad’s old military lighter—clink, spark, flame. The heat snapped to life, small but steady in your palm.

You reached up, closer to his face than you’d probably ever been without yelling.

Joel didn’t lean in.

You had to close the distance yourself, hand brushing his as you brought the lighter to the end of his cigarette. The flame danced, caught the tobacco, and a curl of smoke twisted into the air.

He didn’t take his eyes off you.

Even when you pulled your hand away, snapped the lighter shut with a clean metallic click, his gaze stayed fixed—low and unreadable. Searching, maybe. Maybe trying to understand what the hell this moment even was.

You stepped back, slowly, like something fragile was balanced between you.

Joel finally took a drag, lips closing around the cigarette, then inhaled deep. The glow lit his face for a half-second, long enough to catch the hard edge of his jaw and the almost imperceptible crease in his brow.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow.

Then—“Thanks.”

It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t quite sure if he meant it for the cigarette or something else entirely.

You nodded, hugging your arms a little tighter, rubbing your hand up and down your arm to shake the chill.

He looked back toward the yard, eyes scanning the shadows, but he didn’t move to leave. Just stood there, cigarette between two fingers, thumb brushing idly over the filter.

You glanced at him again.

“This what you wanted?” you asked, softly. “Making me chase you down? Making me feel like shit?”

Joel’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look at you. “Didn’t want that. Did that yourself.”

“Then what did you want?” The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back.

He took another drag. “Wanted you to mean it.”

“I did.”

Now he looked at you.

And this time, the stare didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like weight—like history. Like he was trying to stitch together everything you’d ever said and everything you hadn’t into something that made sense.

You looked down at your ridiculous pink slippers. “You gonna make fun of these?”

He smirked, barely. “I was thinkin’ they suit you.”

You scoffed. “That’s a lie.”

Joel shrugged, flicked ash off the porch. “Maybe.”

You stared up at him.

Well—not at him, exactly. More at the cigarette, watching the faint ember pulse as he took another drag. The smoke curled upward, catching in the porch light like dust in a sunbeam. You tilted your head, lips parting slightly in thought.

Joel shifted.

Not much. Just a twitch of his shoulders, the faintest stiffening in his posture. Like he was suddenly very aware of where your eyes had landed. His hand hovered near his mouth again, and something about the way his gaze flicked away—sharp, uncertain—told you exactly where his mind had gone.

You blinked, realizing.

Then snorted. “Relax,” you muttered. “I was looking at the cigarette.”

Joel didn’t respond. But the set of his jaw softened just enough that you caught the hint of embarrassment. Or relief. Maybe both.

You pointed, just barely. “Can I get a hit?”

His gaze snapped back to you. Brow arched. “What?”

You raised both brows. “The cigarette. Just one drag.”

He huffed, incredulous. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” you groaned. “I just walked all the way to and from the gas station with you in dollar store slippers, and after you ruined my social standing. I think I deserve one.”

He took another slow drag, deliberately. “You don’t even smoke.”

“You don’t know everything I do.”

Joel gave you a flat look, unimpressed. “I know enough.”

You crossed your arms. “Like what?”

“Like you only want a hit ‘cause you’re bored. Or tryin’ to prove something.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” you said, nose wrinkling. “I just… want to understand what the big deal is.”

He stared, unmoved.

You stepped closer. “Joel. Just one drag.”

“No.”

You groaned. “Why not?”

“’Cause you’re gonna hack up a lung, then I’m gonna have to listen to you complain about it.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

Joel sighed through his nose, like he was talking to a very persistent stray cat. You could almost see the gears turning in his head, weighing the headache of letting you win against the headache of continuing to argue.

Finally, he huffed and pulled the cigarette from his lips. He held it out between two fingers, eyes narrowed like he still wasn’t sold.

“You get one.”

You took it before he could change his mind, lips curling into a little smirk of victory. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. “This is gonna end with you coughin’ up a lung and blamin’ me.”

You lifted the cigarette to your mouth, fingers brushing his as you took it from him. His hand lingered for just a second—barely noticeable—before he dropped it to his side. You brought it to your lips, ignoring the twist of nerves in your stomach, and inhaled slow.

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you.

Not even for a second.

You took a drag, short and cautious. The smoke hit the back of your throat like sandpaper wrapped in fire, and for a split second, your eyes watered and your lungs rebelled.

But you didn’t let it show.

You straightened, forcing yourself not to cough, not to wince, not to double over gasping for air like your body clearly wanted. Instead, you blew the smoke out slowly—ungracefully, sure, but steady—and gave Joel a shrug like it was nothing.

“Not bad,” you rasped, voice just a little too hoarse to be convincing.

His eyebrow lifted. “Uh-huh.”

You looked away, fixing your eyes on a point beyond the porch rail, feigning deep contemplation like you were trying to unravel the mysteries of nicotine. “Kinda smooth.”

Joel barked a single laugh, sharp and low. “Jesus. You sound like you swallowed a sandstorm.”

“I did not.” You turned, shooting him a look. “This is just how I sound now. Get used to it.”

He stepped closer, hand reaching out casually to pluck the cigarette from your fingers. “Yeah, we’re done here.”

You pouted. “I was just getting the hang of it.”

He snorted. “You looked like you were on the verge of spontaneous combustion.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway. You weren’t sure if it was the leftover adrenaline, or the warmth of the fuzzy slippers, or the fact that Joel hadn’t walked away again—but something in your chest had started to ease. Just a little.

Joel leaned back against the railing again, slipping the cigarette between his lips. You watched him quietly for a moment, the smoke curling up into the porch light, catching in his hair, softening the hard line of his jaw.

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

But you didn’t go inside either.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

God, you were having too much fun.

How many drinks are you down? Another question—how long has it been? You swore just ten minutes ago your phone was at ninety percent, now it blinked back at you with a dramatic 5% like it, too, was drunk and begging for water.

Gracie was beside you at the bar, shrieking laughter into her vodka soda while you tried to figure out if the floor was supposed to sway like that or if it was just the bass vibrating your bones. Spoiler: It was probably the tequila.

Someone handed her a jello shot, and you watched—horrified, impressed—as she tossed it back without breaking eye contact.

“This place is unhinged,” you yelled over the music, because at some point the volume had dialed itself to "early 2000s club scene," and your ears were paying the price.

“There’s a bachelorette party at that table—” she pointed, unsteady, to a sea of pink sashes and tiny plastic tiaras, “—and I swear one of them just dared me to kiss a man with a mustache. But, I just laughed in his face and said good luck next time.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell off your stool. “Oh, my God. I haven’t been this drunk since… I don’t even know. College?”

“Okay but like—real talk.” Gracie leaned in, her nose brushing yours. “You’re a fun drunk. Like, you don’t even cry. Do you know how rare that is in women? Everyone cries. I cry. You? You flirt with the jukebox.”

“I did not flirt with the jukebox!”

“Girl, you said ‘hello, handsome’ and caressed the screen like it was Elvis himself.”

You slapped a hand over your face, mortified and giddy all at once. “God. I’m gonna wake up with regrets.”

“Yeah, but they’ll be sexy regrets.”

You were going to argue, but then a guy in a cowboy hat tried to line dance solo and nearly took out a barstool. You both screamed.

“I love humanity!” Gracie shouted.

You nodded, clinging to her arm for balance. “Everyone here is a disaster and it’s so comforting.”

Right then—perfectly timed—your phone screen dimmed. Then blinked. Then died with a tragic little beep that could’ve been your last nerve snapping.

You blinked at it. Tapped it like that would help. “No no no—no, you traitor.”

“What?” Gracie asked, raising her voice over the wall of sound that was either Destiny’s Child or someone’s cousin’s cover band.

“My phone just died. Like, full-on blackout. It’s over.”

Gracie gasped like someone had just told her NSYNC was breaking up again. “Not your baby! Isn’t that the Nokia you’ve had since birth?”

You held it up like a crime scene relic. “She’s been with me since freshman year. She survived rain, dropped calls, a near-drowning in a toilet. This is how she goes? In a dive bar in Austin?”

Gracie snatched it gently and held it up to the light. “Jesus. This thing is a brick. It could survive nuclear war. I’m honestly impressed it’s even capable of dying.”

“I’ve had relationships that didn’t last as long as this phone,” you muttered, shoving it into your tiny purse like you were tucking a body into a casket. “My dad’s gonna think I’m dead in a ditch.”

“He’s a big boy,” she said with a shrug. “He’ll be fine knowing his thirty-four-year-old, mature daughter is in safe hands.”

You looked around in mock worry. “You got three dollars so I can use a pay phone outside?”

Gracie smiled, smug, and looped her arm through yours. “No phone. No responsibilities. No awkward voicemail check-ins. It’s 2003, baby—we’re free women.”

“I feel like I’ve lost a limb.”

“You lost dead weight,” she declared, tugging you toward the crush of bodies on the dance floor. “You’re untethered. Untamed. You’re Britney post-Justin right now.”

“That’s… honestly a little feral.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes sparkled as the beat kicked in—thumping bass, bad lighting, and a sea of strangers losing it to Outkast’s “Hey Ya.”

You grinned, dizzy with drinks and sweat and noise. “If I die tonight, tell my dad I tried.”

Gracie leaned in close, her voice half-laugh, half-threat. “If you die tonight, I’m stealing your silk panties.”

You shrieked, swatting her shoulder—and then let yourself dissolve into the music, into the noise, into the warmth of it all.

The floor swayed—not from rhythm, not from movement, but from the delightful tilt of your fourth—or maybe fifth—vodka cranberry. Your boots pinched, your skirt kept shimmying north, and you were sweating like a sinner in church. Still, you couldn’t stop laughing.

Gracie grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the corner booth like a woman on a mission. She dropped into the vinyl seat with all the grace of a meteor crash and slapped the table. “Okay. New rule. No more talking about men over thirty-five for the rest of the night.”

You blinked at her. “What?”

“No sad-eyed bartender who keeps offering me water. No dads. No dudes with mortgages. I want to talk about us.”

You hiccupped, confused, but on board. “I don’t think I’ve talked about myself in three years. I’m a mystery now.”

“You are not a mystery,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at your chest. “You’re one of those girls who reads poetry at bars and makes everyone feel stupid for not liking Sylvia Plath.”

“I don’t even like Plath, I just respect her—”

“Exactly!” She cackled, nearly knocking over your drinks. “Poetry girl. Closet perfectionist. I know your type.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what’s your type?”

“Loud. Emotional. Dramatic.” She threw her arms wide. “I’m the kind of girl who cries in traffic and writes her ex’s name in lipliner on a public bathroom mirror.”

You burst out laughing. “You’ve done that.”

“Once,” she said. “Okay, twice. Okay—once a semester.”

You nearly choked. “You could’ve been famous.”

“I was!” she declared proudly. “In the UC system. I was ‘that girl who set off the chem lab sprinklers with her flat iron.’”

You wheezed. “Why did you have a flat iron in the chem lab?”

“Midterms. I had a presentation and a date.”

“A lab date?”

“A lab accident,” she corrected with a flourish. “Anyway, my point is—if you ever feel like you’re a mess, just remember: I tried to hot roll my bangs next to a Bunsen burner.”

You collapsed forward, laughing into your hands. “You need a memoir.”

“I’ll write it after my third divorce,” she promised. Then she clinked her glass against yours. “To being train wrecks.”

“Functioning train wrecks.”

“Well-dressed, lace-wearing, lipstick-smudged train wrecks.”

You leaned back, light-headed, face aching from how hard you’d been smiling. God, you needed this. Not just the drinks. Not just the noise. You needed her—someone who didn’t care about anything.. Someone wild, and warm, and absolutely unhinged in the best possible way.

Gracie Lovelace: danger in cowgirl boots and a government badge, sipping vodka and rewriting your night with every breath.

And when the bartender yelled last call, you both booed like it was the end of civilization.

Gracie hiccupped dramatically, waving her empty glass like a flag of resistance. “Last call? Pfft. More like first call for life decisions.”

You side-eyed her. “Oh no. What now?”

She grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “Tattoos. We should get tattoos.”

You stopped in your tracks, clutching your purse like it had suddenly become your moral compass. “Gracie. Be serious.”

“I am serious.” She wobbled to her feet, jabbing a finger toward the heavens like Moses with a margarita. “It’s 2003. It’s a new era.”

You squinted. “That made no sense.”

Gracie grabbed your hand anyway and dragged you toward the exit. “You need a little chaos inked into your skin. Something sexy. Something dangerous.”

“I have a birthmark in the shape of New Jersey. Isn’t that enough?”

She snorted. “Babe, that’s geography. I’m talking statement.”

You stumbled out into the muggy night, heels catching on the sidewalk as Gracie marched with the righteous conviction of someone who’d once fought a bouncer for not letting her bring in a Taco Bell quesadilla.

“I’m gonna get something huge,” she declared. “Like a sword. Or a phoenix. Or, ooh—Barbed wire around my arm like Pam Anderson.”

You winced. “You’ll regret that by breakfast.”

“I regret nothing except that second cherry bomb shot.”

You groaned as the warm air hit your face. “Gracie, I’m drunk, you’re drunk, and this is how people end up with Tweety Bird on their ass.”

“Okay, rude,” she said, spinning to face you with mock offense. “I would never get Tweety Bird. I’m a Daffy Duck girl.”

You cackled. “You are absolutely Daffy Duck.”

Gracie gasped, clutching her chest like you’d just proposed. “The highest compliment I’ve ever received. Truly.”

You shook your head, giggling, but the idea still danced at the edge of your brain—half-laced with liquor, half with adrenaline. “Okay,” you said slowly, dragging the word out like you were stepping into traffic, “Fine. But only if I get something small.”

Gracie froze mid-stride. Turned. Her mouth fell open in cartoon-level joy. “YES?”

You lifted a finger. “Tiny. Like... ant-sized. Microscopic. Like if I showed my dad, he’d need bifocals to see it.”

“Obviously. Of course. That’s chic.” Gracie was already halfway skipping. “You’re a small tattoo girl. Elegant. Mysterious. Like—oh my God—like a single star behind your ear or a cryptic Latin word on your wrist. You’re so cool, I can’t stand it.”

You stumbled after her, heart pounding and logic entirely drowned in cranberry vodka. “I didn’t say Latin. I don’t even know Latin.”

She waved a hand. “No one does. That’s why it’s sexy.”

You squinted at her. “What are you getting?”

“Unclear. Something dramatic. Possibly flames. Possibly my own name in cursive.”

You snorted. “So in twenty years people will think your hip was autographed by a fangirl.”

“Damn right,” she said proudly. “They’ll be like, ‘Who’s Gracie?’ and my future lovers will weep with jealousy.”

You covered your face with both hands. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

“Believe it,” Gracie said, practically vibrating beside you as you both stumbled down the sidewalk. The streetlights buzzed overhead, the air thick with summer sweat and bad ideas. “You’re officially in the reckless point of your life.”

“I was just trying to dance to Outkast,” you muttered. “How did it escalate to permanent body art?”

Gracie beamed like you’d handed her an award. “Because you went out with me, darling.”

After a few more blocks—somehow downhill both ways, your feet aching and your phone officially gone—you turned the corner and found yourselves in front of a tattoo shop that looked... questionably open. Flickering neon, barred windows, and a hand-painted sign that just said INK like it was yelling.

“Gracie,” you said slowly, “this place looks like where ghosts get prison tats.”

“It’s fine,” she chirped, pushing open the door. “Marcus owes me. He did my tramp stamp in college, and I helped him with a DUI. It’s called friendship.”

“That is not friendship.”

But you followed her in anyway.

Inside, the place was—surprisingly—clean. A little cluttered, a little chaotic, but no biohazard warnings in sight. The guy behind the counter looked up, blinked at Gracie, and groaned. “Oh, hell.”

She grinned. “Miss me?”

“Like a rash.”

You leaned against the counter, the room spinning slightly. “He’s the one doing the needlework?”

Gracie gave you a thumbs-up. “He’s got a license and trauma. Deadly combo, but we’re good.”

You wandered over to the wall of tattoo designs while Gracie negotiated something in hushed tones. Your fingers dragged across the plastic binder, the options swimming slightly in your vision. Butterflies. Moons. Barbed wire. Infinity symbols. So many fonts.

You flipped another page in the binder, vision still a little hazy, fingers smudging the plastic. And then you saw it—tucked in the bottom corner of the sheet like it didn’t want to be found.

Two tiny moths, wings mid-flutter, drawn in that delicate fine-line style. One had a faint shimmer of inked gold near its edges. The other, darker, a little worn, a little rougher. But they circled the same invisible flame—always near, never quite touching.

“Ooooh,” you breathed, tapping the page. “This one. They’re... cute.”

Gracie leaned over your shoulder, squinted. “Moths?”

“They’re not moths,” you said, poking at the paper again. “They’re little... flying guys.”

“Girl, those are moths.”

“Whatever,” you waved her off. “They’re vibing. Look, they’re like... almost touching. But not. I don’t know, it’s kinda poetic.”

Gracie was already grinning like a devil on shoulder-duty. “Poetic,” she echoed, plucking the binder from your hands and handing it off to Marcus with the triumphant air of a woman officiating a wedding. “My girl wants the melancholy moths. Right shoulder blade. Lock it in.”

You blinked. “I didn’t say shoulder blade—”

“But you were thinking it,” she said, practically vibrating with joy. “You kept touching your shoulder. That whole dramatic ‘I cannot believe this is happening’ thing. It’s a shoulder tattoo moment. Classy. Mysterious. Just slutty enough.”

“Slutty?” you choked, but the truth was, she wasn’t wrong. Something about that spot felt… right. Secret enough to hide if needed. Bold enough to peek out when you wore something strappy. And weirdly, in that half-drunken haze, it felt like the perfect place to put something that only maybe meant something.

You sighed, defeated but giddy. “Fine. Shoulder blade. But you’re going next.”

Gracie’s smile turned even more wicked. “Oh, honey. I’ve been next. Check this out.”

She reached into her purse—actually, dug into it like Mary Poppins on a mission—and pulled out a folded napkin. Scribbled on it in red lipliner and what you prayed was eyeliner, was a doodle. Two snakes—twisting, curling, one biting the other’s tail.

Your eyes went wide. “What the hell is that?”

“Our friendship,” she declared. “Chaotic. Toxic. Eternal. I’m putting it on my arm.”

You wheezed. “You drew it in lipliner!”

“And I’ll be signing it in blood, apparently. C’mon.” She spun on her heel and all but pushed you into the chair.

Marcus looked at you over his glasses, already snapping on gloves. “You first. Trust me, no one wants to follow her energy. You’re the sane one here.”

“That’s so concerning,” you mumbled as you sat, the leather cool under your legs, your whole body jittering with adrenaline and alcohol and whatever reckless, unhinged spirit had possessed you tonight.

Marcus adjusted the light and cleaned the area of your back with maddening precision, drawing the stencil with sure hands. “This’ll sting. Try not to squirm. And if you throw up, not on me.”

“I haven’t thrown up from alcohol since... high schoool,” you said, blinking slowly. “Wait. How long ago was high school?”

Gracie snorted from across the shop where she was sprawled on the guest chair like she owned the place. “That’s not the most comforting thing to hear.”

And then—

The needle buzzed.

Your whole body jolted with the first pass, not because it was unbearable but because it was real. You’d been floating all night—laughing and drinking and dancing in heels that were too high—and now here it was. A sharp little line that pulled you back to earth.

It wasn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. A scratch. A sting. An itch you couldn’t quite reach. But more than anything, it felt permanent. Not the pain. The meaning.

You pressed your cheek against the crook of your arm, letting your body melt into the chair. “This is either the dumbest thing I’ve ever done or the most profound.”

“Is it the alcohol talking or the moths?” Gracie asked, resting her chin in her hands, still watching you like she was at a theater performance.

“I don’t know,” you murmured. “Maybe both. They’re just… circling. But they never touch.”

There was a beat of quiet between you. Marcus kept working, the sound of the gun soft and rhythmic now, like a sewing machine.

Gracie’s voice was quieter when she spoke again. “Sometimes I think there’s something beautiful about that. About always coming close.”

You blinked at the floor. “Is this a metaphor?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said brightly. “I’m emotionally illiterate without them.”

You let out a laugh, warm and soft, even as your shoulder buzzed. It wasn’t a heart or a date or initials in a lock. It was something small. Something beautiful. Two beings in orbit.

When Marcus finished, he wiped the ink clean and angled the mirror so you could see.

You sat up slowly, blinking at the reflection.

The two moths danced along your skin—small, clean, delicate. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged.

Gracie clapped like she was at a runway show. “She’s art.”

You turned to her, your skin tingling as Marcus applied the saniderm. “Your turn, snake princess.”

“Gladly.” She hopped up, handed Marcus the napkin like it was the Magna Carta, and flopped into the chair.

You sat back, still buzzing from the pain and adrenaline and half-lost meaning. You didn’t know why the moths had hit you the way they did. Didn’t know why it felt so fitting. But you couldn’t stop looking at them.

Two of them—one a little larger, the other angled just slightly toward it. Wings outspread, hovering in eternal almost-contact across your shoulder blade. The ink was still fresh, the skin around it flushed and irritated, but they already looked like they belonged to you. Like they’d been there for years, waiting to be noticed.

“Okay, but why do men lose their minds when you call them ‘buddy’ during an argument?” Gracie was saying behind you. “Like, Marcus, seriously. You could be talking about parking meters and the minute you drop a ‘listen here, buddy’ they act like you’ve insulted their whole bloodline.”

Marcus didn’t answer, too focused on outlining the coiled curve of the snake Gracie had decided needed fangs and eyeliner. You caught his faint grunt of acknowledgment and the slight raise of his eyebrows, like he was reconsidering every life decision that had brought him to this point—at what time in the morning, tattooing two drunk women like he had nowhere to be.

You smiled quietly and looked down at the little folded mirror in your lap again.

Gracie gasped loudly from the chair. “Marcus! I love her. Look at her! She’s venomous!”

“She’s bleeding,” Marcus replied flatly, wiping ink and blood away from the fresh tattoo on her arm.

“She’s iconic,” Gracie countered.

Marcus snorted under his breath but kept working, dragging the needle in smooth, practiced strokes along the curve of the snake’s tail. Her tattoo was bold—more bold than yours. High on her arm, coiled like it had secrets. If yours was some kind of quiet metaphor, hers was a warning label.

“I’m serious,” Gracie went on, talking through a wince. “Men are like moths, right? Dumb. Wired to fly straight into the thing that’ll kill them. And bam, here I am. Fangs, lashes, and bad intentions.”

“You’re forgetting the moths are on me,” you said, voice teasing. “Maybe I’m the bad idea.”

“Oh, honey.” She turned her head, grinning at you upside down. “You’ve been the bad idea this whole time. You just hide it better.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers crept back to your back, grazing just above it. The tattoo was still warm. Still new. But it felt like it had been there longer—like it had waited for you.

Marcus switched to shading, the buzz of the machine changing pitch, and Gracie winced dramatically. “Okay, but ow. Why do I always forget this part hurts?”

“Because you romanticize everything,” you said.

“True. I once got a UTI and told people it was a spiritual cleanse.”

You choked. Marcus didn’t even flinch.

Your skin was still tingling—both from the fresh tattoo and from the look Gracie had given you. One of those too-knowing, full-of-it grins that made you feel like a cartoon character with your heart bouncing around outside your chest. You pulled your shirt back into place, suddenly hyper-aware of your shoulder, of the soft stretch of saniderm and tape, of the slow throb of adrenaline draining out of your system.

Gracie gave a little shake of her hips and beamed like she was walking off a runway. “C’mon, let’s pay before Marcus decides to charge us for emotional labor.”

You followed her up to the counter, where Marcus—bleary-eyed and completely over both of you—handed over the receipts and aftercare sheets with all the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk. You scribbled your name, dug through your wallet, and overpaid on instinct. Tip heavy. Maybe because you felt guilty. Maybe because you felt brave. It was hard to tell anymore.

“Do I have to sign something in blood?” you asked.

Marcus didn’t blink. “That’s extra.”

Gracie snorted and gave him a wink. “Thanks for making us beautiful, babe.”

“I made her beautiful,” he said dryly, nodding to you. “You were already a lost cause.”

You cackled. Gracie flipped him off with the flair of a Broadway actress.

The door creaked open behind you and suddenly the night air hit—cool and damp, thick with the early-spring scent of pavement and distant rain. The sky had shifted to that deep, weird navy blue it only wore around four in the morning. A couple cabs rumbled past down the street. A guy was sleeping on a bus bench, and across the road a diner glowed like a mirage.

You shivered and wrapped your arms around yourself. “Okay. How the hell is it already this late? Or—early? Whatever.”

Gracie tugged you forward by the wrist. “Time isn’t real. Also, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I am about to fall over,” you grumbled, your boots catching on a crack in the sidewalk. “I think my skeleton is trying to leave my body. I’m going to be a ghost by sunrise.”

“That’s the tattoo magic,” she said with a wink. “It awakens your third eye.”

“My third eye wants to sleep for twelve hours.”

You turned a corner together, the sidewalk glinting faintly under the streetlights, and for a few steps, neither of you said anything. Just the echo of your boots and the faint sound of birds starting to chirp way too early.

Then you glanced over at her. “So… are you seeing anyone right now?”

Gracie gave you a side-eye. “What’s with the sudden romance interview?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I just realized I’ve known you for like a week, and all the times we’ve texted, I don’t know anything about your love life.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “Well, it’s not much of a love life, per se.”

You blinked. “So, no one?”

“No, no,” she said, grinning. “I have a husband.”

You almost tripped. “What?”

Gracie laughed and kept walking. “Yeah. Husband. House. Kid. Two cats. One terrifyingly powerful juicer.”

You stared at her. “You’re married?”

“Mhm.”

“In 2003?”

She barked out a laugh. “Yes, in 2003. Women are allowed to have families and get tattoos, you know.”

“No, I mean—you. You don’t look married.”

Gracie stopped and faced you, hands on her hips. “And what, pray tell, does ‘looking married’ entail?”

“I don’t know!” you flailed. “You just—you’re wild! You wear leather pants and fake IDs and convince people to get tattoos at three AM!”

“And I make amazing pancakes and pack superhero-themed lunches and know how to get tree sap out of a Spider-Man costume.” She grinned. “We contain multitudes.”

You gaped. “You have a kid?”

“Seven years old. Her name’s Noa. She’s obsessed with frogs right now. I had to sew a frog patch onto her backpack last week because ‘all the cool girls have one, Mom.’”

Your brain short-circuited. “You’re a mom?”

Gracie just beamed at you, basking in your disbelief like it was sunshine. “My husband’s a high school English teacher. He plays guitar badly and makes bad dad jokes and thinks I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.”

You swayed a little. From the hour. From the revelation. From the quiet, bewildering ache of realizing maybe the people you thought were chaotic and reckless were actually deeply rooted and whole.

You looked at her—really looked. Her eyeliner was smeared, her shirt was half untucked, and her new tattoo was leaking just a little blood onto the bandage. And still, she glowed.

“You’re like...a real person,” you murmured.

She snorted. “You say that like it’s shocking.”

You swallowed. “It kind of is.”

Gracie gave you a long look, something soft behind the glittering edges of her curiosity. Then she tilted her head, grinning like a cat who smelled drama.

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out like taffy. “Now that I’ve bared my whole suburban soul to you, I think it’s only fair you spill. What about you?”

You blinked at her. “What about me?”

“Your love life, dumbass.”

You scoffed, looking ahead down the dim street. “Weak. Practically nonexistent.”

“Liar.”

You laughed. “I’m serious. I mean, I’ve dated. I’ve had a few semi-serious things. But nothing like—like husband and kid territory.”

Gracie hummed, her face thoughtful as the two of you wandered past the closed-up windows of an old bakery, your steps slow and uneven under the weight of too much adrenaline and not enough sobriety.

“Nothing wrong with that,” she said eventually. “Everyone’s got their own timeline. It’s not a race to the altar.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “But sometimes it feels like I missed a turn somewhere. Like everyone else got the memo and I just... didn't show up for orientation.”

Gracie snorted. “Please. You didn’t miss anything. You ever try planning a wedding with someone who thinks all centerpieces are a waste of money? Or squeeze a car seat into a tiny-ass Honda Civic with a screaming baby in the back? It’s not always the picture-perfect thing it looks like.”

You glanced at her. “But you seem happy.”

“I am happy,” she said, smiling softly. “But that’s because I didn’t settle. That’s the trick, you know. Not grabbing onto the first warm body who says the right things or checks a few boxes. You wait. You build it with someone who sees you. Really sees you.”

You looked down at your shoes. “I guess I haven’t found that yet.”

Gracie tugged you a little closer, bumping your hip with hers. “Then don’t force it. Don't go chasing a feeling just because you think you’re supposed to have it by now. Real love—it’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s just this quiet, steady thing that sneaks up on you. Something that grows when you’re not even looking.”

You nodded, silent for a few beats, the night air brushing warm across your skin.

“How’d you know?” you asked. “With your husband?”

She smiled to herself, like the memory was a string she could still pluck and hear the music of. “I didn’t. Not at first. I thought he was just some guy who liked corny jokes and had too many button-ups. But then he’d remember things I said weeks ago. He’d bring me snacks when I was up late writing papers. He’d drive across town just to walk me to my car after night classes.”

She glanced over at you, eyes soft. “Love didn’t hit me like lightning. It was more like… gentle weather. Like waking up one day and realizing the sun’s been rising just a little earlier, warming you just a little longer.”

You grinned, quietly, your smile lazy as the alcohol buzzed in your system. “That sounds nice… poetic even.”

“It is nice,” she said. “But so is where you are now. I mean it. You’ve still got this whole stretch of road ahead of you. All this freedom, all this you time. Use it. Don’t waste it chasing something just because the world says you should have it by now.”

You were quiet again, the weight of her words sinking in somewhere deep, somewhere aching.

Gracie grinned. “Besides, when it hits you, you’ll know.”

“How?”

She squeezed your hand. “Because it’ll scare the hell out of you.”

God, you were drunk, because her words were stirring something in you that you didn’t normally feel. That strange, sticky ache behind the ribs. The kind that made you crave more than just touch—something solid, something real. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the moths still burning beneath your skin. Or maybe it was the look in her eyes when she talked about someone showing up for her in a hundred quiet, unremarkable ways.

You didn’t know. You just knew it made your throat tight.

You were about to say something, maybe even something mushy and foolish about love—something you'd regret in the morning—when you heard it:

“Hey!”

Your name, shouted across the dark, gritty sidewalk.

You and Gracie both froze.

Her arm shot out fast, fingers gripping your wrist like a vice. “Don’t move,” she whispered close to your ear. “Some guy’s been watchin’ us since the shop. I knew it.”

You blinked, still buzzed and dazed from your brand-new tattoo and too much tequila. You squinted toward the voice, the shadows pulling into shape—

And your stomach dropped.

Oh, hell.

“Are you kidding me?” you muttered.

“What? You know that guy?” Gracie asked, brows furrowed as she took a step in front of you.

Joel stormed up, all tense shoulders and pissed-off energy. His scowl looked carved into stone.

“You outta your goddamn mind?” he barked. “You just disappear? No phone, no call? Your dad's freakin’ out—he asked me to find your ass, and I drive thirty minutes to see you drunk in the street with some stranger?”

Gracie bristled immediately, sobering up immediately, stepping between you and him like a human barrier.

“Excuse me?” she snapped. “You don’t get to yell at her like that, I don’t care if you’re her brother or her parole officer.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “I ain’t either.”

“She’s been with me all night. She’s safe. I’ve got pepper spray in my purse, and I’ve got eyes in the back of my damn head. Back. Off.”

You sighed, swaying a little as you pushed gently at Gracie’s shoulder. “Gracie, it’s fine.”

“You sure?” she asked, eyes still locked on Joel like she’d throw hands if you gave her the word.

You nodded. “Unfortunately. Yeah. I know him.”

Joel didn’t even blink. “Good. Then get your drunk ass in the truck.”

Gracie turned on him, fiery and unrelenting. “Wow. Charming. You're always this pleasant, or is she just lucky?”

Joel’s glare cut right through her. “Who the hell even are you?”

“Friend,” she said coolly. “The kind that doesn’t bark orders like a caveman.”

He stepped closer, towering, bristling with anger. “You know what? I don’t give a damn who you are. I got dragged into this because her daddy was worried sick, and I come all the way out here to find her laughin’, and three drinks past her limit.”

“Maybe if you weren’t acting like an asshole,” you slurred, “You’d see I’m fine.”

Joel turned to you, fire in his eyes. “Yeah? You think this is fine? Wandering around like you’re bulletproof? Your phone’s dead, it’s nearly two in the mornin’, and I get told to find you like I’m some goddamn babysitter.”

You stared him down, chest hot with fury. “No one made you come.”

He glared, bitter and sharp. “Right. Just like no one made you blow off every damn thing that matters.”

That hit harder than you wanted to admit. Even drunk, your throat tightened.

Gracie turned to you, concern edging into her voice. “You okay?”

You gave a tiny nod. “Just a history thing.”

Joel scoffed. “History. Yeah. Let’s call it that.”

Gracie narrowed her eyes. “Joel Miller, right? Tommy’s brother?”

Joel flicked his gaze to her, unimpressed. “Yeah. You a fan club president or somethin’?”

“Not even close,” she said, voice flat. “But I can spot a control freak when I see one.”

You groaned and leaned against the building, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay, enough.”

Joel stepped forward, voice low and hard. “Get in the damn truck, now. ‘Fore I throw you over my shoulder.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t have the will.”

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But his jaw ticked.

Gracie crossed her arms. “Text me when you get home. I’ll keep a lookout for your mugshot in the meantime.”

“You?” You turned to her, gripping her forearms gently, searching for something honest in her eyes.

Gracie laughed, the sound light and easy, like you’d just asked the question a thousand times before. “I can hang in Marcus’ place no problem. Hell, I’ll even call my husband from in there. I’m well taken care of, trust me.”

You shot a quick glance back toward Joel. He was standing stiffly by the curb, eyes flicking down to his watch, then tapping the toe of his boot against the cracked pavement.

No words passed between you and him as you walked toward the truck, the night air thick with tension. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and sharp, until you climbed into the passenger seat with him holding the door.

Your argument still stung your mind. His words and tone through the texts about Sarah. You could scratch the skin off your arm on how irritated you were.

Joel closed the door with a firm thud, the sound final, like locking down a vault. He went around, got inside, and started the engine without a word, the truck rumbling beneath you. Then, without looking your way, he launched into his usual gruff lecture.

“You ever think about how stupid you look, wanderin’ off like that?”

His voice was low, rough-edged, every word loaded with frustration.

You sighed, leaning back, eyes tracing the stars above. “I’m not a kid, Joel.”

“Yeah, well, you sure don’t act like an adult sometimes.”

He glanced sideways, jaw tight, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“Phone’s dead. No clue where the hell you were. Drunk outta your damn mind, talkin’ to strangers like it’s all a big game.”

“Gracie is not a stranger,” you snap, too fast, too defensive.

“Oh? Then tell me her address,” Joel fires back instantly, voice sharp and unrelenting. “Or her husband’s name? Or what she does for a livin’? Anythin’ about her that says ‘friend’?”

Your jaw clenches. Teeth grinding.

You hate when he does that—when he’s right and knows it. When he doesn’t yell but slices clean and deliberately, every word cutting exactly where it’s meant to.

“Didn’t think so,” he mutters, shaking his head as the headlights catch on the curve of the road.

“God, I’m grown up! You're not my keeper,” you snap, arms crossed so tight it’s like you're trying to hold yourself together with pressure alone.

“That’s right,” Joel says, his voice rising—not yelling, but low and hot, like embers under dry brush. “I should be sleepin’ on the damn couch with Sarah passed out next to me, watchin’ a good movie, maybe a bowl of popcorn half-finished on the table. That’s where I was supposed to be when your daddy called. You know how pissed off I should be right now?”

He exhales, sharp through his nose.

“But no. I’m here. Quiet. Takin’ you home.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Just heat behind your eyes and that sick twist of guilt that settles low in your gut.

You turn your face toward the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass. The night outside is all blurred streetlights and empty shadows, but you close your eyes anyway. Try to breathe. Try not to cry.

But you feel it. That throb behind your eyes, that sting in your throat. The drunk tears well up and spill over, quiet and hot down your cheeks.

God, Gracie was wrong. You were a crier.

Joel glances over again—maybe to say something, maybe just to check if you’re still breathing—but his eyes catch on your shoulder instead. Your tank top had slipped a little, and the truck’s dim overhead light brushes over the fresh ink, the skin still a little red around the edges.

He squints. “What the hell is that?”

You blink, confused. Then you follow his gaze. “Oh.” You sniff. “It’s a moth.”

“A moth?” His voice sharpens, head jerking slightly like he might’ve misheard. “That thing’s new?”

You nod. “Got it tonight.”

Joel slams his palm against the steering wheel once—not hard enough to scare you, but enough to let you know he’s officially had it.

“Jesus Christ, you are unbelievable.”

“Don’t—” you try, but he’s already off.

“You got drunk, wandered off, let your damn phone die, and now you’re tellin’ me you let some stranger tattoo you while you could barely stand upright?”

“I wasn’t that drunk when I got it,” you say, wiping at your cheek with the back of your hand. “I was fine.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “You smell like a liquor store, your eyeliner’s halfway down your face, and you can’t walk in a straight line—but yeah, sure, let’s make permanent decisions while blackout adjacent.”

You cross your arms, eyes stinging again, not from alcohol this time but the sheer force of humiliation.

“It’s not permanent-permanent,” you mumble. “They fade.”

“Oh great,” he throws back sarcastically. “So you didn’t just make a lifelong decision, just one that'll haunt you for the next few years. Big improvement.”

You glare at the dashboard. “It’s just a tattoo.”

“No. It’s a neon sign sayin’ I don’t think things through, and it’s sittin’ on your skin like it’s proud.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then it happens.

The first sob rips out of your chest so violently it sounds like you’ve been shot. It echoes in the truck like a wounded animal. Your shoulders curl forward, hands braced on your knees, and you start ugly crying—hiccupping, gasping, fat tears rolling down your cheeks like a busted faucet.

Joel freezes. “Oh shit.”

Another hiccup. Another sob. You’re full-body shaking now.

“Oh shit—shitshitshit— okay, alright, stop—hey—”

He whips the truck into the nearest parking lot—some gas station or maybe a 24-hour donut shop, who cares—and throws it in park with a dramatic jolt.

“Okay. What’s goin’ on? What is this?” He gestures vaguely at all of you, eyes wide, hands hovering in the air like he’s afraid if he touches you, you’ll melt into a puddle of tears and moth tattoos.

You’re still sobbing, snot threatening to make a guest appearance.

“I—I just—” hiccup “—you hate me—” hiccup “—and I liked the moth, okay? It felt—symbolic or whatever the fuck—and Gracie said it was cute, and I just wanted one thing that was mine but now it’s ruined forever because you yelled at me so good—”

Joel blinks. “Yelled at you so good? What the hell does that even mean?”

You wail harder, like your own words betrayed you. “I don’t know, I’m drunk!”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, Lord, take me now.

“Okay. Breathe. Slow the hell down. You’re not dyin’, alright?”

You hiccup again, dragging your hand across your face like a five-year-old in meltdown mode. “M’not dyin’. M’just a dumbass with a shoulder moths.”

Joel flinched at the plural. “Moths? As in more than one?”

You hold up a finger, swaying slightly in your seat. “Just two. One’s small. They’re, like, flying metaphors.”

He blinks at you. “That is the worst sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“I was expressing myself!” you wail, flopping sideways in your seat dramatically. “You’re s’posed to be supportive!”

“I am being supportive,” he says, voice tight. “This is my supportive voice. Right here. This is me… bein’ very calm. Very fuckin’ supportive.”

“I don’t feel supported,” you sniffle, burying your face into the crook of your elbow now. “I feel like a failure with bugs on her shoulder.”

“They’re moths,” he mutters.

“They’re symbolic!” you snap, then immediately burst into another round of pitiful sobs.

Joel presses his hands against his eyes like he’s trying to telepathically rewind the night. “Alright. That’s enough. Sit up.”

“I can’t,” you groan. “I’m filled with… like… regret and tequila and existential dread.”

Joel lets out a sigh so monumental it could’ve knocked birds from the sky. His hand comes up and rubs down his face before he leans over, a little stiff, and gives your shoulder a solid, awkward pat—like he’s burping a very drunk, very dramatic toddler.

“Okay. Okay. Listen,” he says, voice low and controlled like he’s trying not to startle a deer. “You’re not the first person to get drunk and make a stupid decision, alright? Or… seven. You got a weird tattoo. You sobbed like I ran over your childhood cat. You’re gonna survive this.”

You sniff, wiping your nose on your other sleeve now, eyes still glassy and wobbly. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“Like... pinky swear?” you mumble.

Joel blinks. “What am I? Six?”

You hold out your pinky, wavering in the air with deep seriousness.

With an exhausted sigh, Joel lifts his own hand and hooks his pinky around yours.

“There,” he grumbles. “Pinky sworn. You’re not the worst human bein’ alive.”

You finally breathe. And slowly, slowly, the hitching in your chest settles. Your breathing evens out, the tears stop making little rivers down your cheeks, and you blink up at him with eyes so wide and pathetic he physically flinches.

Puppy eyes. Lethal-grade.

You whisper, small and broken “Joel?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, but he glances down at you. “Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna puke.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Shit.”

In a blur of flannel and gravel crunching under tires, Joel opens his door, practically lunges out of his side of the truck, and races around to yours. He yanks the door open with the speed of a man who’s seen combat and knows vomit is worse.

“C’mon—move—get out, now.”

You scramble with the seatbelt, fingers fumbly and utterly unhelpful. “I’m tryin’—I’m tryin’—my hands forgot how hands work—”

“Oh my God,” Joel mutters, unbuckling you himself, manhandling you gently but urgently out of the truck. “Go! To the bushes! Aim away from the truck, for the love of—”

You wobble like a newborn calf, arms flailing for balance as you stumble aimlessly toward the scraggly bushes that look about as inviting as a porcupine in a sweater. Your feet feel like they’ve been replaced by drunk jelly, and you’re convinced gravity’s playing a cruel joke on you.

Joel’s patience snaps.

Before you can collapse spectacularly into some parking spot, strong hands clamp firmly on your thighs and—before you know it—you’re hoisted over his shoulder like a drunk sack, your head lolling behind him.

“Joel! This is making it worse!” you whine, voice muffled against his flannel shirt. “You’re making me more nauseous! Put me down!”

He grunts. “Shut up.”

“No, really, I’m gonna—”

“Shut. Up.”

You throw your arms out like you’re auditioning for a failed airplane role. “You’re not helping the situation here!”

He marches the ten feet to the bushes and gently but decisively plunks you down on the edge of the bushes, all knees and regret, lurching toward them near a shuttered gas station.

He stands right next to you “Not on your shoes!”

“I KNOW!” you holler back, already bent double.

Joel leans on the wall, watching like a grumpy lifeguard monitoring a very doomed swimmer. He glances toward the sky. “Why me?” he mumbles. “Outta everyone in town. Why the hell me?”

From the bushes, a long, tragic sound echoes across the asphalt.

“Ugggghhhhh,” you wail, voice weak and pitiful. “Moth regrets!”

Joel pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’ll never drink again.”

“You can’t control me,” you whimper.

He walks to the edge of the lot, still keeping a respectable distance like a seasoned puke perimeter pro. “When you’re done purgin’ all your poor life decisions, lemme know. I’ll give you some water. And maybe a hose.”

You peek your head up from behind the bushes, hair wild, eyeliner a war zone. “Are you mad at me?”

Joel stares at you.

You blink.

He sighs. “No, sweetheart. Not mad.”

“…Disappointed?”

“So disappointed,” he says flatly. “You’re lucky you look like a wet raccoon right now or I’d be yellin’.”

You grin, breathless. “You do care.”

He throws his hands up. “God help me, I do tonight.”

Joel trudges toward the gas station like it’s a war zone. You shuffle over to the curb, flop down like you own the place, and stare at the cracked pavement, letting your brain buzz somewhere between regret and the lingering tequila.

After a few minutes, Joel emerges, looking like he just survived a hostage negotiation with a particularly stubborn vending machine. He holds out a bottle of water and a pack of gum like he’s offering you a peace treaty.

“Here. Drink this before you turn into a raisin, and chew the gum so you don’t taste anythin’.”

You take the water with shaky hands, cracking the cap open with dramatic slowness, and take a long gulp. Then, you pop a piece of gum into your mouth and pull a goofy, gum-stretched smile at him.

Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s with the bubble gum smile?”

You blow a slow, wobbling bubble that pops dramatically against your cheek. “It’s my version of a winning grin. Keeps the tequila breath in check.”

He snorts, shaking his head like he’s just witnessed a small miracle and a minor tragedy all at once. “You’re a mess.”

#fanfic #joel miller #joel x reader #last of us #joel miller x y/n #the last of us hbo #tlou joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #terms & conditions #joel tlou #joel the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #tlou #tlou hbo #x reader

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brookaboo · 3 days ago

Text

Firestorm

part 2

tomura Shigaraki x fem!reader

authors note: let me know if I should continue with a part three and what I should have happen in part three

Y/N was two seconds from dragging Shigaraki into a corner for a “chat” that likely involved fire damage—when Dabi rolled his eyes and said dryly, “God, Y/N, stop being so childish. We’re villains. This is what we do.”

Her head slowly turned, eyes flaring as her hair ignited again with a violent whoosh. “You not only kidnapped a kid—”

“Teenager,” Bakugo interrupted from the chair, scowling.

She shot him a death glare, and he immediately leaned back. “Tch, whatever,” he muttered.

“—Correction,” Y/N growled, still staring daggers at her brother. “A teenager. You didn’t even think about this” Her voice cracked, not with weakness but raw, exposed pain. “Think about me, god Dabi I mean I didn’t get a choice if I wanted to be a villain or not.”

Everyone went quiet knowing she was rightfully mad

“I was thrown into the streets by our father, remember? The same asshole who only wanted one strong kid to fulfill his idiotic ambitions He didn’t ask for twins. He looked at us both and thought you would be stronger and better to fulfill his wishes So I got nothing. No home. No chance at anything I learned how to survive, not because I wanted to be like this, but because I had to. I was forced into reality from the get-go.”

Her voice dropped, like an ember before the flare.

“So now you tell me—why the hell would you think I’d be okay with you taking that same choice away from him?”

Dabi’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he scoffed and tried to brush past her.

Bad move.

His shoulder ignited in a searing blaze. “AH! What the—?!” he yelped, slapping it out.

“Don’t act like I’m being a burden,” she snapped, stepping into his path. “I’m the only one here with a half-decent heart. Try to blow me off again, and I’ll make you wish the heroes got to you before I did.”

He grumbled something under his breath and retreated to the couch, slumping into it with a charred scowl. Then his narrowed gaze turned on the others.

Toga, Twice, Spinner, Magne, and Mr. Compress all suddenly found something very interesting on the ceiling.

“They all thought this was a good idea?” Dabi barked. “Hiding this from you She’s not just fire, she’s nuclear! Idiots!”

Y/N rounded on them too. “Exactly! You went out, recklessly, and grabbed a teenage boy who clearlydoesn’t want to be a villain! You’re not just dangerous—you’re straight up stupid Do you guys even ever think a thought ? Or were you just hoping that I would be perfectly fine with you kidnapping a boy in hopes of forcing him to be a villain”

“Y/N, we were just trying to—” Mr. Compress began.

“Don’t give me any of your stupid excuses” she warned.

Twice cautiously touched her shoulder in an attempt at comfort—and instantly yelped as his glove singed. “YEP, okay, no touching, got it! Crystal clear! Woo, that’s toasty!”

He backed off like he’d touched a stove. The rest followed suit.

Then her blazing eyes landed on Shigaraki. Her boyfriend. The one who knew exactly how she’d react.

“You,” she snarled, stalking toward him.

Shigaraki didn’t move. Not because he was brave—he was just calculating if running would make things worse. Probably.

“You knew I’d be mad,” she shouted, flames dancing in her hair like a living crown. “You knew, and you still tried to hide it from me! You let them go behind my back!”

“I thought—”

“No. You didn’t think that’s the problem. You always talk about how the world wronged you, how people never gave you a chance, and now you’ve gone and done the same thing to someone else. That’s not justice, Tomura. That’s hypocrisy.”

Bakugo was still tied up, but his head was tilted, watching her with visible awe. Her rage, her words, the way she commanded a room full of killers like they were scolded schoolchildren.

“Damn,” he muttered. “That was kinda badass.”

Kurogiri, still wiping melted glass from the counter, hummed calmly and spoke only to bakugo “Oh yes she is quite the passionate one I mean once she has her heart set on belief that’s what it is and you dear boy are quite lucky that she is so passionate about this because if she wasn’t you most likely would have already been beat and forced to be a villain”

And he was not wrong because when y/n had her beliefs set come hell or high water she would not waver from that belief

Shigaraki rubbed his neck, visibly uncomfortable as he tried to meet her burning gaze. “...I just didn’t want you to stop trusting me and I knew you would be mad so we tried to avoid that and I don’t like when you are mad”

“Well You made that choice the moment you kept me out of it.”

The room was silent again.

Even Toga didn’t dare say a word knowing her friend was right and knew not to anger her anymore than already

Y/N turned back to Bakugo, her flames dimming slightly but her eyes still smoldering.

“I’m getting you out of those cuffs.”

Bakugo looked at her sideways. “...Thanks, I guess.”

“But if you try to blow something up the second you're free,” she warned, “I’ll knock your ass out cold. Capiche?”

He smirked. “Yes and you know You’re pretty alright for a villain fire-starter”

And for the first time since the heatwave began, Y/N cracked a smirk.

#mha x reader #touya todoroki #shigaraki x reader #mha #shigaraki tomura #mha bakugou #bnha x reader #fem!reader

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marciliedonato · 5 months ago

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Dandadan girl summerrr 💅👽🏃🏼‍♀️💨🐈

#I love when we actually get dates for shit instead of being like 'season 2 soon queen? 👀 New season queen? 👀'#Thank u dandadan Thursday see u in the summer diva 🙏♥️#Dandadan #wow anna said something #anna's shitposts #Ik that's righttt #Season 2 announcement as soon as the final ep of s1 stops we are so back (never left)#momo ayase #Okarun #I don't have a lot of ddd gifs saved pls forgive me divas accept this smitten catgirl in these trying times #*drops why did that correct to stops what

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sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe · 5 months ago

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and you are alight in perfect clarity

(shuddering headwound notwithstanding)

#i am Hypothetically #figuring out how colors work #digital art #turns out you can just draw pictures and god can’t stop you #line from team building headwound exercises #color theory #women #seriously i have no idea what to tag this #i just think she’s pretty. and eventually i might even finish the new icon #yeah fuck it this can be my last 2024 post. why not #no i did not have to drop everything to color correct sign and date this why do you ask #no ai

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medicinemane · 2 months ago

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Ah... I've figured it out!

My brain's been treating Caucasus and Carpathian as the same word and that's why it's been so confusing why this mountain range seems to jump around by a pretty wide margin

Dyslexia did the same thing with Austria and Australia where just like here I knew they were different, but just didn't quite process it, which ended up with me thinking things like "Wow, I wonder why Falco's German is so spot on, like that's pretty impressive for an Australian"

Like my dyslexia just says "These two words are similar size and shape... I think they're probably more or less the same word, I'll file them away in the same spot, especially cause they're the same type of thing"

But I finally caught it seeing Carpathians mentioned being in Ukraine, and me being like "I really did think they were more over towards Georgia... maybe they go under the black se... wait a minute, I finally figured out why I'm confused"

Also see the Balkans and the Baltic where I 100% know the difference and know which one I'm talking about but very much may say the wrong one (and my dad's been like "oh you see, you just need to remember that..." and it's like dude it's dyslexia... also with GK Chesterton I'll often say "J" and my dad'll say similar stuff and it's like dude... there's no mnemonic here, J and G just sound and look similar enough my brain sometimes swaps them in behind my back)

Anyway, finally caught it in the act, finally understand why it seemed like these mountains jumped across a large body of water and no one ever commented on it... it's cause it was my dyslexia filing them away as both mountain ranges starting with C so... basically the same thing... yeah... yeah that's the same thing

#mm tag so i can find things later #it does get frustrating with my dad not being able to explain to him that like... dude you know I have dyslexia #this is like a textbook dyslexia issue #perhaps there's no fix and perhaps there's no need to fix it even #perhaps it's ok if I'm talking about the 3 countries near Norway and say Balkans to just say 'you meant Baltic' and let us move on #and frankly to just let stuff like if I accidentally always say JK Chesterton but always write it GK... just let it ride #If you know I meant to say G and just my brain always puts J in my mouth... you gotta drop it #this is why people get tired of talking with my dad; cause he accidentally needles people #I probably do too but I at least try not to... especially if someone explains it's cause of some kind of disorder-ish thing #I honestly mostly like my dyslexia #but like... you can't get mad at me when my dyslexia has dyslexia symptoms; it's simply not fair when I can't control that shit #like have a good laugh that I spent a period of time with my brain telling me Falco was Australian cause that's funny #but like... don't have it at my expense either... you know?#let me laugh at when my dyslexia's been leading me around by my nose and fed me nonsense earnestly because it's silly #but stop making me feel super fucking defensive about it #glad I've know I was dyslexic since I was like 5 or I'd probably just feel very very stupid all the time #you people don't see it but spellcheck is legit a disability aid for me; I get better at spelling the more I type #I'm better at it now than I was 5 years ago; and better than than I was 5 years before that #I like typing a lot of things to a lot of people so I use words enough they get built in #...but... I literally can't spell... I'm gonna do my best here; but 'gar... garuentty'? no; 'guarantee'#I couldn't even get spell checker to figure out what I wanted to say; it took a search engine which is... the best spelling aid #I don't mind my dyslexia; there's ways it helps me think; but it actually is a minor disability #and I'd rather not be made fun of for my disability I've always had #it is so funny to me that my brain smoothed together info in a way where I forgot about Austria and thought there was a guy #who inexplicably decided to sing in perfect German despite being Australian; I like laughing about that... it's almost a treat from my brai #but I don't feel much like being laugh /at/ for it #and I don't much feel like being corrected like I made a mistake instead of that my brain put the wrong word in my mouth #if I'm talking about the lead up to WW1 and say Baltics you can just double check I meant Balkans and leave it there... cause I did #...legit mostly my dad that has me writing this defensive rant under something that's just funny information to me #catching my brain falsifying information in the act and shaking my fist at it in a light hearted way cause it's actually funny

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digi-diareis · 3 months ago

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"We need to talk" Prank

with the LaDS love interests, implied that the LI's are already in a relationship w you

Xavier

Oh he's pulling out the puppy dog eyes immediately, lower lip jutting out and ready to start crying.

"I'm sorry." "What? Do you even know what you're apologizing for? Also, why are you apologizing?"

This guy is ready to admit to any and all the faults he's made the past week, from cooking without permission, eating her secret stash of snacks, forgetting to feed the cat on time, etc.

"Please don't break up with me, please please please please-" "Xavi, baby, calm down, I'm not breaking up with you"

Anyways, the prank doesn't even last a minute because you break the moment he pulls out the kicked puppy look and he starts begging for you.

You guys end up cuddling the entire day because he won't stop sulking and being worried that you're tired of him so you can't really leave him alone because this is your fault.

We love a loser like Xavi <3

Rafayel

Dramatic ass man and pranks like these are like perfect tiktok material.

"Oh, you are NOT breaking up with me. I don't give you permission to." "I don't recall breaking up having to need permission from both parties." "Well, now you know."

Anyways, you're both just bickering over stupid shit now. You've strayed from the "we need to talk" to now pointing fingers at who's the bigger drama queen between the two of you.

Zayne

Oh sweet summer child, takes you very seriously.

"What is it, love? Did I do something to upset you?"

Oh, you just know how guilty you'll end up feeling when you keep up with the prank. You last a solid 3 sentences before you slowly turn quiet because he's listening so patiently and looks like he's truly reflecting on everything you've said.

"Okay, I'm sorry it was a stupid prank but I can't stand looking at you this guilty. You've been nothing but an absolute sweetheart, I could never ask for more."

Zayne sighs, relieved that it wasn't actually something major.

"Please, try not to do pranks like these again. I love you but the way my heart dropped when you said those words is not healthy."

You give him a big hug and lots of smooches to make it up to him, vowing never to do pranks like these on him again.

Sylus

Oh, you are looking forward to this. There's a power trip of sorts when you remember how much power you actually hold over this man. And this is perfect.

Some say this might be a red flag of yours but you're dating a wholeass criminal big boss so it's not really that big of a deal.

When you start the prank, he raises an eyebrow. Feeling like it might be a prank since he did spoil you and didn't do anything to piss you off recently.

"And what is it this time, sweetheart?"

Okay ngl, I think this prank goes way too far because he would correct / contradict / defend every single reason and excuse you come up with. That it just becomes a wholeass debate of whether you even have an actual reason to be unsatisfied with your relationship.

At the end of it all, you are breathless and out of excuses. So you just glare at him. Sylus simply smirks knowing he won this 'argument'.

"I'll get you someday, look forward to the day that you're begging for me on your knees." "Oh sweetheart, I'd get on my knees for you anytime, if you just asked."

Caleb

You feel like this might be the worst idea you've ever had, knowing full well how possessive Caleb can get but anything for the gram or whatever the kids say.

"Say that again, buttercup? I think I misheard you."

Oh, the way his voice dropped an entire octave got you both nervous and also maybe turned on?

You try to be strong and push through, repeating what you said.

"Sure, we can talk. Did I do something wrong? Did I upset you? Did you find out about the hidden cameras? Is it the new guy at work, did he give you any ideas? I knew I shouldn't have stopped at a few broken ribs-" "CALEB WHAT THE FUCK"

Prank is forgotten, you are now giving him an hour long sermon about hidden cameras and not beating up every man who has any interaction with you.

What you say is definitely passing through the other ear for him, he's just pleased he managed to distract you from the original topic. Its better that you feel responsible for correcting him and being stuck with him rather than you getting sick and tired of him.

Caleb - 1 : You - 0

(i tried my best but i feel like these are very ooc aaaaaaa)

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yanderedrabbles · 3 months ago

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Yandere Serial Killer(s)

Your mother always warned you to never give rides to strangers, but the hitchhiker you run into seems harmless. What's the worst that can happen? Tags: implied noncon

Things originally start well. You and your buddies piled into your roommate's Jeep, roof down, pop music blasting. You're the driver - always the responsible one - hair tied back and sunglasses on the edge of your nose. You're all dressed for summer. Bikini tops and board shorts, smeared with sunscreen - the picture of college fun.

It starts well and keeps going even better. You're all in high spirits. Flushed and happy and young. Picking up the hitchhiker seems like a good idea. You see that he's handsome and around your age, that he's got an easy smile and a guitar on his back. You see that and nothing else. Not the too quick eyes, not the surprisingly light backback. Nothing.

He ends up riding shotgun, talking to you about classes and shitty professors. Smiling just a little every time you shift gears and your hand brushes his thigh.

You like him. You're the only single in the car so it's natural that he spends the most time talking to you. Lord knows it's hard to keep a conversation going with a couple when they look like they'd rather be tonsil deep in each other's throats.

You like him and you get the feeling he likes you too. When you stop at a sleazy motel for the night, he invites you to eat dinner with him outside his room. All your friends are off doing what couples do best - getting cosy in the hot tub, testing the speeds on the vibrating bed, finding new and interesting ways to use the ice machine. So you're glad for the company.

Mostly.

You're almost done eating when he pops the question.

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

You look away from him. Take in the greasy boxes of takeout on the concrete, the neon red wash of the vacancy sign spelling across the parking lot. It's not an easy question. It brings up ugly memories.

"I used to have one. Things ended...badly. He's in Cook County Corrections now. Serving fifty to life."

He gives a low whistle.

"That bad huh? You ever go to see him?"

"No. Never."

He stretches out, folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the dull scattering of stars.

"You should. It gets lonely in there. A guy could use the pick me up, especially if the visitor is a pretty thing like you."

You shiver despite the balmy summer air.

"I'd rather not. I'll be happy to never see his face again."

Thankfully, he drops the subject. You go back to talking about awful first dates and the best dishes to order at a Chinese restaurant. He's a complete gentleman but you can't help the slight relief you feel when he stands to leave.

" 'Night gorgeous."

"Good night, stranger."

In the morning you walk out to see him reading the early paper. He crumples and tosses it before you can catch the headline.

" 'Morning. How did you sleep?"

You shrug. "Not the best. I swear these kinds of places all get their beds from the same supplier. Lumpy Mattresses Inc."

He grins. "Don't forget their trusty partner Damp and Musty Carpets LTD."

Your friends are slow to wake up and groggy when they do. Most of them nursing nasty hangovers. You and the hitchhiker have most of the morning to eat breakfast and shoot the breeze together. When it's time to leave, he takes his place in the passenger seat like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"I couldn't find any newspapers," one of your friends complains when you're back on the road.

"I wanted to see the football results."

"Eagles beats the Rams in the final playoff," the hitchhiker says.

"Aww man. Where'd you get a paper from?"

"I must have gotten lucky. Staff is 'sposed to leave the local paper at reception. Guess they must not have the budget anymore."

You stay quiet but something doesn't feel quite right about that statement.

The day passes fast. Your playlist is a lot more mellow, on account of the many lingering headaches. Still, you think there's nothing quite as fine as the open road. It's only near evening when the trouble starts.

"Shit. I can't find our reservations."

You look at your friends in the rear view mirror. They've already pulled apart two backpacks trying to find the papers. You can't help feeling irritated. The one thing you asked them to take care of...

You pull over and search the Jeep from top to bottom. Unpack almost everything. Check and then recheck your pockets. Nothing.

"I'm really sorry y/n. On the phone they said we needed the copies to check in. Maybe we can still stop by and get it sorted with the front desk but..."

You can here the unspoken thought in their words. You're all thinking the same thing - that hotels can get so uptight when their potential guests are rowdy students with still bloodshot eyes. You worry at your nail, thinking. You paid the fees in advance so maybe if you showed them your credit card...

"My friend has a cabin not far from here," the hitchhiker says. "Pretty big place. He'd be happy to let us crash there for the night."

You bite your lip. It's a two hour drive to the hotel. And if they turn you away you'll be off the beaten path with almost no cash, on a near empty petrol tank.

"You think he'd mind letting us sleep on his couch?" you ask. "We'll be well-behaved and I can pay."

He smiles at you, totally easy going about the whole thing.

"Sure we'll just have to call ahead."

You manage to track down a payphone and you wait with the rest of your crew while he calls. You can't make out what he's saying but every once in a while his eyes drift to you. No one else. Just you.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was talking about you.

When he puts the receiver down, he's all smiles.

"Got it all sorted. It's out of the way though, so I reckon we grab some chow first."

Your friends are quick to agree. What self respecting kid on spring break is going to say no to fast food and cold beer? It's only you that lingers, brow furrowed. It all feels too convenient. Your reservations go missing and the stranger you picked up just happens to have a place nearby? No way. The more you think about, it the stranger it seems.

You're still lost in thought when the hitchhiker swings an arm around your shoulders and half drags you along behind your friends.

"What's you got you so worried gorgeous?"

It's hard to be suspicious of him when he smile so easy, his shaggy brown hair dancing across his forehead.

"Nothing. I just hate to intrude on your friend."

He laughs, squeezing your shoulders before letting go.

"Trust me he'll be very glad for the company. He doesn't get out much."

He pulls the diner door open for you. Your friends have already claimed a booth and a single harried waitress is struggling to jot down their long list of requests. The hitchhiker grabs your hand before you can join them.

"My friend is a great guy. I think you'll like him."

He smiles, crooked and amused, like he's laughing at a joke only he understands.

"Hell, I know for a fact that he'll like you. You're just his type."

Your smile is tight. The last guy who said you were just his type... well, you and the district attorney both know how that ended.

You take a seat and smile at the waitress. She looks beyond overwhelmed and you silently promise to tip her as well as your half drained credit card can manage.

"I'll take a steak. Rare. Bloody as you can make it," the hitchhiker says.

You raise your brows. Not exactly the typical order for an out of the way little diner. He sees your look and grins.

"Been a while without good meat. You have no idea the craving I've had this past few days."

The booth is packed tight and his thigh is flush against yours. Warm, even though his jeans.

"We all get cravings now and again. I get it."

He tilts his head at you and it must be a trick of the light, because his pupils are blown out wide. It looks like you're staring into oil. Just... emptier somehow. You wouldn't go so far as to say he feels soulless, but if it's not in the same street it sure as hell is in the same neighbourhood. Like oil, it leaves you feeling dirty in a way that doesn't easily scrub off.

"Do you?" he asks quietly.

You open your mouth to say something along the lines of I'm only human and of course I do but his eyes stop you. He isn't talking about food or meat. No. It feels like he's asking about flesh.

One of your friends cracks a joke and you turn away from him in a hurry, pretending to laugh at something you only half heard. You don't talk to him for the rest of the meal. Try to avoid looking him even. But you can't avoid the feel of his leg against yours. Warm and solid. Can't ignore the way your heart jumps when he reaches for his wallet and his fingers accidentally scrape you inner thigh.

You're the last one out of the diner. You throw away the dirty napkins and, true to your word, tip the waitress as well as you can manage. You're half afraid that he might wait for you, but when the door clicks shut behind you, you see him with the rest of your friends. Joking around with some of the boys.

The second you start towards them, his eyes fix on yours. You aren't sure how he does it - always narrowing in on you like you have your own gravitational pull. Like he's aware of your every move.

"Ready to go?"

Are you? You aren't sure. Some dull instinct is making you want to turn tail and run. You try and talk yourself out of it. What concrete evidence do you have? What has he done wrong, besides be a little intense? Folk do that all the time and it doesn't bother you. And it's not like you'll be alone. Your whole pack of friends will be right next to you.

"Yeah, let's go. Time doesn't wait for anyone."

It's a long drive. The highway splitting off into a main road and then splintering into a half-dozen country tracks. By the time you arrive, you're beyond grateful for choosing the Jeep. Heaven alone knows how much more jostling and bouncing your teeth could take.

It's a nice place. A big cabin out in a clearing, the trees thick for miles around. Much nicer than the crummy hotel you'd otherwise have to settle for. You can't even hear the traffic.

Your friends grab their bags and the hitchhiker holds the front door open as you all file in. The entryway is clean and bright, and besides the lingering tang of bleach, there's nothing to set your suspicions racing. Honestly, you feel a little silly for being so paranoid. Must be the bad memories. They make you jumpy regardless of actual circumstances.

"Where's your friend?"

You turn just in time to see the hitchhiker slipping something small and metallic into his pocket.

"Is that the key for the -"

"My friend will be here soon," he talks over you, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "I'll show you guys your rooms and once you get settled, we can grab some beers and hit the hot tub."

He brushes past you and ignores your half-hearted grab for his arm. Your friends are already pounding up the stairs, too hyped to notice your expression. He pauses on the landing and looks back at you - the only one still standing by the door. His eyes are bright and almost hard.

"You coming?"

Nothing to be scared of, right? It's a common habit to lock the front door, especially out in the woods.

"Yep. Right behind you."

But no matter what you tell yourself, your feet still drag along when you follow him deeper into the cabin. Further and further from escape.

You're the only one who gets a room of their own. Everyone else is piled two and three deep in the guest rooms, half your buddies on couches more than beds.

You're also the last to get a room, so by the time he shows you your bed, it's only you and him. You wonder if he planned it on purpose.

"Quiet out here."

He hums in agreement, standing at your window and watching the woods. He stays silent while you unpack. Whatever he's watching for takes all his attention.

It's only when you hear your friends start splashing around in the hot tub that he speaks.

"You should probably take a shower before anyone else. The water is unreliable out here."

You silently agree. It's s been a long day, and while a quick dip in the jacuzzi sounds good, a hot shower and a cool bed sound even better. He pauses at your bedroom door to say good night. You're already heading to the bathroom and you only half hear the rest of his sentence.

"Sleep tight. And don't worry too much about any noises you hear. There's mountain lions around and the sound carries funny sometimes."

He closes your door softly behind him. Your en-suite is echoey, and when you turn on the water, you don't hear the quiet click of him locking you in.

After your shower, you're totally exhausted. You don't even bother leaving your room to check on your friends. You just curl up under your borrowed duvet and drift off. When you half wake at three in the morning to the dying echo of a scream, you mutter something about mountain lions and fall right back to sleep.

You don't see it but the figure in the corner of your room smiles. Moonlight catching for a split second on the butcher's knife in his hand.

"You always were a deep sleeper, baby. Can never remember your dreams."

Morning comes fast after that. When you wake, the only evidence of your midnight visitor is a slightly misplaced pair of sneakers that you're too drowsy to notice.

Your room door opens easily and you're half way down the stairs before you even start to wonder where your friends are.

Still sleeping probably. Had a late night.

The only sign that someone else is awake is a half empty pot of coffee and a dirty mug in the sink. You don't really feel comfortable rooting around in someone else's kitchen, but the hitchhiker did say to help yourself... You end up snatching a small Greek yogurt from the fridge and taking it out to the porch.

The forest is alive with bird song, dew still melting in the grass. It's peaceful. Tranquil. For the first time, you're entirely happy that you accepted the hitchhiker's offer.

The only thing that disrupts the picture perfect scene is a single discarded sneaker, thick with mud and left right in the middle of the yard.

You sigh. Did one of your friends really lose a whole shoe and not notice? You pick it up and knock the worst of the mud off.

So much for being well-behaved. You'll have to check over the whole place before you leave, make sure they haven't somehow tanked to the property value. The edges of the laces are stained a rusty red but you chalk it up to spilled wine or something.

You drop the shoe at the door and make your way back into the kitchen. It takes some searching but you finally find the dustbin, half hidden in a cupboard. Ugh, why do rich people always have to hide the trash away in the most obscure places?

Yesterday's paper is shoved under some tea bags, the edges of the front page barely visible.

CONVICTS ESCAPE COOK COUNTY

You frown, you gut suddenly nauseous and rolling. You dig the newspaper out of the trash. Slowly. Hesitantly. Amost afraid that the reality will be twice as bad as your suspicions. There's a massive stain on the front but you can still read the print clearly.

CONVICTS ESCAPE COOK COUNTY CORRECTIONS. MANHUNT UNDERWAY.

You don't bother to read the article. The pictures alone tell you everything. You feel sick enough to faint.

You didn't think you'd ever see his face again, but here it is. Mugshot slightly blurry and the ink starting to run. Scowling at the camera like he's more pissed at being caught than anything else.

Your ex boyfriend.

You might have been fine if it was just him. Might have called the DA and the lead homicide detective, begged for witness protection. But trouble never visits without company. There's another mugshot under his, this one captioned Serial Arsonist & Convicted Killer.

The hitchhiker wasn't smiling when the cops lined him up for his red carpet shoot. His eyes are as black and empty in his mugshot as they were last night. When he looked at you and said he was craving meat. Meat.

You might have laughed if you didn't think you were about to vomit. Yeah, he was probably craving meat alright. The roasted and still screaming kind.

You drop the newspaper, hands shaking so bad you can't hold onto it even if you wanted to.

"I told him to take out the trash. But does he listen?"

You whirl around. The hitchhiker is blocking the back door and holding your friend's lost sneaker, rolling the stained laces between his fingers.

"Thanks for grabbing this, gorgeous. If we missed it, the pigs would be back on our asses in no time."

You run.

You don't bother hearing him out or rationalising. You turn away from him and bolt straight for the front door.

You almost make it.

Your fingers just brush the metal of the doorknob before someone grabs a handful of your hair and yanks you towards them, hard enough that you end up on your back. Winded. Your scalp burning.

"Gonna leave without even saying hello? C'mon baby, is that how you greet your man?"

Your boyfriend is standing above you, smirking like this is all a game. He's still in his prison jumpsuit, the sleeves knotted around his waist. He's wearing a white tank and one glance is enough to tell you that prison has been great for his gym journey. His muscles - always toned to begin with - are positively huge.

He's always been strong, but the sight of him like this has your heart racing. How much harder can he hit, with all that extra bulk to back him up?

He slams you back onto the floor when you move to get up, his boot pressing into your sternum so hard you can almost hear your bones creaking.

"Aww, don't get up baby. Let's just talk. We've got so much to catch up on."

He presses his heel into you. Hard enough that you can't breathe out it hurting.

"Where to start... Oh, I know! Have you fucked anyone else while I've been gone? Gotten yourself a new man? Who's been between your legs while I've. Been. Rotting. Away?"

He punctuates his sentence with sharp jabs of his boot.

"No one," you managed to choke out. "Didn't have anybody."

He takes his boot off your chest and you suck in a painful breath, your lungs and ribs on fire. You roll onto you hands and knees, coughing.

Shit. Fuck.

He squats down so he's level with you, voice a sickly sweet drawl.

"You promise?"

"I-" Another painful coughing fit. "I swear. No one else."

"I don't know if I can believe you, baby. You said you loved me, and then you ratted on me to the cops. Not the best record."

He grabs your hair and hauls you to your feet, totally unbothered that you still can't breathe right.

You shriek and try to pull away, only for him to wrap a hand around your throat and pin you against his chest.

He squeezes hard enough that your larynx feels like it's going to collapse.

"What do you think I should do?"

You think he's asking you, but it's the hitchhiker that answers. He's leaning against the kitchen door, arms crossed like he's watching two kittens at play rather than seeing your boyfriend almost choke the life out of you.

"I reckon we should check. Her cunt should be all tight and wet after months without cock. And if it isn't...well, there's your answer."

"You hear that baby? We're gonna make sure you've been well behaved."

We?

You start fighting all the harder. One murderer is enough. You don't want both their hands on you. You'll never be able to scrub yourself clean again.

The hitchhiker smirks and pushes himself away from the wall. His pupils are all wide again, twin blackholes hungry enough to swallow you, your friends, the whole damn world.

Adrenaline is a hell of a thing but you're up against two convicted killers who've had nothing but time to get stronger. Who've had the world's hardest lessons in cruelty.

Your boyfriend lets go of your hair and grabs one flailing wrist. He bends your arm up your back until you heads tucked under his chin and you're standing on your tiptoes to alleviate the pressure.

The hitchhiker twists one ankle behind yours so you can't kick out of him. It feels like a move cops and wardens might use. He must have had it done to him plenty, if he can so easily put you in the same position.

"I'll scream."

That makes them laugh.

"Go on then gorgeous. Scream. No one heard your friends last night. What makes you think they'll hear you?"

Your friends... You were panicking so bad you hadn't even considered them. The hitchhiker sees your eyes go wide and grins that easy, friendly grin of his. The one that made you trust him enough to give him a ride.

"Oh, we took good care of them. I'll spare you the grisly details but there's no one left out here but us."

It's too awful to consider. Too visceral. Too unreal. Your mind blocks it out and changes your whole train of thought to focus on escaping.

You focus on your boyfriend. He isn't acting like himself. The same man who put his hand on the bible and swore before the court that he killed all those people because of you - that man - was suddenly willing to share? Was inviting someone else to enjoy your body?

"You're going to let him touch me? You killed my lab partner because you said he would jerk off to pictures of me. What the hell changed?"

Your boyfriend hums.

"A whole lot. He's my cellmate."

Like that explains anything!

The hitchhiker slips his fingers under the hem of your top, nails running along your waistband.

"He wouldn't shut up about you. Had your pictures pinned up above his bed and everything. It was so fucking annoying at first. My girl this, my baby that. But after a few months..."

He pops open the button of your jeans with a flick of his thumb. You jerk away but your boyfriend twists your arm even harder and you're forced to hold still.

"After a few months, I started to understand the appeal. Could see why he was so into you. And hell, I wanted a taste myself. Wanted to see if you lived up to the hype."

Your boyfriend is smiling. You can tell from his voice.

"And is she worth all the hard work we put in?"

The hitchhiker's hands are cold. You flinch when he slips his fingers past your panties. He rubs his thumb against your slit, savouring every inch.

"For her? I'd kill twice as many as we did last night."

He sighs as he feels your slick starting to collect around his knuckles. Without warning, he slides two fingers inside you. Cold, uncomfortably cold.

He has a guitarist's hands and you can feel the callouses on his fingertips scraping against your walls. Too rough. Too much.

"Just like I thought. Tight and wet. Your girls loyal to a fault."

Your boyfriend practically purrs.

"Been so good while I was gone, baby. You deserve a reward, dontcha?"

He leans down and nips your cheek. You feel sick. His teeth so close...

"Don't worry. We'll fill you up so good that you'll never try running again."

Your spring break road trip starts well and gets better. But the end? Well, it ends with a cock down your throat in and another in your cunt. It ends with a hand around your neck and teeth marks on your thighs. It ends with a reminder to always trust your instincts and to never, ever give rides to strangers.

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