a badass girl living on her own, doing side jobs to pay her living expenses, accidentally ends up befriending two boys in her school but who got time for that when you’re out there looking out for sales and discount deals
tragic backstory, refreshing personality of mc, takes up a tiny revenge on her bully, new school new personality, even a gay (or bi) character, pretty ass curls, and two pretty guys looking after the girl while she’s out there killing it
Author's Note:
This piece was written intentionally without naming the characters or defining the relationship dynamic, so readers can decide for themselves which "torture thruple" it belongs to. It's told from the perspective of the one on the outside—the one who loves deeply, notices everything, and stays silent anyway.
While it can be read broadly, this was written specifically for @sunkensilk and their For Better or For Worse AU. If you haven't seen their Polytrix art yet, I highly recommend checking it out—it was a huge source of inspiration for this piece. You can find their work on Twitter (or X, whatever we're calling it now).
As always, this story leans into longing, restraint, and emotional pain rather than resolution. Read gently
On Valentine's Day, they watch the two people they love choose each other. Bound by history and affection they never dared name, they remain silent—knowing that wanting both of them means accepting a place on the outside. A story about unspoken love, restraint, and the quiet devastation of
Valentine's Day makes everything sharper.
Not brighter—sharper. Like the world has been honed to a blade edge and everyone else is bleeding happily against it. Laughter travels farther. Touch lingers longer. Even silence feels intentional, like a pause built for two people instead of one.
I arrive early. I always do. It gives me time to orient myself, to find a place where I can see without being seen. That's the trick—positioning. Standing close enough to feel included, far enough to never be mistaken for part of the picture.
They're not here yet.
I take a breath and tell myself that means nothing.
I've learned how to do that—how to intercept expectation before it blooms into hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope implies an outcome. I don't deal in outcomes anymore.
When they arrive, I feel it immediately, like the room has shifted its weight.
They don't enter loudly. They never do. They don't need to announce themselves. The space around them rearranges instinctively, like people are making room without knowing why. One of them laughs softly at something the other says, and I know that laugh. I know exactly what it sounds like when it's real.
It hits me low and familiar.
They stand close. Not pressed together. Not claiming territory. Just close enough that their shoulders brush when they turn. Close enough that neither of them checks whether the other is still there.
They know.
That's what hurts first.
I notice things I wish I didn't.
I notice everything because I always have.
I know which one of them pretends not to need reassurance and which one pretends not to give it. I know the precise moment one of them starts to doubt themselves—the barely-there tightening of their shoulders, the way their smile goes a fraction too still. I know how the other responds without thinking: a hand at the small of the back, a quiet word meant only for them, a look that saysI see you. Stay.
I loved those things before they learned to use them on each other.
I loved the way one of them used to come to me when they couldn't sleep, voice low and careful, asking questions that weren't really questions. I loved how the other would linger in doorways, pretending to leave, pretending not to wait. I loved the way they both trusted me—with their doubts, their worst thoughts, the versions of themselves they didn't know how to explain yet.
I loved the space between them when it still felt unfinished.
I mistook that space for possibility.
That's on me.
Now the space is gone. Now they fit together with a certainty that makes the room tilt around them. Their hands find each other without hesitation. Their bodies lean inward as if the world has finally agreed to stop interrupting them. They move like people who have already decided what matters.
They don't notice me watching.
And that hurts more than if they did.
They kiss.
It isn't dramatic. No pause for effect. No checking to see who's watching. One of them leans in first—just enough to ask the question. The other answers immediately, like the answer has always been yes. It's brief. Familiar. The kind of kiss that doesn't prove anything because nothing needs proving.
A brush of lips. A shared breath. Foreheads touching after, like that part matters just as much.
I look away too late.
My chest tightens hard enough that for a second I lose my breath. Not metaphorically—actually. My hand curls against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as if my body is bracing for impact. For one terrifying moment, I think I might fold in on myself right there—exposed, obvious, finally unable to hold this quietly.
I force myself to breathe.
Slow. Controlled. Like I've practiced.
I wish it were me.
Not instead of them.
With them.
I wish it were my mouth they leaned toward without thinking. My shoulder they rested their forehead against. I wish I were the one they trusted enough to be gentle with like that. I wish I were inside the circle instead of standing just close enough to feel the warmth.
The thought is sharp. Immediate. Unforgivable.
I hate myself for it.
Because I don't want to take anything away from them. I don't want to rewrite what they've chosen. I don't want their happiness to fracture just so I can stop hurting.
I just want—selfishly, quietly—to know what it would feel like to be wanted the way they want each other.
The kiss ends. One of them smiles. The other mirrors it without realizing. I've seen that smile before—both of them, wearing it separately, turning toward me as if I were the person they wanted to share something with.
I swallow the wish whole.
I lock it away with everything else I never let surface. I remind myself—again—that this is the price of staying. That loving them means accepting that my place is here, on the outside, witnessing something I helped grow but was never meant to enter.
I breathe through it.
I let the pain settle back into its familiar shape.
And I stay silent.
Because wanting them is dangerous.
But losing them would destroy me.
I wonder sometimes if they ever think about it. About me. About the way things almost were—or could have been, if I had been braver, or more selfish, or less afraid. I wonder if there was ever a moment when either of them looked at me and felt the same pull, the same confusion, the same quiet wanting.
If there was, they never said it.
Neither did I.
I chose silence because silence let me keep them. It let me stay close. It let me be the one they trusted, the one they leaned on, the one who never complicated things. I became safe. Reliable. Contained.
I told myself that mattered.
I told myself love didn't need to be returned to be real.
Some days, I believe that.
Other days, I watch the way one of them laughs—head tipped back, eyes crinkling—and the way the other looks at them like that sound is the best thing they've ever heard. And something inside me fractures, slow and deep, like a fault line finally giving way under years of pressure.
It's not dramatic.
It just hurts.
It hurts to remember how one of them used to look at me when they laughed—eyes searching, checking, waiting for my reaction. It hurts to remember how the other used to sit too close, knees brushing mine, as if proximity alone meant something.
It hurts most to know that none of that was a lie.
It just wasn't enough.
I loved them both. Not in halves. Not differently. Fully. Entirely. In ways that tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. I loved them first—or maybe I just loved them quietly enough that no one noticed.
There was no winning choice.
Tell them, and risk losing everything.
Say nothing, and lose myself slowly instead.
So I chose the loss I could live with.
There are days when the restraint feels almost noble. When I can tell myself I did the right thing. When I watch them together and feel something close to peace, like maybe my love helped make this possible.
And then there are days when the pain is so sharp I have to sit down and wait for it to pass. Days when I imagine—briefly, dangerously—what it would be like if one of them reached for me instead. If they turned, just once, and saw me the way I see them. Days when the wanting feels like it might actually kill me, simply because it has nowhere to go.
I leave before the ache sharpens into something unmanageable. Before memory starts whisperingyou were here firstlike that matters. Before love turns into something bitter.
I leave because staying would mean hoping.
And hope is the one thing I never allowed myself to keep.
I love them still. I probably always will.
I will notice when one of them is tired before they say it. I will celebrate their happiness without claiming any part of it. I will stand just outside their life and make sure nothing threatens it—even if that something is me.
This is the cost of loving them both.
Not being chosen.
Not being named.
Not being allowed to grieve publicly for something that never officially existed.
But I will carry it anyway.
Quietly. Carefully.
Because if loving them from the outside is all I'm allowed, then I will do that well.
Rose deals with the fallout of the graffiti, and discovers she has more help than she could have guessed.
Warnings: Swearing, Feels, these men are on a mission now, teasing.
Word count: 1.3k
Eventual Rose x 141/Los Vaqueros. Eventual.
The best thing Rose could really say about that day was that it passed. Far, far too many of her customers commented on the graffiti when they came in, expressing concern and condolences. Her smile was brittle after fifteen minutes, and Gaz quickly but gently exiled her to making drinks and took over talking to people.
It stung, a little, but she didn’t fight him. She didn’t have the energy to fight him.
After the morning rush, he pushed a cup of tea at her. Rose briefly made a face but took the tea.
“I don’t need to be coddled.”
“Not coddling you,” he immediately denied. “I’d do this for any friend.”
She swallowed a mouthful of tea to hide the way her heart clenched at that declaration. Friend. She didn’t have a lot of those, even fewer she considered to be truly trustworthy, so to have him say it so easily… Well. She enjoyed that far too much.
“I don’t normally let friends work for me,” she drawled, catching the way his smile brightened. “But I suppose I’ll allow it for today.”
Gaz chuckled and nudged her. “What else needs doing?”
Rose thought about it for a moment, her gaze wandering over to the window. She wanted that gone, desperately. But she also wasn’t sure she was brave enough to face it long enough to scrub it off the window.
“Hey, told you we’d take care of that,” Gaz murmured, stepping closer and nudging her to pull her gaze back to him. “Don’t you worry about that.”
Rose raised one eyebrow. “That is literally physically impossible for me,” she drawled. “I’m going to worry about it until it’s gone.”
He huffed. “Trust me, won’t be there much longer.”
She narrowed her eyes a little but didn’t question it. Yet. “I suppose you could make a help wanted sign to stick in the window,” she offered casually.
“Yeah? Thinking you’re ready to hire someone?”
“Thinking I need to,” she corrected with a little huff. “Because I can’t work seven days a week.”
He nodded once, though she could see the wheels turning. “You have any social media for this place?”
“Uh. No.” Rose blinked, caught off guard.
“Shame.” Gaz smirked to himself as he located a pen.
“What are you planning?”
“Who, me?”
“Yes you, you meddler.”
“Nothing.” His grin had grown to shit-eating proportions now. “Just a question, love.”
“Uh huh. Sure.” Rose eyed him but decided he wasn’t going to give up the information that easily. She’d just have to play the long game.
Of course, she immediately got distracted when Price walked in, Soap and Rodolfo waving to her as they walked through the shop and out front, Soap carrying a bucket full of frothy soapy water.
“What?” She blinked, gaze darting between the men. This was beginning to feel distinctly tactical, the way they were tackling her problems.
“Security camera outside got a good enough shot of the man responsible,” John told her, leaning against the counter. Gaz slipped unobtrusively over to a table, out of the way. “How d’you want to handle this?”
Rose fidgeted, chewing on her lower lip. A quick glance at John’s eyes showed no judgment, no expectations. Just patience. “I’d rather not, actually.”
“You sure?”
She nodded once. “I mean, if there’s a way to get him on some kind of watchlist, make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone. But otherwise, keep me out of it.” Her smile was a little bitter. She wasn’t very brave, and she knew it. She liked things quieter.
John nodded once, and that was that. “You should have a few cameras in here,” he said, clearly moving on to the next item on his mental list.
“Never had the time to properly research that.” Rose shrugged. She also rarely had the disposable income to put towards something like that. Not that she was going to spell that out for John.
His lips twitched, and she thought he knew anyway. “One there,” he said, pointing to a spot above the prep area. “And one there.” He pointed again across the store. “Cover basically the whole place. Could do one in the back too, if you wanted.”
Rose tilted her head slowly, blinking. “Alright,” she agreed slowly. “Is there a certain one you recommend?”
He nodded, fighting down a smile. “Won’t take long to get them installed.”
“Wait, installed?” Rose blinked at him, feeling like she was missing some vital part of the conversation here.
“Got a dozen up in my office, darling,” John told her, no longer fighting down the smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled with his amusement, and she tried hard not to be distracted by that. “I’ll have Ghost bring ‘em down and we’ll install them.”
“But–” Rose blinked. Private security. Right. “John, those are for your business.”
John shrugged. “And? Can’t exactly report me to the boss, darling.”
She frowned at him, struggling for a moment to verbalize the rest of her concern. “I can’t…”
“Love.” John lowered his voice a little, leaning in closer. “Don’t worry about it. Just let us do this, yeah?” His smile softened, something warm and almost teasing. “You can give us free tea if it makes you feel better.”
Rose chuckled, the tension in her chest releasing. “How about cookies?”
“Soap will be thrilled,” John drawled. “You want a camera in the back too?”
“Sure. Might as well.” Rose shrugged. The back wasn’t large - her tiny office and a tiny kitchen, just big enough for her to make cookies. The storage area was more of a closet, really, which is why she kept a close eye on supplies.
John nodded. “Good. Won’t take long.” One of his hands closed over hers, big and warm, his thumb pressing gently to the delicate underside of her wrist. “Worth it to have you safe.”
Rose swallowed but nodded slowly, heart thundering along in her chest. “Keep being so nice to me and you’ll never get rid of me,” she said, trying for joking but falling a little shy.
The flash of his grin was brief and amused. “Why do you think we keep coming back, darling?” He released her and stepped away, leaving her floundering.
A quick look showed that Soap and Rodolfo were working on scrubbing off the spraypaint, and Gaz was doing something with his phone, tongue poking out between his lips.
She had a little time.
Sneaking into the back was easy, and it took very little time to whip up a batch of cookie dough. A quick peek out front showed Gaz behind the counter, no customers in the shop, with John and Ghost working together quietly to install one of the cameras. Good enough.
The timer beeping pulled everyone’s attention briefly to the back, and Rose hummed a bit as she pulled the cookies out of the oven. They needed to cool a little before she took them off the baking sheets, but given five minutes, she’d be able to deliver fresh cookies to the guys.
To her guys.
The thought gave her pause, both because of how right it felt and how possessive it was. But, well… They were her friends now. And the way at least a couple of them flirted, more was not out of the question.
But it was a question for later, because she did not have the mental capacity for this right now.
Using two of the actual plastic plates she had, she carried the cookies out to one of the tables. “Anyone want a snack?”
Watching Soap try to dive on an entire plate for himself (only to be blocked by Ghost) was enough to have her nearly in stitches. But not enough to distract her from Gaz taking a picture of the plate in front of him before typing rapidly into his phone. She could ask… but she decided not to.
Especially since the thought of them being her guys circled around and around in her head, refusing to give her any rest.
The whole night and next day pass and Mike has not returned to the house. Max had taken care of her chores, butchered and plucked a chicken and roasted it along with the last of their fresh vegetables in the oven all afternoon. Then she took the bones and made broth. She ate by herself, did some needlepoint and read her bible by the fire until she couldn’t stand it any more, making a mental note to ask Mr. Sinclair for a few books on his next journey out. He is due in a few days and Max is eager to see him again. With darkness starting to fall and her boredom and paranoia over last night's events rendering her completely agitated, there was nothing left to do except head upstairs to bed.
She sits at the little dressing table that was sure to have been hers . He had called her El in his sleep , and she wonders how she earned that nickname. It was intimately familiar and the way it fell out of his mouth and onto her cheek the previous evening sounded so incandescently… cherished .
Now El’s dressing table is littered with the few trinkets Max has brought from her parents’ home. There is a framed picture of her mother that sits up on one of the small shelves, a decorative flower hair comb her father had given her the summer before he died that she only wore on holidays and special occasions, a tiny figurine of a bird Billy had gifted her one Christmas, crudely whittled from wood, and her favorite childhood book who’s passages now only serve as a place for her to press flowers. Max scoops a bit of the salve she uses out of a glass jar and rubs it along her cuticles and into the skin of her palms where her calluses are dry and fights how it conjures up the same sensation of the mysterious creature’s fingers slipping along her skin and how her brine soaked lips felt when she kissed her.
Max blinks the images away and removes the pins from her hair. It falls down her back and glides over the laces of the corset she hasn’t removed yet. She rubs her fingers along her scalp and sighs contentedly at the sensation of her hair finally being free from its confines. She takes hold of a large section of it and starts working the tangles out with her hair brush. One stroke then another and another, her eyes wandering out the window towards the darkness that has entombed the house tonight. The two oil lamps are lit up brightly and they cast a rich, warm flickering glow to the room, and the cookstove and fireplace still raging downstairs has made the air hot and close.
Max catches sight of herself in the small wooden table mirror. Her skin is painted in yellows and orange hues that brings out her thick orange lashes and hair cascading around her shoulders. Her eyes are light blue like the sky on a fine day and she has a splattering of light freckles across her face and along the ridge of her nose. She finds them ruddy and unattractive, but her mother always scolded her for thinking so; for vanity was not something any respectable Quaker should harbor.
“God does not care what your earthly body looks like, Maxine. He only cares for the beauty in your soul,” she would say.
She was right, of course. And yet, the bitter part of her wishes her mother would also have lived by her late father’s example of fighting for women’s rights. As any admirable Quaker would. Max wishes she would have challenged her step-father’s wishes of sending her off to marry to a stranger against her wishes with a little more gumption. It went against every one of the teachings she had been brought up with. It felt like cowardice. It felt like a betrayal.
Even so, her mother was right. Vanity held no place in a respectable person’s life. Growing up, Max had no notion really of the need to feel pretty, didn’t think it of much importance. Any life she imagined for herself held no need for it. And certainly it was inherently useless to a lighthouse keeper’s wife, left on this spit of land to the raging wind and salt and loneliness.
Amazing how people view polyamory as some kind of trendy, millennial-specific anomaly, and not as the exceedingly predictable consequence of reading A LOT of Heinlein waaaaaay too early
