#and that i had a boyfriend die on Valentine's day

[somewhat-adorkable]

Trigger warning for some graphic depictions of death:

The first dead body I saw belonged to my Grandpa Marcus.

He worked his whole life to provide for his family, only to be crushed by a cotton truck when he was in his sixties.

I was only four, standing next to his casket, I reached my hand out and froze. I understood this was not my grandpa, simply his body. Nothing more. But it felt wrong to touch, to search for life in something that was no longer living.

"It's okay," my mom whispered, squeezing my hand, "you can touch."

I did. Small fingers drifting over a cheek that felt like wax, not like warm human skin. When I touched his chest it crinkled from the filler they had to use to hide his gruesome ending. I shook my head at my mom and whispered, "that's not grandpa."

It was the first time I saw my dad cry.

Life went on.

The sixth time I looked at a dead body, I was thirteen, it was the body of my dad.

He looked swollen and purple, and the people around us kept saying how good he looked.

I knew they were lying.

He had violently choked to death on his own blood, while my mother screamed for the paramedics to hurry up and find our house.

They got lost on the way.

A five minute drive took them almost an hour.

He was long gone by the time they arrived.

I looked at his body, wondering how many people knew that when you're too tall for a casket, they cut your legs off so you'll fit.

I went back to school three days later.

Two girls in class had a discussion about how they would lose it if their father died, they didn't know if they could live without him.

Life went on.

Seven months later, during spring break, my grandmother died on the floor in front of me.

The neighbor, a paramedic, heard the call go out over the radio and kicked the door in to get to us.

To help me keep her alive.

I got asked hundreds of questions about medications, if she was slurring, if she could stand before she fell.

Her last coherent words were 'dont worry'.

I didn't ride in the ambulance with her.

She looked beautiful in her casket

Life went on.

When my mom's boyfriend lived with us, he owned a rollback service. He worked for the county, picking up wrecked and repossessed cars.

The night before Thanksgiving, we were called to a fatal crash. I rode with him.

The driver, a teenage boy, had been taken away by ambulance.

The girl's mangled body was pinned under the truck.

An officer handed me her phone and asked me to turn it off, the screen lighting up with calls and texts from her mom, wondering where she was.

The picture on the lock screen was my cousin Courtney.

The mangled mound of flesh they removed from under the truck was her.

The funeral was closed casket, I heard my aunt scream for God to take her too

Life went on

A couple years ago, the day before my birthday, we found my uncle dead.

He was supposed to come over but never showed, so we went a few doors down to his house.

The door was unlocked, and he was on the floor

Eyes open and unblinking

He had been hiding that his house was rotting, the dresser in his room having fallen through the floor and to the ground below

He never asked for help

Gave all his money to his daughter

We wouldn't let her into his house, didn't want her to see the conditions he has been living in.

I went to work after

Later that day a bullet came through the window of the house I had been cleaning.

I wondered if I would have gotten to see him again.

Life went on.

I called my god father to tell him I was making chicken wraps for dinner. He didn't answer.

Not uncommon, on Sundays he and a lot of his friends went out to eat for lunch, riding back roads on side by sides and gocarts to get to a little backwoods restaurant.

I figured he would call back when he could hear me.

Not long after I heard sirens.

Turns out, as they were leaving to come home, a woman had stopped her SUV on the other side of a blind curve.

When he and Antony, one of my brother's good friends, rounded that curve on their gocart going 55mph....

Well, gocarts are much smaller than SUVs.

One was decapitated, the other had his face and head crushed completely flat.

No one on scene could do anything to save them.

The woman sued their families for 'emotional damage'

I didn't make the church wraps.

Life went on

The day after my girlfriend moved in,

I was on the floor folding clothes, she was sitting on my bed, we were talking idly,

My mom walked in, and with certainty said: "your cousin was murdered."

"which one?" I asked

"Destiny."

My cousin was seventeen years old.

She and her boyfriend had been beaten and shot to death in a random act of violence.

She got her name because her mom never knew she was pregnant, not until she gave birth to a baby while in the shower, the day after selling all her old baby furniture

So she named the surprise baby Destiny

Then someone saw fit to make sure she never saw 18

Life went on

I took care of my neighbor for years.

Her daughter and law left the family because of the stress of the medical care.

I was just the neighbor kid that had been coming around my whole life, there was no reason for me to be the one doing hours of wound care,

Fingers up to my knuckles in the split skin in her legs, scraping off dead tissue.

The doctors at the hospital told me I was doing amazing.

One day when I was at work, she fell.

She died a week later in the hospital

Swollen, hardly recognizable, I thought maybe death was a mercy to her.

Her hand felt like ice in mine the last time I held it. I knew she would be sad her nails weren't painted pink.

I cried so hard at her funeral I threw up

My boss called to ask why I wasn't at work that day

Life went on

One afternoon, when I got home from work, my roommate in tow, my mom looked at us and said "I told my self I wasn't going to cry....."

She hugged me through tears and said, "we need hotdog buns."

I laughed a moment, asked what she was on about, she softly told me her bestfriend had died a little while earlier.

My god-mom had died the same way my dad died

Except this time the ambulance arrived in time

But it didn't make a difference

I didn't go to her funeral

Life went on

When my neighbors house burner, I had the flu.

But I ran outside anyway

In my pajamas, no shoes on

I ran through the burning grass to get to my uncle because he was screaming for help

He didn't have a phone, I called 911

Together, we got her out of the house

I couldn't see anything inside, the air thick with black, acidic smoke that burned my lungs and eyes

Her skin, fragile with age and heat, split under our hands

In the yard, I felt her rips snap under my hands as I attempted CPR, her lips a sickening mixture of cold and warm as I struggled to force air into her lungs.....

there was no soot in her mouth or throat

She died before the fire started

I repeatedly pressed my ear to her chest to try and hear something over my own roaring heartbeat and my uncle's devastated screams for me to please save her

I held her bloody arm to my chest and told her 'its going to be okay, I can hear the sirens, Ms.Myrtle. they're coming.'

I knew she couldn't hear me.

I sat on the ground with my uncle for over an hour, we clung to each other like a lifeline as firemen and cops whorled around us

His granddaughter panicked when she got home and ran to us, seeing the blood on our arms and clothes, I whispered "it's not ours, we're okay."

When the firemen found her cat, I took her straight to the vet.

In the silence of the exam room, I looked down at my arms and clothes, smeared with blood, soot, and now cat hair

I started shaking violently

One of the vet techs hugged me until I could breathe again

And somehow

Life went on

[henswilsons]

i went out with a friend today and put him on my instagram forgetting it was in fact valentine’s day and it now looks like i’ve soft launched a boyfriend im not being dramatic when i say im going to jump off a bridge

[megumishotgf]

more jjk + mha fic recs !! ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ

in my unemployed era so i have hours to scroll on this damn app... here are more fics that i loved!! featuring: megumi, satoru, nanami, toji, yuuji, yuuta, katsuki, izuku, shouto (whew there's a lot of them today. your girl has been READING) credits to all these talented writers!! pls check them out!! masterlist more fic recs pt. i pt. iii

: ̗̀➛ megumi fushiguro x reader

you and gumi bond over books (he reads a book you're interested in just so you have someone to discuss it with. bawling)

multiple-part enemies to lovers smau!! (this is SO FUNNY. i cried from laughter more than once)

more enemies to lovers (lengthier fic, so so good + smutty)

you give megumi valentines day chocolates (so so cute he just loves u so much)

secret relationship trope + poor yuuji walks in on you making out (poor baby is traumatised)

more secret relationship + getting caught (i love this one so much)

your silly tired bf just wants kisses

it's late, you're wandering in your ducky slippers and see megumi patching himself up

megumi falls in love with milf! reader (omfg... i love this sm. i've never considered being a cougar until now)

friends to lovers with megumi (high school a.u + gumi buys reader sanrio)

thinking about megumi's hands (i js know they are pretty. thinking of all the unspeakable things they can do)

comforting insecure megumi (my poor baby. a lil angst but dw there's a happy ending)

: ̗̀➛ kento nanami x reader

kento comes home early (so cute and precious. im crying i need him to be real so bad)

he gets hurt bad and you can't stop crying (angsty but also fluffy don't worry this doesn't end like shibuya)

: ̗̀➛ toji fushiguro x reader

riding toji until he whimpers omfg (he gets embarrassed and teaches you a lesson ahhh)

your fiancee toji finally gets freed from prison (they finally freed my man anyway you suck him off while he drives omfg)

sex as payback for your noisy ass neighbours (im losing it)

really cute dating headcanons

more on toji being a simp for you (HES SOOO)

: ̗̀➛ satoru gojo x reader

"my girl is mad at me i hope i die" that's it

y/n + satoru being stupidly in love (now this one has a kick to it.i'm crying)

satoru is obsessed with you but you're oblivious (pining satoru)

boyfriend texts w/ satoru

fucking satoru in the prison realm (AHHHH)

satoru begs to fuck you at some high profile event (u js look so cunty in that outfit and it drives him crazy)

car sex with satoru AHHH

satoru lets u try on his blindfold (hes such so :( so so adorable)

you get hurt and satoru is worried (wow this is so well written. happy ending + gojo centric)

: ̗̀➛ yuuji itadori x reader

fucking ur friend yuuji in a club bathroom (this is so so good)

"if we had a baby would it be mine or sukuna's" (this is hilarious)

yuuji comforts his gf who's not his 'usual type' (its me im the short gf with a big chest) (i’ve been coming back to reread this daily)

: ̗̀➛ yuuta okkotsu x reader

blowing ur big dick bf yuuta (canon)

really really romantic sex w/ yuuta (straight up making love)

: ̗̀➛ katsuki bakugo x reader

domestic headcanons (i love them and i love him. help)

more cute relationship headcanons

katsuki is obsessed with gossiping and eavesdropping when you and your friends spill the tea (this is so funny i love it sm)

dragging katsuki to the club bathroom because u love him (this is so wholesome im crying)

kiri notices how whipped katsuki is for you

guard dog katsuki is jealous

: ̗̀➛ izuku midoriya x reader

mating press with izuku (this actually drives me crazy. written so well and in character)

izuku is just so fucking precious (i can't take it anymore)

: ̗̀➛ shouto todoroki x reader

shouto gets halved by a quirk but not like gojo, there's js two of him (there is one obvious thing to do now)

dr. todoroki promises to breed you properly (i'm convulsing)

you're insecure after giving birth and shouto comforts you (with loving words and his dick)

resolving an argument w/ ur bf shouto (so cute!!)

eating u out in the kitchen (omfg)

there is an overwhelming amount of smut i'm sorry this is kind of embarrassing i'm just super horny lmao

[webslingingslasher]

Care less

for the frat!peter girlies.

Peter blames his aunt. 

May went and raised him to look forward to the middle of february. She would make little boxes and handwritten notes tied up with a fun-sized candy bar. May told him it was a day to celebrate love in its entirety. For a friend, for a teacher, for just the sake of love existing everywhere you went. 

Except, not everyone likes valentine's day. Some even hate it. Some would loathe the day so much that Peter feels like an idiot for caring. Dinner reservations that were going to be ignored, flowers that would go wilted and chocolates that were never going to get eaten. 

Peter has a handful of nothing and the one time he really wanted to outperform himself, it was brushed off and it was his aunt’s fault for getting his hopes up about valentine’s day. He had been so thoughtful too, planning weeks ahead to book a dinner slot and a fun date. Not to mention the mini fortune he spent on roses, not that you were a giant fan of roses but every girl deserves a bouquet on valentine’s, even if they triple in price. Peter even bought a second bunch of your favorite kind, just to prove he cared. 

It meant nothing. His efforts meant nothing and maybe he shouldn’t have assumed, but he never thought that you’d hate the holiday. It was a day entirely built around feelings, around love- and you just rolled your eyes at him. 

“I fucking hate valentine’s day.” You said it like it was nothing, taking two bites of a banana and handing it over to Peter. He asked if you were excited, maybe even hinting at that you should be excited. Peter Parker was about to romance the hell out of you. But not anymore. 

“Explain that one for me?” A toss, the peel falls into the trash can. You shrug as if you’ve never thought about it before, but it’s something you’ve held in your chest for as long as you can remember. 

“It was a holiday created by girls who didn’t feel loved enough by their boyfriends, or something. I think the practice is stupid, you should treat me good and do nice things for me everyday, not just once a year. And everything is crowded! Everyone has the same lame idea about dinner and a movie and flowers and… it’s just not something I buy into.” 

Peter feels every bit of him curl up and die inside. Valentines is his third favorite holiday, he adores the pinks, reds, and purples. He loves seeing couples of every stage, the beginning stages or lifelong partners. They all love the same; with everything in them. 

“Well, actually, I do have a confession. Chocolate covered strawberries. They’re outrageously expensive, but I buy them every year. If you’re wondering, I was hoping we could boycott the baby holiday and eat some strawberries or something.” 

A small lift in his heart, it’s something. You’d be happy with one thing and he could deliver that, but first he has to try and sway you, right? Peter needs to preach what valentine’s is about, he needs you to understand how lovely it is. 

“I’m surprised you hate it so much. I figured you’d love it, since it’s pink and feelings, and stuff.” You wink at him, you think it’s a joke and Peter’s in the same boat as you. “I know, right? It always seemed so gimmicky to me, I think.” 

“That doesn’t mean it’s bad.” You pretend gag, Peter feels his heart sink into the hollow of his chest. “You’re right, it’s cringy and that makes it so much worse.” Peter doesn’t agree, not even in the slightest. Nothing about it is cringy, there’s nothing embarrassing about showing you love someone. 

“Right. It’s cringy and a gimmick and everyone who participates is stupid.” Maybe he’s a little cynical, it hits harder when you nod with exaggeration. “So glad you agree, petey!” He doesn’t. Peter couldn’t be further away from your opinion but he’s really not in the mood to be shut down or judged, so, he just changes the subject and tries to ignore everything crumbling apart in the back of his mind. 

“Isn’t this cute?” 

You squint your eyes when you read the card, a tiny smile shows. “It’s cute. Not worth…” You snatch the glorified cardstock and flip it, your eyes widen, you pretend to choke on the dollar amount. “Ten dollars, holy shit. For some glitter? Fuck that.” 

You want it out of your hold, scared that if even a speckle spread you’d be forced to buy it. “What happened to the good old days of making your own card? My mom used to eat that up.” 

Peter delicately sets the card down, he tries to see it how you do, but he can’t. Sure, it’s wildly marked up, but wouldn’t your partner be worth the price? Peter would buy the moon for you if he could, a ten dollar Hallmark card won’t be his holdup. 

But, maybe you’d like a handmade one more. He can do that. 

Peter’s trying to be mindful of your opinion while also planting the seed that valentine’s isn’t all that bad into your brain. It’s days away and all he can hear in the back of his mind is ‘I fucking hate valentine’s day.’ 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! Peter- do you fucking see this?” 

A romantic gesture? A public display of love and admiration? Dozens of carefully inflated heart shaped balloons? A girl crying into the arms of her friend while her partner showers her with flowers. Is it the love? Is that what you’re pointing out? 

“Yeah, it’s-” 

“Disgusting.” 

“-cute.” Peter frowns, is that what you really thought of valentines? Nothing was swaying your mind, Peter thinks that you’re more solidified in your mindset than before. 

“I’m sorry, trouble, but I’m finding it hard believing you hate valentine’s day.” It’s like he just called you a slur, you pull your hand from his and stuff it into your jacket pocket. 

“I don’t hate it, I loathe it. What do you see watching that? Personally, I’m seeing gravel covered flowers and wasted space that turns into deflated balloons. Fuck that.” Peter shakes his head, you’re seeing it wrong. “It’s about the gesture.” 

“It’s about how you love someone so much, there aren't enough things in the world to buy to show it, and there are never the right set of words to say it quite right. I’ll buy all the flowers in the world for you, and I’ll use all the air in my lungs for these balloons but it’ll never match the love I have for you.” 

Peter clears his throat. “That's what I see, anyways. I think valentine’s day is an excuse to be a little cringy and basic because we all want that sometimes.” He might’ve finally broken through, but you crack a grin and bump your shoulder into his. 

“Ah, yes, because I’m so unfulfilled that a man has never gotten me a teddy bear for valentine’s day.” Would you want one? He could get you one. Or could that be a reason you might detest the holiday, not that he’d ever take your opinion for resentment or bitterness. 

“Have you ever had a valentine?” A small stumble, your hand is tied into his again. “Besides elementary, nah. And honestly, I should be happy so I don’t have to deal with all that stuff.” 

‘I should be happy so I don’t have to deal with all that stuff.’ But, now you do, don’t you? 

“Trouble, you do realize you’re my valentine this year, right? And I’m yours?” You feel your breath catch, no, you hadn’t realized. It’s always just been another day for you and you assume the same for Peter, it’s not like there was much to celebrate. 

“It’s also just a day that ends in Y.” Is that really the answer you have? It’s just another day to you, even if you finally have someone to claim? You might not care about the holiday, but Peter does and he’s going to get his valentine’s day, no matter what. 

And you’re going to enjoy a handmade card. 

And a teddy bear. 

Peter’s finger-combing his hair after a shower, he’s had the reservation for weeks, but he also wasn’t aware of your detestment towards red hearts and arrows. 

“Wanna grab some dinner wednesday?” If he didn’t say it by name he’s hoping you won’t scream bloody mary on him. “Sure.” A smile washes over Peter’s face, it drops in a second. “Wait, isn’t that valentine’s day? Ha, yeah, no thank you. You, me, and the entire city? Fuck that.” 

‘Fuck that, fuck that, fuck that.’ Weeks boiled into nothing. “But, if you wanna cuddle and watch a movie I’m down.” It’s something. He’d get to give you flowers and a card and a teddy bear and he can’t forget the strawberries. You told him you loved them. 

“Good with me, trouble.” 

Peter tried to sway your mind, he tried to make you enjoy the love and glitter and colors. But you hated it all. So all he has to do is ditch the flowers and the dinner and just… do nothing. 

Peter’s first real valentine and all he has to do is… nothing. 

Three rose bouquets tossed onto his closet floor, it was haphazardly done. Petals scattered around the cellophane, some even reached to his shoes. They were thrown in without care, they were hidden. 

But they were beautiful. A few front buds have taken a beating, but the others were fully blossomed and lively. You’ve never seen roses in such a vivid red, their petals almost like velvet under your fingertips, their smell unlike any other. 

The thorns have been expertly shredded, nothing but smooth, soft stems in their wake. It doesn’t matter if Peter didn’t mean to have you see them, they were too gorgeous to leave locked away in a dark room. They deserved the affection water and sunlight would give them. 

You clutched all three in your arms, the weight welcomed. You laid them out nicely across his bed, the third bouquet dropped a small card and you picked it right back up. 

‘Trouble- 

This day was made for you. 

Charlie’s at 8. 

Yours, 

Peter’

You bit back a smile. Charlie’s? It’s nice, too nice. And expensive. Peter got you reservations at Charlie’s? Holding the card to your chest you nearly squeal, you have no idea how he kept the secret from you. Or the roses. 

When you hear his bedroom door open you spin, waiting for him to be in the doorway so you can place a thousand kisses. Instead it’s Ethan and he looks surprised. “You’re here?” He points to the flowers, “Peter gave you those?” 

“I found them in his closet, he just tossed them in here! And he must’ve forgotten to tell me about Charlie’s.” Ethan doesn’t smile with you, he’s not sharing any joy. For a second you start to wonder if you were the person who was supposed to receive the gifts. 

“He didn’t forget.” You scrunch your face at him, “I think he did and I need to start getting ready now. Ethan, do you know how nice Charlie’s is? It’s fucking fancy.” You’re not prepared, you don’t have anything that screams Charlie’s worthy in Peter’s closet. 

“No, you’re not hearing me. There is no Charlie’s and there weren't supposed to be roses. I was supposed to get them before you got here, but, here we are. No roses and no Charlie’s.” You smack at his arms, pulling at his fingers to drop your flowers. 

“They’re mine!” Ethan’s on a mission to steal them, and he’s not being gentle. 

“No, you didn’t want them.” 

You watch him for a second, how could he say that, of course you want them. Thirty six reminders of Peter, how could you ever say no? You fight for what's yours, Ethan allows you to keep one bouquet. 

“I do want them!” 

Ethan’s not being nice to you tonight, he’s gruff with his response. “No. You didn’t.’ 

“You keep saying didn’t! I never said I didn’t want…” 

Except you did. Just like you said you didn’t want to get dinner with Peter. You feel terrible, you feel like crying. He’d had this planned for weeks and the whole time all you did was poke fun and degrade the holiday not knowing you were crushing him behind the scenes. 

You wanted the flowers, but you didn’t deserve them. You hand over the last bouquet silently. 

“I think it’s best if you pretend you didn’t see these.” You can’t imagine the ache Peter must have in his chest, he planned something out just for you to stomp all over it. It’s not about the value, it was the gesture. He can’t tell you how he feels, but taking you out to one of the nicest places in the city, where you know it has a month minimum reservation list makes you understand him just a little bit better. 

“This is so bad, Ethan. This is so,” you suck in air, “so bad.” 

“It’s not terrible,” a crinkle when he shifts weight. “But it’s not great.” You wince, if you could, you’d go back in time and shove your foot in your mouth, or tell yourself to shut the fuck up. 

“Well, I mean, what the fuck?! It’s fucking Peter! How was I supposed to know he was pro valentines day?”

“How was he supposed to know you were anti valentines day?” 

You sink to the bed and hold your head in your hands, “I just want Peter right now.” You want to hug him and kiss him and tell him how sorry you were. Ethan hesitates for a second, before stepping closer to lay the flowers across your lap. 

“You found them. They’re yours.” You protect them from being taken, but still have self-pity. “I don’t deserve them.” Ethan scoffs, “of course you do. Everyone deserves pretty flowers.” 

You pout at yourself in the mirror and fix any smudges. Brushing out any stray wrinkles your newest dress might’ve made on the way over. Ethan had very kindly instructed a pledge to pick you up an outfit so you could change before Peter got back. 

With minutes to spare, he’s back and taking a deep breath at your appearance. “Wow.” A surprised hum when you kiss him, you wipe red from his bottom lip while you apologize. “I’m so sorry, petey.” 

“For what?” A look around the room, red roses give him the reason. “Oh. Hey, it’s no big deal and I-” A frown when you silence him by holding a finger to his lips. 

“I’m sorry. I found those flowers and all I could think about was you and how much it meant to me that you got those for me, then I saw the card and I couldn’t believe you got us reservations and I just felt… special. I’ve never had a valentine, but I get it now. It’s just a day you get to dote on me extra hard.” 

Another surprise kiss, “and if you didn’t already cancel I think we can get to Charlie’s on time. But if you did, that’s okay. Because I think those are the most lovely flowers I have ever gotten, and I might have seen a little teddy bear in there but I didn’t wanna get too presumptuous.” 

This time, Peter kissed you. “There’s also a homemade card.” 

“You didn’t!” You fall in closer to his chest, his hands can have free reign tonight, you wore the dress just for him. 

“I did. I even wrote a little poem.” 

A chaste kiss, “just when I think you can’t get better.” 

“There’s also glow in the dark mini golf planned for after.” A peck, “so thoughtful and handsome.”

A whisper, he’s got blown pupils and hoping he’d get another kiss. “And your strawberries are in the fridge.” 

Your hearts about to explode, “fuck, I love-” you stop yourself, but you heard it and so did Peter. He brushes it off, “love?” Fuck it, you’ll both keep circling around it. 

“Yeah, I love love.” 

A hungry kiss, a squeeze to the back of your thighs. “Yeah, I love love, too.” 

[mothwingwritings]

BTD/TPOF Valentine's Gifts To You~<3

Look I know Valentine’s was days ago but it’s one of my favorite holidays and I have no chill, so you all have to deal with the residual now. (*-`ω´- )人

THAT BEING SAID- here's a little 'what kinds of gifts/experiences the Boyfriend To Death/The Price Of Flesh crew would lavish you with on Valentine's day' imagine, let’s gooo!!! I hope you all enjoy!

18+ ONLY PLEASE!!!

Warnings: Abuse, implied past kidnapping, reader getting hurt, torture, noncon, dubcon, (please forgive the pun but) horrible people taking a stab at an ounce of ‘affection’ and mostly just making things more dreadful for you.

I hope you all enjoy! ˘³˘

✧:･ﾟ( ̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:̲̅]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅ ) ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ( ̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:̲̅]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅ ) ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ( ̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:̲̅]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅ ) ･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

Ren🦊- Will actually get you a sweet gift, something that he put time and thought into. Chocolates, a stuffed animal, a cute outfit, a figure of your favorite game/anime character that you have been eying, maybe even all of the above if he has the budget (honestly probably all of the above even if he doesn’t have the budget). He’ll present it really cutely too, like rose petal’s littering the ground leading you to the room where all the gifts are neatly displayed, giving a little ‘tah-dah!’ as soon as you discover them. He gets really excited watching you open them, explaining his reasoning behind each and every item he purchased/made you.

“All the chocolates in store looked boring, so I decided to make you some! I added your favorite ingredients, so I hope you like them!”

“This stuffed fox was too cute to leave behind and, well… I was hoping maybe it would sort of remind you of me? Anyway, I couldn’t leave the store without him! He belongs snuggled in your arms, just like I do!”

Just be mindful that in return he’s probably gonna put on a ‘cute romance anime’ of his choosing to end the night and that ‘cute romance anime’ is 100% just going to be hentai. From there, one thing will lead to another and he’ll make sure he gets a nice Valentine’s gift too. :) Oh, and if you don't like any of the gifts... It's best just to keep it to yourself. He'd hate to have to ruin the nice time you are having on this great holiday because you are being ungrateful.

➽───────────────❥

Lawrence🪴- Flowers is a no brainer, but he doesn’t want to give you something that’s too cliché or that you’ll just throw in a vase to watch slowly die. After mulling it over he decides to give you something with a little more meaning-a plant from his collection that he planted and grew himself. He would most likely pick something like an aglaonema (its valentine colored, right?) or some kind of succulent because they are easier to take care of. He’s a little worried that you are gonna find such a gift weird or see it as a hassle, that no matter how little maintenance the plant takes you’ll just let it end up dying regardless. But he supposes if anything this will be a good test of your bond-will you cherish and nurture the gift he gives you, or will you discard it and let it wither? Don’t make the wrong choice here, it would break his heart. (And your life honestly depends on it.)

➽───────────────❥

Strade🔪- You were dreading what kind of ‘present’ this man would concoct for you on Valentine’s day, but to your complete surprise he actually prepares something shockingly thoughtful for you. He’s set up a nice little homemade dinner for the two of you in the living room, complete with mood lighting (you hoped he didn’t have any surprise uses for the candles that burned around you), nice dishes and silverware (a rare luxury, considering how he usually makes you eat your food) and some wild flowers he had picked from out in the yard (did they have thorns? Were you gonna find that out the hard way?). The dinner itself is one of your favorite meals, and while it was maybe a tad bit overcooked and plated sloppily, it still tasted incredibly good. The catch? Well, I mean you have to have some kind of entertainment while you eat, right? Good thing Strade has a plethora of ‘home videos’ on deck to enjoy with you while you have your lovely little feast. Maybe watching them will spark something between you two, it’s certainly going to put him in the mood to reenact them with you. It’s Valentine’s Day afterall, why not have a little fun? <3

➽───────────────❥

Celia👩‍💼- It really just depends on her mood or what is happening the day of. You may end up getting  something nice, a little reward from her for being such a good and obedient pet.  She’ll gift you something thoughtful and sweet, like a nice piece of jewelry, expensive chocolate, or finely aged wine that costs more than you make in an entire month. She’ll be relaxed and pleased as she watches you enjoy her gift, taking satisfaction in how easy it was for her to delight you. On the other hand, if she is in a horrible mood or (god forbid) was forced to spend the holiday with her husband, the only thing you are going to be receiving is the brunt of her frustrations. If he bought her chocolates she’d force you to eat them all in one go, prying your mouth open to shove them in herself if you refuse to do it on your own, cramming them in until you nearly choke. If he bought her flowers she’d flog you with the bouquet, rose thorns tearing into your flesh until you were left in a pile of petals and your own blood, body littered with lacerations and angry red welts. Whatever half assed gift she was given or horrible date she was put through, has now become your problem as she uses you as an outlet for her resentment. And for the final celebratory Valentine’s act, she’d use you however she saw fit to get off (because she sure as hell isn’t getting any pleasure anywhere else tonight). Mine as well make the most of her time with her little sweetheart before she’s forced to go back and face whatever is waiting for her back home. You understand, right honey?

➽───────────────❥

Derek🦂- Honestly he forgets it’s Valentine’s Day, but it really doesn’t matter. He wasn’t going to go out of his way to get you anything or do anything for you anyway. If anything, he’d buy something for himself that he can either use on you or force you into for his own personal amusement. Some kind of constricting, demeaning latex gimp suit, or maybe a new whip he can assault you with. The more it hurts or humiliates you the better, because nothing brings him more pleasure than watching you suffer and squirm. Regardless of if he remembers the holiday or not, he’ll probably just spend the day mocking, assaulting, and/or torturing you anyway-once he recognizes the date, he may even go a little harder than usual as a treat to himself.  What are you gonna do, cry because your ‘Valentine’ is being mean to you? Hearing you beg, curse, moan, and scream in agony over all that he’s putting you through only makes it better, sweetheart. Like music to his ears! Even though it’s far from your intention, you are the best Valentine he’s ever had and though he won’t admit it, he’s thankful to you for that. Then again, maybe the holiday is just making him feel particularly sappy… Has he ever told you how pretty your tear stained face looks when you are choking on his dick, struggling to breathe as he forces himself down your throat? He’ll have to take a picture to show you next time.

➽───────────────❥

Mason🌲- He’s not very well versed with the ‘typical’ things people want or do for Valentine’s Day, and quite honestly, he finds it all rather obnoxious. To him it’s just some big show, a way for corporations to profit off people’s affections and sex drives to get them to spend money on cheap tokens of affection. Flower bouquets? They’ll just die. Stuffed animals? There’s no point to them. Jewelry? Useless baubles. No, the TRUE way to show your love for someone is through an EXPERIENCE. And what better experience is there then the thrill of nature? Maybe that makes him seem like a one trick pony- he did first meet you by purchasing you for his hunt, after all. But things were different now, you have proven yourself to him, proven that you have the know-how to survive out in the wilds. Now that you mastered it, you can truly enjoy it. He can tell you still didn’t really trust him (and honestly he isn’t sure you ever truly will) but he has faith you’ll eventually come around to this new way of life with him. He loves taking you out hunting and camping, the excitement he feels stalking his prey, the sense of purpose and connection he experiences living off of nature’s bounty, he’s found its much more enjoyable with you by his side. He hopes you feel it too- the buzz coursing through the air as he finally corners his quarry, how rousing it is when you land the final blow and get to drag your prize back home. He makes you watch as he skins and cleans them, finding importance in the act. You need to witness him doing his craft, learn from him, and really understand that you’re relying on him for your survival. Afterall it’s just the two of you out here now, it’s better to get used to it sooner rather than later. Come on, it’s time you took part in helping him prepare his slaughter. After you are done he’ll use the meat to cook you something nice, or prepare you some jerky so you’ll have something to snack on. This lifestyle is his ongoing gift to you, darlin’. Happy Valentine’s Day. ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ

[ghost-proofbaby]

fictional boyfriends (e.m.)

summary: eddie gets jealous of your newest fictional boyfriend from a game he got you into.

warnings: kinda sweet. kinda cringe. eddie is jealous of astarion. twilight reference jumpscare. not edited. biting and vague mentions of sex at the end.

wc: 2.5k+

a/n: this is the dumbest, cringiest thing i have ever written. but on this side of town, we embrace the cringe <3 happy valentine's day, enjoy me combining my current favorite fictional men (astarion and eddie) for my own personal delight. maybe one day i'll write a serious fic regarding the biting kink

It’s not that biting had ever been off the table with Eddie, per se.

Nips between kisses, using a little more teeth when he’d kiss across your neck, a joking sinking of your teeth into his shoulder when you were vying for his attention — they were all normal occurrences between the two of you. There was just never much discussion about it. No conversation explicitly had in which the two of you said, “Why, yes. This is something I’d like to bring into the bedroom.” 

Until that damn game.

When Eddie introduced you to Baldur’s Gate 3, the last thing he expected was to watch all your free time you used to spend pestering him suddenly handed over to some fictional vampire. He thought it’d be a game you tried, grew tired of, lost interest in, and that was that. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t expect a sudden competition for your goddamn affections. 

“Baby, please come to bed,” he all but whines as he drapes himself over your shoulders, trying to nudge off your headphones. He could feel just how warm your ears had grown beneath them. He swears he can feel your back crack from the slightest bit of his weight on your shoulders. And, sue him — he was tired and he wanted to cuddle. 

“One more minute,” you mumble the same phrase to him that he has used a million times on you; he instantly knows it’ll be far more than just sixty more seconds if he agrees, “Let me just finish this-“

“No,” he’s still whining, but it’s more stern now as he properly removes your headset, earning a glare from your bloodshot eyes, “You’ve been playing this game all afternoon, sweetheart. I think I might die if you don’t offer me some immediate attention. Truly.”

For emphasis, he lays more of his body weight on you, your chair creaking from holding up both of you now. 

“Eddie,” you moan out, wiggling beneath his dead-weight, “I swear to God, get off of me-“

“I’ll get off of you if you come to bed.”

You pause. Your hands hover near your keyboard and mouse, but you’re no longer walking your avatar across the world of Baldur’s Gate, and he knows he has you considering it.

More weight. More groans. At this rate, he’s questioning if your chair won’t break from his outrageous method to get your attention. 

“Fine.” 

The small yes he lets out only earns him a punch to the shoulder. But it gets you off the game, and that’s still a win for him.

He doesn’t even care about appearing over eager as you follow him back to the bedroom. He’s gone as far as preparing the bed, pillows fluffed and comforted pulled back while awaiting your arrival. He’s already washed his face and brushed his teeth (something he usually fights you on as you nag him before bed), and the moment he’s got you in the room with him, he’s dragging you right onto the mattress with him.

“You’re gonna hurt us!” you yelp as he wraps his arms around you and flops down, dragging you with him, but it’s through a laugh. He knows you really couldn’t care less — he’d never deliberately injure you, irritated about your newest fictional boyfriend or not. 

“Oh, no,” he mocks, rolling so you’re laying on top of him, “What ever will you do if I injure one of your precious wrists, and you can’t use it to flirt with your new boy toy tomorrow?” 

“Astarion would be devastated,” you giggle into his chest, not moving off of him despite all your protests. It’s nice — to feel the full weight of you, to just get to bury his nose in the crown of your head as he shamelessly inhales the sweet lingering scent of your coconut shampoo, “He’s even needier than you.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you serve as his functional juice box.”

“I do not!” you wiggle against him, and it only makes him tighten his arms, “He’s needy because he loves me.”

“Well that makes one of us.” 

Your head lifts off his chest in an instant, faux offense shadowing your features, “You tryin’ to say you don’t love me, Munson?”

He smirks, pressing his lips together tightly, making you huff in frustration. 

Of course he loves you. There wouldn’t be a ring in his sock drawer that he’s terrified of you finding if he didn’t. 

You pout, subtly and adorably so, starting to lift off of him, “If you’re going to be mean, I’m just going to go back to someone who appreciates me-“

“Mean?” he scoffs, enjoying himself far too much. He’s missed your attention, your affection. The effect it has on him is similar to a high, making him dizzy on serotonin as he rolls over and pins you between him and the mattress, “Oh, baby, that’s not me being mean. I can show you mean, if you want.” 

He’s always thought you looked prettiest like this. Under him, eyes wide as you look up at him as if he’s the only thing in this room worth looking at. Worth more than your prized bookshelf, more interesting than all the various posters the two of you have hung on the walls. You look at him as though he’s the greatest thing to exist in these four walls, and he doesn’t take it lightly when your favorite albums and candles are right there.

“You don’t have a mean bone in your body, Munson,” you whisper softly, face going soft for him. The two of you are still surely joking around, the playfulness of it all thick in the air, but there’s something genuine in your words that makes him even more enamored with you. 

He should have predicted you’d fall for Astarion when he showed you the game. You had a thing for people who put up the tough front, but who really just needed a little extra softness and patience under the surface. He was living proof of it.

Unlike your fictional vampire boyfriend. 

“Yeah?” he taunts, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushes yours. His hair works like a curtain, messy as ever as he shields the two of you from the outside world. One of your hands have crept up so that you palm rests against his cheek, and he can hardly remember that flare of jealousy that had gnawed at him when you’d spent your entire afternoon absorbed in the game instead of him, “I bet I could be meaner than Astarion. Although, I’m not sure just how mean that man has ever been to you, given all the war crimes you commit for his approval-“

He’s cut off when the thumb of the hand cradling his face trails up, pressing on his bottom lip. It only makes him grow even closer to you, pressing in, drawn by your touch.

You squint your eyes at him jokingly before cooing, “Someone sounds jealous.”

“Damn right,” he doesn’t even try to deny it, caught in the web of your trap with ease, “Does your pixelated lover even know what a catch he’s got?” 

You snort adorably at that. He pulls away to see the full force of your laughter, lifting up into his elbows to admire how your face scrunches with your smile. He bets Astarion would make some sarcastic comment about it — about the crinkles by your eyes that he aches to pepper with kisses, about the indents in your cheeks when you smile this wide, about the sound of your genuine laughter when you unrestrained and entirely comfortable like this. But there’s not a single joke forming on Eddie’s tongue. He’s all but hypnotized. 

God, he fucking loves you. So much so he’s jealous of a video game character.

“I’m not sure I’d consider this,” you lift the hand not holding him carefully still to motion at your current state of being, “A catch, my love.” 

He has to disagree. Messy hair or not, wrinkled pajamas or not.  You’re the greatest catch of this entire existence; not just Eddie’s, but the Universe’s. Nothing you could say or point out would deter him from this belief. He loves you, mess and all.

“My love?” he chooses to tease instead, all the words of affection threatening to choke him if he so much as considers letting them pour out, “I like the sound of that. If that’s the Astarion effect, maybe he isn’t so bad after all.”  

His elbows are sinking deeper into the mattress. With every passing second, his face is dropping closer to yours, and he’s not sure if it’s by instinct or choice. But when his lips finally brush yours, he decides it’s all the same — it doesn’t really matter what sort of gravity is at work here, as long as it keeps bringing him down closer to you.

“Shut up about the game and kiss me, Eddie.” 

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

The kiss is as sweet as ever. A comfortable dance that still sends shivers down his spine. If either of you looked closer at his arms bracketing your shoulders, you’d see the goosebumps raising as you eagerly returned all his affection.

You taste like the chocolates you’d been snacking on during your gaming. You taste like the greatest gift ever given, and he doesn’t care if he’s exaggerating or not. You’re divine — his favorite good morning and his only goodnight. 

And he’d say all that, but you’d probably accuse him of trying too hard to be like Astarion. Probably bring up that ridiculous line the character once said about you being made by the Gods, just to ruin him.

You were, though. Made by the Gods, specifically to ruin Eddie. Fuck the game. 

“You know,” he whispers against your lips, breaking for air as he adjusts positions. Your thighs open up and welcome him home, letting him slot right between your legs comfortably. He’s not trying to seduce you, but he can’t even be mad about it. He feels like a starved man now that your attention has been divided as of late, “If you wanted a lover who bites, all you had to do was ask, darling.” 

If you weren’t so wrapped up in the kisses he was pressing down your jaw and along your neck, you would have ripped him to shreds for the awful impersonation. 

But you’re already far gone, lost in his touches and his adorations. You let the half-assed attempt at a British accent slide, and you even bare your neck to him at the minute threat. 

Biting had never been off the table, per se, and Eddie was really fucking glad for it.

When he presses one, two, three greedy kisses to that sweet spot just below your ear, he has one intention in mind. Not his usual sucking and nipping and soothing, not leaving behind one of his ordinary love bites. No, he lets himself get caught up in the moment, and when he catches that quiver of excitement the moment he drags his teeth over your neck carefully, he’s fully committed to his decision.

He bites.

Not hard enough to draw blood, or even be terribly painful. He knows it’s nothing like the game or any of your subsequent fantasies you might have had from it. His canines are fairly dull, even as they dig carefully into the skin of your neck, holding for a moment for effect. But your legs tighten around his hips, and he almost wishes he was a damn vampire, able to actually pierce your skin in the moment. Drink your blood. Whatever the allure was with the origin companion.

You let out a soft gasp which has him keeping your skin between his teeth a few extra seconds, and then he’s letting go. Lifting his head and looking into your eyes, a silent exchange of is this okay?

If the glazed over look is anything to go off of, it’s more than okay.

He returns with reckless abandon, switching between his usual desperate kisses and the newer, sharper ones. He has one goal in mind: to mark you up as his, to the point in which you’ll be scolding him in the morning. It’s like a drug, to feel you writhe beneath him as he paints the picture. 

Love notes of freshly born bruises, the imprints of his teeth – a letter across your delicate skin that reads, he was here, and he loved you, more than anyone else in this Universe may ever be capable of. 

“If I had known how much biting would rile you up, I would’ve started doing it ages ago,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, finally pausing his assault. 

He settles for softer presses of his lip, peppering the affection where he had been a bit more violent. 

Your hands that had taken to tangling into the curls at the nape of his neck have gone more relaxed, no longer tugging but instead just lingering. Pulling him closer. Touching him with softer hands than he’s ever felt deserving of. 

“Guess you’ve got a certain vampire to thank for that,” you tease, but he can hear just how breathless he’s left you. He had sworn he could feel the pulse of your facing heart beneath his lips, even if just for a moment. Even if he just imagined it. 

“Please. Astarion is not getting the credit for that,” he scoffs, lifting up onto his elbows again to just look at you. His lover, his favorite person. It’s nice to see your face when it’s not washed over with the cast of a computer screen. “That was all me. And even if it wasn’t, I won’t forget that you had a Twilight phase.” 

Your hand quickly drops between the two of you, only to smack at his chest. The thump holds no weight as you whine, “I told you that in confidence.” 

He dips down, capturing one last kiss, “It’s okay, baby. It’s good to know that you have a type.”

“I do not-”

He cuts you off with a more playful bite to your neck. Less about marking you, and more just to make a point. 

“Just,” another nip, “admit,” another graze of his teeth, “it.” 

You’re fighting a smile when he looks down at you again, impossible to hide behind your mask of annoyance. “I am not admitting that I have a thing for broody, pathetic vampires.” 

“Well, I’ve got broody and pathetic down-”

“Eddie,” your thighs still bracket him, one hand still clinging to the back of his neck. When you say his name, the game is over. “We can spend all night bickering over the fictional men I love, or you can give me a reason to forget their names. It’s up to you.” 

His eyebrows jump up his forehead, and he’s just about to give up the bit, but not before one last snide remark.

“Kind of hard to do that when I share a name with one of them, but as you wish, sweetheart.” 

Another bout of beautiful laughter from him. Another smack on the chest from you. It’s good – it’s everything Eddie has ever wanted, and it is good.

He does, of course, make you forget their names. And if you find it difficult to get out of bed the next moment, dramatically unable to make the walk to your gaming computer, well – he won’t try to hide his smug smile in between the soft rays of morning light.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

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[arieslost]

certified haters | ln4

summary: you and your boyfriend hate valentine’s day.

word count: 634

masterlist — join my tag list here!

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

if there was one thing you hated more than the stupid groundhog that could hardly ever predict the season changes properly, it was the so-called “holiday” that followed a couple weeks later: valentine’s day.

when you started dating lando, you made it perfectly clear that you refused to celebrate such a dumb, performative day. you’d expected more pushback considering how clingy and doting he was before the two of you even made anything official, but to your surprise he’d launched into a whole rant about how much he hated it too.

“i don’t need a specific day on the calendar to show you how much i love you,” he’d concluded, sitting back down on the couch and pulling you into his arms. “if you don’t know that every day of your life, then i’m doing something wrong.”

that was why, while other couples were being sappy and having breakfast in bed or something, you were more than happy to be freezing your ass off at silverstone as your boyfriend prepared to get behind the wheel of his 2024 car for the first time.

you honestly couldn’t imagine doing anything else— lando had seemed a bit hesitant when he asked you to come, like he thought you’d say no, and watching his eyes light up when you enthusiastically agreed was better than any valentine’s day gift.

you rubbed your hands up and down your arms to try and bring some heat back to your skin. lando, always so attentive, noticed immediately.

“are you cold?” he asked, and didn’t even wait for your response before he was putting his helmet down and shrugging out of his mclaren jacket. “put this on. c’mon.”

“no, lan, it’s fine—” your argument was pointless as he gently put your one arm, and then the other, into the sleeves of his jacket before zipping it up.

“can’t have my valentine freezing on me,” he could hardly get through his sentence without giggling, and it morphed into true laughter when you smacked him with an oversized sleeve. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry!”

“get out of my sight, norris.” you rolled your eyes, reaching for his helmet and shoving it into his chest.

“ready?” one of the engineers asked as he handed you a headset, and lando gave a thumbs up in return, flipping his helmet over as he walked toward the car.

“oh, wait!” you called out before he could put it on. “i almost forgot.”

he already knew what you were going to do before you did it. it was tradition; you always did this before he got in the car, no matter what. he closed his eyes and puckered his lips cutely in anticipation as you ran into his arms and kissed him.

“good luck, have fun, don’t die,” you said, smiling as he mouthed the words along with you.

it was what you had said before the first race he brought you to. you’d tried to come up with something profound, but you were so nervous that those six words came out instead. now you say them every time.

“i love you,” he pressed another kiss to your lips, and then your forehead. “i love you, i love you, i love you.”

he donned his helmet and climbed into the car as you put the headset on, stepping back so the engineers could do the final preparations on the car.

right before he drove out onto the track, he stuck his arm out of the car, formed a sign with his hand, and waved.

i love you! you knew he couldn’t turn around to look, but you signed it back.

you and lando hated valentine’s day, but the two of you were just as sappy with each other every other day of the year— why should today be any different?

note: this was fueled by my own hatred of this silly little day and i wrote this on mobile (thus the lowercase) in maybe two hours. the title ended up being more ironic than i thought it would be; i wish lando was my valentine and this got fluffier than i’d planned. hope u enjoyed!

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika !

tags (i’m sorry if i couldn’t tag you!): @venusacrossthestars @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @architect-2015 @maddie-bell @athena-artemis-dorian-gray @noreri @bwormie @alltoomaples @maximoffsimp @peargaslyyy @alicedebate @esserenorris

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ jill valentine x reader, 27K+

⸺ depictions of abusive relationships, supernatural horror, gore, cannibalism, dead dove do not eat

⸺ summary: Your predictable life with Jill Valentine unravels when she shows up in your house after the gory death of your abusive ex, bloody from head to toe, and starving.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3.

taglist: @uhlunaro @withonly-sweetheart @wxwieeee @official-cvntified-gay @ann1-the-s1mp

@m3dicals @jillsandwichsstuff @t0tallyn0t3rmy @esterphobic @justb3333

@wlwhorrorgame @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @misonesaturou

@lightning-hawke @sparrowguardian @cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @saturnzei

There’s something about the air in this town that feels like it never changes and is permanently stuck in the same one season. A weight lingers on your skin, like a fine layer of dust that’s settled over everything. It sticks to the cracked sidewalks, the rusting cars, the sagging rooftops of houses that haven’t been painted in years. It settles over you too, clinging to your skin like a second layer you can’t scrub off, no matter how hard you try. It’s the kind of place where you can't feel time passing, like every day is another step toward being buried under the same soil that has seen generation after generation repeat the same mistakes.

You can’t remember the last time anything changed.

The streets are as weathered as they’ve always been, buildings leaning inward as if they’re trying to close in on you, swallow you whole. The same bar on Main Street serves the same drinks to the same people who’ve been drowning their sorrows in it for as long as you can remember. You used to think that maybe you’d escape—that you’d be the one who made it out. But that was before the days started blending together, before you realized that running wouldn’t change the kind of person you are.

You don’t escape places like this. Places like this get inside you.

From your bedroom window, you can see the church steeple rising above the town like a watchful eye, casting long shadows over the graveyard that’s filled with more familiar names than you care to think about. You know the stories behind most of them. How they lived. How they died. Some of those names belonged to people you knew, people you grew up with. People like you, who thought they’d escape and ended up six feet under instead.

It’s been years since you’ve stepped foot in the church, not since your father’s funeral when you were nine. The priest spoke about salvation, about redemption. But that was a lifetime ago, before you started to understand that some people don’t get saved. Some people just survive long enough to die another way.

In the distance, the sound of a basketball bouncing echoes faintly from the park down the road, rhythmic, steady. For a moment, you close your eyes and you’re fifteen again, sitting on the bleachers with the sun hot on your back, watching Jill Valentine practice her free throws, her short hair slick with sweat and her smile always, always present.

Even now, the memory makes you smile, a bittersweet twist at the corner of your mouth. She was always the steady one. The golden girl of your tiny town. The one who people looked up to—admired. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t, too. But you admired her differently. You always had.

You think back to when you were kids, before things got... complicated. Back when you used to play “boyfriend-girlfriend” in your backyard, chasing each other around tree trunks with your cheeks pink and palms sweaty. Back then, Jill was always the one leading you by the hand. Always the one saying I do want to be your friend forever. The one insisting on piggyback rides and drawing silly little pictures of flowers you couldn't stop laughing at. And when none of the adults were looking, she was the one pressing her chapped lips against yours, tasting like strawberry ice pops under the afternoon summer sun. Both of you just mimicked what you saw on TV, giggling afterwards with blushing faces while you sat side-by-side, thighs pressed together, making a show of wiping your mouths so no one would ever catch on.

It had made sense back then. All the other girls kissed boys in movies, so why wouldn’t you kiss Jill? You liked her better anyway. Boys were yucky. They smelled and they made gross jokes about things that made you wrinkle your nose in distaste. Jill wasn’t like that. She was smart and cool and never did anything mean or dumb like the other boys in your class. Besides, Jill played harder than them. She could climb trees and jump fences and run faster than anyone you knew. And she was fun! So it only seemed natural that you two should share kisses too. Best friends should always do everything together, after all, including kissing. That's what you told yourself back then, anyway.

Besides, those kisses never really meant anything.

Except, it did.

Because you’d never kissed any boys. Only Jill. She was your first kiss. And your second. And your third. And when you kissed her again in middle school—at thirteen, after sneaking into a movie that was rated just a little too old for you—you could taste the soda on her tongue and feel the wet heat of her mouth. She felt different than the first time—her jaw was broader, her lips softer, though there was still something girlish about the bow of them—but somehow exactly the same: reassuring, familiar. But only because you practiced together; that was all. Like learning math problems and how to ride bikes: that was all. Because kissing boys was disgusting. You couldn't imagine doing it with someone else but her.

But she said, "I think I'm going to try dating boys now," and later she would confess quietly into the darkness of your bedroom, the kind of roommates you two still sometimes were, even though you weren't children anymore, and she'd say, "I kissed Bobby Martin, and I didn't mind it," and you pretended not to hear her.

Or maybe you really hadn't heard her; maybe you just chose not to acknowledge the tight fist clenched beneath your ribs, squeezing, squeezing until you felt ill. You ignored it, tried to push through it—and the feeling went away. It was just a stomachache; those happened from time to time, especially when your mom made chicken pot pie.

You two stopped kissing because of Bobby Martin, and you wanted to see what was that special about him that Jill wouldn't do that with you anymore. You still remember his sweaty upper lip and his braces digging into your mouth like a row of sharp teeth, snapping against your bottom lip. Ew.

A few days after the incident, you said, "Bobby Martin is gross. He kissed me. Bleh."

It was fine, they weren't dating. But Jill looked away and picked at the grass blades next to her tennis shoes, that were already soiled with dirt. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but for a second, her blue eyes seemed bright yellow as she glared down at the lawn like she didn't want to look at you. She said nothing. You couldn't even recall if she had nodded.

"At least I don't smell like old socks," you offered helpfully, thinking that was very insulting towards Bobby Martin, because you remembered seeing his big toe poking through his gym sock last month in health class, and everyone laughed—everyone except Jill, who never really took joy in picking on people. Still, you thought it was clever, so you kept going. "Plus, he has greasy hair."

"You have greasy hair too."

Well, maybe you did. But you could wash yours whenever you wanted. And hey, at least you didn't smell like old socks!

Things got weird between you after that. You two stopped talking, and Jill hung out with Bobby Martin instead. Your parents kept asking what happened, but you lied and said nothing because admitting you missed Jill—missed kissing her, missed telling her secrets that even your diary couldn't know—was embarrassing. It meant letting someone else win, and Bobby Martin was stupid; Jill couldn't possibly like him more than she liked you. No way!

But then high school hit, and things got more complicated. Jill started hanging out with more people, became the captain of the basketball team. She had that charisma that drew everyone in—girls and boys alike.

And suddenly, she wasn’t your person anymore.

The jealousy you felt back then was sharp, slicing through you like glass every time you found out about a person she knew but you didn't. When she would skip lunch with you increasingly often, choosing instead to eat outside with other friends. It wasn’t fair, and you knew it. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but that didn’t stop you from hating it. Hating the way she laughed with the other girls in the locker room. The way she made plans without you sometimes, like you weren’t the center of her universe the way she still was for you. You didn't have other people like she did. No one came before her.

The truth was, Jill was everything. And no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, you hated sharing her. You hated seeing her with other people, hated knowing that you weren’t the only one she spent her time with. But what could you say? “No, don’t hang out with other people? Only me”? It sounded ridiculous just thinking about it. What kind of best friend said things like that? How pathetic would that be?

So, you told yourself it was fine. She was still your best friend. She was still Jill. She might’ve had other friends, other people who hung around her, but at the end of the day, you were always first. At the end of the day, it was still the two of you together, running through the streets. Inseparable, untouchable. Best friends forever and ever. Until death do us part, you promised each other when you were younger. Because in that world, that was all it was. Girls kissing girls and boys being yucky and nothing changing, even as the seasons spun out around you both.

But real life was different than the fantasy in your head. Real life didn’t fit neatly into boxes or promises spoken beneath playground slides. Reality was messy and confusing and full of choices—choices you wished you hadn't made, but you had anyway. Choices that broke hearts and destroyed lives, choices that tore apart people's families. Choices you wished you could take back, but once they're made, there's no turning back.

When she kissed Bobby Martin on a warm August evening beside the community pool, your stomach dropped. There was a hollow emptiness in the pit of it. A hunger you couldn't quite name. You watched them for a minute, her mouth pressed against his, the glow from the streetlight bathing everything in amber and gold. It was a moment out of time. Perfect, frozen, fragile. Something you were not supposed to witness. Something private and secret. Like catching a glimpse of something you shouldn't—of someone naked, unguarded, exposed. When she finally pulled away from him, there was a dazed expression on his face, like he'd seen heaven. And maybe he had; you didn't know. All you knew was that it felt wrong, like you were intruding on something, like you didn't belong here anymore.

You turned away before she could spot you standing in the shadows outside the chain link fence encircling the park. A sob rose in your throat, burning like acid. Your eyes stung with unshed tears. Why did it hurt so much? Why was there a hole in your chest where there should've been only air? It was just a kiss. Just Bobby fucking Martin. Who cared about him, anyway? So what if Jill wanted to kiss boys? Kiss whoever she damn well pleased? Why should you give a shit about something as stupid as this? It wasn't your business. Wasn't any of your business. Didn't matter at all...

You tried to act like it didn’t bother you. You’d roll your eyes when she talked about him, laugh it off when she brought him to your movie nights, pretend it wasn’t a big deal when she chose him over you on Friday evenings. And sure, okay, maybe sometimes you imagined tearing out his hair follicles or slipping laxatives into his soda, but everyone fantasized about horrible things. Normal shit like that. Everyone got jealous over little things. Right?

It wasn’t long after that when you started dating boys too. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt like what you were supposed to do. Everyone else was doing it, and maybe if you did too, that hole inside you would finally close up. Maybe if you found someone who made you feel like Jill made you feel, everything would make sense.

But that’s not what happened.

You never found anyone who made you feel like she did. What you found instead were boys who were too much like the town you’d grown up in—stifling and suffocating, holding you down instead of lifting you up. You didn’t know how to pick the right ones. Or maybe there were no right ones. Not for you.

The first real boyfriend was Ryan. You were sixteen. He was older, taller, with a cocky grin and a swagger that made him stand out in this nowhere town. He had that edge that pulled you in, made you feel like he knew things you didn’t. But Ryan wasn’t gentle. Not with his hands, not with his words. It started small—flattering jealousy and flirtation that became possessiveness, comments about how you were dressing too much for someone who wasn’t going anywhere, which made sense at the time. It was true, wasn't it? So why did it sting so bad when he said it? You felt it anyway.

Eventually, the compliments faded, and the backhanded comments grew more frequent, for example, criticizing how loud you sounded (maybe you were laughing too much?), saying that the clothes you wore didn't suit your body type. At first, these comments felt helpful. They helped you change parts of yourself so you could look better, feel good enough. Eventually, the praise returned when he got what he wanted. But then those sweet moments would turn sour fast, as he began to berate you again, reminding you to be careful and keep your mouth shut because guys wouldn't want such a loudmouth girl—even if she was pretty.

He told you often, "I'm just trying to help you out here. I love you, and you should appreciate me more." You started hating his voice. His eyes, always looking at other girls in the halls at school. You hated how easily you cried when he yelled at you, making you promise you'd never bring it up again to anyone. This was something between you and him. It wasn't worth fighting. So you learned quickly how to fall in line. Keep quiet and do what he asks without causing trouble. Stay nice and innocent-looking around others. Don't ask questions. That's what couples do, isn't it? Do whatever it takes to make it work.

You let it happen, thinking it was love, thinking this was what a real relationship looked like. Jill never said much about him, but you could see the way she’d frown whenever she saw the two of you together. You could feel her disapproval. Being the one who didn't have the time to spare for your friendship this time around gave you some sort of sick satisfaction. And it only made you want to hold onto Ryan harder, like proving her wrong would somehow make you right.

But then came the first time he hit you. Not a slap, not a punch, just a shove against the wall when you disagreed with him. Your breath had caught in your throat, more from surprise than fear. You’d never seen that side of him before. But you didn’t leave. Not then. Because he was sorry and promised it would never happen again, and even though a voice in your head told you that he was lying, that voice wasn't as loud as his begging—the apologies spilling from his lips as he held your hand so tenderly afterward. He was used to being rowdy with the boys. Too excited and energetic to remember that you were smaller. Fragile, even. His mother taught him better, and he didn’t mean it. That he was only stressed, what with finals coming up and wanting to get into a good college.

It wasn’t long before his temper flared more often than it didn’t.

You learned to flinch at the sound of his voice rising, learned to make yourself small in a way you hadn’t before. And Jill? Well, she openly stopped approving. Told you that this wasn’t healthy, wasn't normal. That if you wanted to talk, she would listen without judgment. But you wouldn’t budge. Because he wasn't always like this, and it made sense if you thought about it logically—it was stressful for him. College applications and SAT prep courses eating away at his mental health. Making him forgetful; making him short-tempered, and you were of no help sometimes. Accidentally drinking all of the milk instead of buying more; forgetting your keys at home so he had to wait ten minutes in the car while you ran back inside for them. Little things, stupid mistakes, but you understood why they set him off. Anyone could have messed up like that—you didn’t need to hold it against him. Didn't want to punish him by running straight back to Jill like the last time, when he apologized in waves and hugged you so tightly. He needed you; he'd said it himself. So when he yelled and called you names, you reminded yourself of why you stayed with him—because it wasn’t the shouting that mattered; it was what came after. It was the warmth and affection, the sweetness that lingered despite the poison beneath. The reassurance, the safety, the tenderness, the vulnerability he shared only with you. It was everything underneath those storms, those moments of rage, those brief flashes of pain.

It lasted until that one random night Jill showed up at your door straight from taekwondo practice. Still wearing her uniform with hair slick and tied up on her head, sweat drying in the cool summer air, she looked exhausted but ready to take down anyone in her way, her face set in that way that said she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She’d marched into your apartment, taken one look at your bruised wrist, and told you you were coming with her. You’d fought her on it, tried to tell her you were fine, but Jill didn’t listen. She just pulled you into her arms and held you so tightly that all the resistance melted away because all along, all you ever wanted was to return back to this safe place you felt every time you fell asleep next to her in her bedroom.

You two had reconciled that day, watching movies in comfortable silence for the rest of the night. Then when you woke up to the sunlight pouring in through the window blinds, Jill was curled around you just like how you remembered her being five years ago. And for a split second, it was almost enough to believe you were kids again, except both of you wore bras and pants, which were much more mature than Barbie pajama sets (though there was nothing wrong with liking mermaids). So maybe not exactly the same but pretty close. Except for the part where she smelled different, sharper; less like bubblegum and cotton candy than the body spray and cologne, but still familiar. Comforting. Homey. Everything he wasn’t.

That's why it had come as an earth-shattering shock to walk in on her beating the shit out of Ryan in the middle of the street a week later. They went at it like wild dogs in front of a crowd of high schoolers, screaming obscenities at each other—shouting about you—and somehow neither ended up in jail afterward, though not for lack of trying on Ryan's part. But seeing your estranged best friend clock your then current boyfriend, and actually cause his jaw to dislocate, kindled something in you. Made you smile; made you giddy even. Nothing short of crazy-psycho-laugh-while-throwing-glitter level happy, really. Because she defended you when no one else seemed to give a flying fuck, because she hadn't abandoned you completely and maybe...just maybe...still cared. Maybe enough for things to fix themselves the way they always did whenever the two of you fought over stupid stuff when growing up together.

But things never changed for long.

It’s not glamorous, this role she’s taken on as your savior. Sometimes it’s dragging you from a bar at 2 a.m., other times it’s showing up at your door, tight-lipped and jaw clenched, after you’ve been thrown to the curb by yet another son of a bitch. And always, there’s that unspoken understanding: Jill will fix it. She always does.

You’re not sure when this cycle began, when Jill became your personal hero in shining Kevlar, but it’s been like this for as long as you can remember. And part of you knows it’s not fair—the way you lean on her. The way you rely on her strength to pull you out of the messes you keep creating. But then there’s that familiar warmth, the way her hand grips yours so tightly, her voice so sure and steady as she says, "Come on, let’s get you out of here." It makes you feel like you matter, like you’re something worth saving.

But Jill... Jill’s never needed saving.

From the very beginning, Jill was different. Stronger. Always one step ahead. While you were skipping school, smoking weed behind the bleachers, and sneaking into bars with fake IDs, Jill was valedictorian. Captain of the girl's basketball team. She had this aura about her, like she could handle anything life threw her way. You, on the other hand, were barely holding it together, crashing through life like a car with no brakes.

After Ryan, there was Rich, then Stephen, then James. Then... Well, it doesn't matter. Each one was worse than the last.

But Jill never left.

Even after she graduated and went to the police academy, even when you lost track of how many dead-end jobs and deadbeat boyfriends you’d had, she always came back. Always checking in, always pulling you out of the wreckage of your latest mistake. She wasn’t just your best friend; she was your safety net. You leaned on her in ways that made you hate yourself. But you couldn’t stop.

By the time you hit your late-twenties, Jill had become something else entirely—successful, reliable, and, most infuriatingly, still perfect. She had joined the police force, the golden girl with the badge, and everyone in town adored her. Even you couldn’t help but admire her, though the admiration curdled into something bitter. You weren’t proud of it, but the resentment was always there, bubbling beneath the surface.

You, on the other hand, were stuck. Stuck in the same dead town, stuck in the same dead relationships. Men who hit too hard, drank too much, and never stayed. You hadn’t had a real job in years, barely scraped by on part-time gigs and handouts from your mom, from barista to retail store worker, from secretary to sales associate...

There were moments when it felt like old times. When Jill would come by with takeout, and the two of you would sit on your couch, drinking cheap wine and watching movies. You’d laugh, talk about nothing, and for a few hours, it was like you were teenagers again, lying under the stars, dreaming about the future. But it never lasted. Jill would leave, go back to her perfect life, and you’d be left alone in the silence, wondering what you were doing wrong.

You hated the way she made you feel—useless, vulnerable, needy. Like a child. You resented her for it, even as you longed for her attention, her approval. In those moments, you despised yourself more than anything, hated that you let yourself become this broken shell of a person. But there was nothing else you could do.

A car engine revs in the alley below your window, pulling you back to the present. You look down and see Matt’s car. It’s not supposed to be there. Your stomach twists with a familiar dread, the kind that always comes before the fists, before the yelling. He’s supposed to be gone, out with his friends or drunk in a gutter somewhere—not here, not now.

And yet, the night begins just like it always does.

The last thing you remember clearly is the taste of blood on your lips. Your ring had connected with his mouth, splitting it open. Then a howl, a flash of white-hot pain across your face, and then you were on the floor, arms shielding your head from the flurry of blows raining down on you. This was normal, expected even. You had a type. The kind of man who used his fists to say “I love you” and would be back on his knees a day later, begging you to forgive him. This time wasn’t any different. Except it was. Because this time, Jill arrived mid-fight, probably because of the neighbors calling the police for the tenth time to complain about the noise.

You knew Matt would run when he saw the squad car lights outside. And Jill was right on his tail, tackling him to the ground before he could slip around the corner. At that moment, she wasn’t the same girl you’d grown up with. She wasn’t the same girl who used to climb trees with you or sneak into movies when you were twelve. Jill was a force. The man had barely turned before she had him on the ground, her knee in his back, arms twisted behind him in a position that left no room for movement. All you could do was watch, curled on the floor, nursing your ribs and swollen cheek. It was over in seconds.

He was gone before you could say a word, dragged out by Jill’s partner. You still couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The buzzing in your head made everything else feel distant, like you weren’t even there.

Jill pulled you up gently, her call cutting through the fog. “Come on, we need to get you out of here.”

And just like that, you were saved. Again.

Jill watches as they haul Matt away, his wrists bound in cuffs, his eyes glazed over with the same detached arrogance he’s had since the day she first laid eyes on him. Tall and thin like a stick, dressed in black from head to toe, his skin pale beneath the streetlights. He almost looks like a caricature, something out of a bad goth magazine, like he’s trying a little too hard to make the world believe he doesn’t care.

He's the type of guy who thinks the world is conspiring against him, the kind of guy who can talk about the system failing him when really it’s him fucking up and blaming everyone else. She can see right through his bullshit; she always could. He thinks he knows it all, thinks he has them all figured out, but he doesn't know anything. Not really. Not about the shit that matters. The stuff no one likes talking about: death and taxes and fucking the things they love.

Matt is just another asshole in a long list of assholes she's seen come and go, another face to file away in the back of her mind alongside the others: Rich the dealer, Stephen the abuser, and James the stalker.

Jill should be more satisfied than she is. But there’s no real victory in seeing someone like Matt brought down. Guys like him, they always come back, circling around the same mistakes like vultures, never really learning, never really changing. Still, seeing him taken away gives her a brief sense of relief. At least for tonight, you’re safe from him.

Her eyes shift to you, sitting on the edge of the couch, hands trembling as you hold an ice pack to your bruised cheek. You’re trying to keep it together—your face is set, lips pressed into a thin line, but Jill knows you better than that. Knows the small cracks in your facade; she can see them in your eyes—worried, uncertain.

She crouches beside you, brushing your hair back from your forehead. It’s greasy, matted with dried blood, but she ignores it. She just wants to get a good look at you, make sure you don’t have any other serious injuries. You lean into her touch, letting out a soft sigh. Something clenches in her chest, tight and painful.

"Want some water or something?" Jill offers, getting up.

You nod absently, still pressing the ice pack to your cheek. "He has beer in the fridge."

She walks into the kitchen, her boots clicking against the worn tile floor. The place looks worse in the light, cluttered with the kind of junk that accumulates in the lives of people who don’t have the energy to deal with it—empty beer bottles, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, takeout containers stacked in the sink. It smells like stale smoke and something sour, but Jill’s used to it by now.

The fridge door squeaks as she pulls it open. A few brown paper bags sit on the top shelf, along with some expired yogurt, half a jar of mayonnaise, and a bag of wilted spinach. She grabs a beer bottle, kicking the door shut with her foot. As she moves past the living room, the dull thud of music from next door pulses through the walls. Matt's neighbor doesn't seem bothered by the earlier disturbance. Or maybe he's just used to it—this is how things work here. The arrival of police officers is considered a minor inconvenience, one to be dismissed easily in favor of the convenience of a quick fix. There's a routine to this: call us when they break something, but try not to pay attention otherwise.

"Here," she says, tossing the cold drink at you. You fumble and catch the bottle, shaking it off before twisting the cap and taking a sip. Jill leans against the counter, popping the top off her own drink. Silence settles between the two of you, heavy and uncomfortable. She knows there are things she should say, words of reassurance, encouragement—but they don't come.

Matt’s place is as you’d expect it—cluttered, filled with mismatched furniture, posters of bands Jill doesn’t recognize plastered on the walls. There’s a stack of vinyl records in the corner, collecting dust. The dark curtains, the heavy, black candles cluttering the windowsill, the incense smoldering in its brass holder—it all lends itself to an air of drama that seems calculated to intimidate. It looks like a teenage girl's idea of goth chic mixed with a bit of Ikea modernism, cheap and disheveled. On the counter, next to an ancient microwave with a dent in it, sits a basket full of fruit. Strange choice, considering the rest of the interior. But the fruit bowl is almost empty, only a couple apples remaining inside—small red globes of waxed skin without even a speck of decay marring their glossy perfection.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jill finally asks, breaking the silence. She knows you’re used to her questions by now, the inevitable interrogation that always comes after she bails you out of these situations. But this time, she can't stop the edge, sharper than usual. "You told me you ended things with him."

You shrug, looking down at the half-empty bottle clutched between your hands. Jill notices your shifty knuckles are white around the glass neck. "I know, I just... Had stuff to take care of here."

There would be a dent in the metal if she was holding a can of beer instead of a bottle. "Stuff, huh? Like the dishes and laundry?"

Your jaw works wordlessly for a second or two before responding. "Jill, c'mon..."

To let out some restless energy, Jill walks over to a bookshelf, her eyes skimming over the titles. Most of it is typical goth fare—vampire novels, books on the occult, some Nietzsche thrown in for good measure.

“I don’t get it,” Jill says, running her fingers over the spines. “What the hell did you see in this guy? Yeah, he can hold a guitar, but Jesus Christ, that's about it."

“He wasn’t all bad, you know. He had his moments.”

“That goth broomstick couldn't have his fifteen minutes even with the help of god,” Jill mutters, picking up one of the sketchbooks. She flips through the pages, her eyes catching on a few rough drawings—mostly abstract shapes and half-formed figures. There’s talent there, but it’s buried under layers of arrogance and self-importance. She can practically hear Matt talking about his “vision,” about how he’s going to be the next big thing.

“He ever tell you about his grand plans to make it big?” Jill asks, settling down in the armchair across from you.

You snicker. “Oh, yeah. All the time. Said he just needed the right opportunity. Maybe sacrifice a goat or two, you know, to seal the deal with the devil.”

She pauses, looking up from the sketchbook. “Wait, what?”

You wave it off. “He was kidding. I think. He used to make jokes about it. Said he’d do whatever it took to make it, even if it meant some... satanic deal.”

Jill laughs, shaking her head. "I hope he didn't seriously believe in that shit."

"Nah, we both knew he didn’t mean it. Probably would have liked to meet some hot rock star babe though."

She flicks through the pages again. Most of the sketches are fairly standard—band logos, album covers, band photos with lots of dark makeup and shadowy poses. Some look like attempts at tattoo art, though the detail isn’t quite there. Nothing worth noting aside from the mediocrity of it all, the lack of originality. Typical shit one would expect from an amateur artist. "Let's get out of here. I want you to file that restraining order."

You follow without complaint, though she sees your brows pinch together. Your eyes flicker toward the hallway briefly, likely imagining all the chaos ahead. She knows this will be far from pleasant, the paperwork and court process, but she doesn’t budge.

It’s been a long day, and Jill’s still running on fumes when she pulls her car off the main road and into the quiet stretch of woods where she and you used to hang out as kids. The night air is crisp, cool against her skin as she steps out of the car, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth beneath her. She closes her eyes for a second, letting the quiet wash over her. No flashing lights, no chaos, just the sounds of the wind rustling through the trees. The woods have always been a refuge, a place to clear her head.

Jill leans against the hood of her car, her eyes scanning the tree line. It’s peaceful out here, secluded; she can understand why you liked it so much. Even though she knows you won’t be here tonight, it feels right to come to this spot. Somehow, being alone in these familiar surroundings helps ease the knot in her chest about the mess she had to clean up today.

The arrest, the paperwork, the endless questions about Matt. She shakes her head. The guy’s a disaster. Always has been. But she’s used to it by now—the aftermath of your bad choices, the inevitable fallout that always leaves her picking up the pieces.

She’s thinking about calling it a night when she hears a branch snap somewhere behind her. It’s a small sound, barely noticeable, but Jill’s instincts kick in. She straightens up, her hand automatically moving toward her side where her gun would be. But her holster’s empty. Of course it is. She’s off-duty.

“Hello?” Jill calls out, steady, calm. She’s used to strange noises in the woods. Could be an animal. Could be nothing. But something in the air shifts, and she can feel it—a presence, a weight, like someone is watching her.

Another snap, closer this time. Jill’s pulse quickens, but she keeps her composure. “This is a restricted area. Show yourself.”

It echoes through the trees, but there’s no response, just a rustling in the leaves like the forest itself is stirring.

Before she has time to react, something hard connects with the back of her head. The world tilts violently, and for a second, everything goes dark. Jill stumbles forward, her vision swimming, her knees hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. Pain explodes at the base of her skull, radiating outwards in sharp, jagged waves.

She tries to push herself up, but a boot presses down on her back, forcing her flat against the ground. The weight is crushing, and she gasps for air, her cheek pressed into the cold earth. She can taste blood, metallic and bitter on her tongue.

Jill’s mind races, her body struggling to catch up. She needs to move. She needs to fight back. But before she can gather the strength, she feels the cold bite of metal against her wrists, the familiar snap of handcuffs locking into place. Panic surges through her as she realizes she’s trapped, her arms twisted behind her back, her chest pinned to the dirt.

“Not so tough now, are we, officer?” someone sneers from above her, and she recognizes it immediately. Matt. The asshole ex. He leans down, his breath hot and sour against her ear, “Thought you could just waltz in, ruin my life, and walk away scot-free?”

His voice is low, shaky—nothing like the smooth, self-assured tone he usually carries. There’s something desperate about it, something unhinged. Jill clenches her jaw, trying to fight through the haze in her head. “Matt, you fucking idiot, what the hell are you doing?” she spits out, hoarse but defiant.

Matt’s boot presses harder against her back, and she bites back a grunt of pain. “I’m taking what’s owed to me,” he hisses, “You shouldn't have gotten involved. Should have left me be.”

Jill tries to twist her arms, to find a weakness in the handcuffs, but they are unyielding. She’s trapped, and the realization sinks in like ice in her veins. But she won’t give him the satisfaction of fear. “You think whatever you're planning will fix anything?"

She needs to stay calm. She needs to think.

She hears him pacing behind her, the dry leaves crunching under his feet. “You know, this wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.”

“Let me go, Matt. This isn’t going to end well for you.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, she hears him muttering to himself, his footsteps circling her like a predator stalking its prey. Jill forces herself to breathe evenly, to focus on the ground beneath her, the way the dirt smells like pine and decay. She can’t panic. If she panics, she's done for.

After what feels like an eternity, Matt crouches down next to her, grabs her by the shoulder and flips her onto her back. The world tilts again, the stars above blurring as her head spins from the impact. She blinks up at him, trying to focus, trying to get her bearings. His face looms above her, pale and gaunt, his eyes wild and frantic.

He’s holding a knife.

"You don't want to do this," she manages, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

He grins. It’s an ugly, shaking thing, a twisted mockery of a smile. "I don't?" he asks. "I really, really do. You see, I had everything planned out perfectly. And then you ruined it. So now, I have to improvise."

Jill's mind races. She has to keep him talking, buy herself some time. "So what's the plan now, asshole?"

His smile widens, and there's something wild in his eyes, something beyond reason. "Well, you're no virgin, but she also wasn't one, so I figured the ritual would still work. A little tweaking here and there. You'll do as well. Better, even, because I won't have to listen to your mewling about."

The knife glints in the moonlight as Matt waves it around. "You've fucked me over for the last time. I'm not gonna let you ruin my life again. This time, it's gonna be perfect. No more fuckin' up."

Jill's hands might be restrained behind her back, but she still has her legs. With a swift movement, she kicks out, aiming for his knee. There's a satisfying crunch as her foot connects, and Matt yowls in pain, stumbling back a few steps.

"You bitch!" he screams, clutching his injured leg. "Fuuuuuuck!" He lunges toward her again, but Jill is ready for him. She rolls to the side, dodging his attack.

Matt stumbles, falling to his knees in the dirt. He looks up at her, eyes filled with anger and hatred. "You're dead," he spits out. "Dead!"

With a sudden burst of strength, Jill manages to stand up. She's unsteady on her feet, but she knows she has to get out of there. She takes a few wobbly steps backward, putting some distance between her and the knife-wielding lunatic, but the blow she took to the back of her head has her dizzy, and she's seeing stars. Her vision blurs, and she feels like she's going to throw up. Those few seconds of pause are enough for Matt to tackle her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her lungs, the handcuffs digging painfully into her back, cutting the skin open. She can feel warm blood trickling down her spine, soaking into her pants.

He takes her by the hair and slams her head into the ground, over and over, making the pain worse, the world spinning and fading in and out of focus. Blood is now pouring freely from the back of her head, soaking into the dry, brown leaves below, as the kicking of her legs start slowing down, growing weaker, and then ceases entirely, her consciousness slipping away, and all she sees is the darkness closing in, the stars above blurring together until they are just pinpoints of light against the inky night.

The diner is busy today, louder than usual, the murmurs blending with the clatter of plates and the hiss of the coffee machine. It’s one of those days where the heat from the kitchen spills into the main dining area, making everything seem a little more frantic, a little more alive. You, the waitress with the pink uniform and the tired smile, moving from table to table, balancing trays and trying not to spill anyone’s lunch, taking orders and delivering meals with the practiced efficiency of someone who has seen this routine play out countless times before.

It’s the usual crowd. The regulars in their usual booths. The same old conversations about nothing, the same gripes about the weather, the same complaints about the town. And you, in the middle of it all, taking it in, nodding politely, pretending to listen. Pretending to care.

“Two eggs, sunny-side up, bacon crispy, toast buttered on both sides, and don’t forget the hash browns.”

“Make sure that coffee’s hot. None of that lukewarm nonsense.”

“The pancakes better be fluffy. Last time they were like eating cardboard.”

The orders come thick and fast, a barrage of demands and preferences, each one a little more ridiculous than the last. But you take it all in stride, a forced smile plastered across your face as you nod, jotting down notes on your worn pad.

You catch conversations in bits and pieces as you refill coffee cups and clear away plates, overhearing fragments that make your stomach twist into knots.

“... found him in the woods, just like that...”

“... they say it was a wolf, but...”

“... haven't had wolves around here for decades...”

"The poor bastard..."

You can’t help but listen in, your curiosity getting the better of you. You lean against the counter, pretending to clean up a spill, your ears straining to catch the conversation.

“... they found him hanging from a tree, gutted like a fish. Something tore out his throat, and the rest of him... well, let’s just say there wasn’t much left.”

Shit, has there always been that kind of animal in the woods you used to hang out around in the past? The thought makes a chill run down your spine. You think of Jill out there, patrolling those same woods, and a knot of worry settles heavy in the pit of your stomach.

You glance over at the table, catching the eye of one of the regulars. “Hey, what’s this all about? Some kinda bear attack?” you ask, trying to keep the concern out.

He looks at you with a mix of pity and excitement, the kind of excitement that comes from being the first to spread the news. “Nah, nothing like that,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “They’re saying it was some sort of ritual murder. He was only a couple feet away from the altar when they found him.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, your worry deepening. You don’t believe in any of that occult bullshit, but the idea of something out there, stalking the woods, is unsettling.

You swallow hard, the knot in your stomach tightening. It’s probably just small-town gossip, exaggerated over every telling. But you can’t shake the unease creeping over you. The woods were never dangerous, at least not in the way people are describing now. Sure, kids would scare each other with stories, but that was all they were—stories.

A scream of the coffee machine behind the counter jolts you out of your thoughts, and you give a small wave to the regular, who nods and goes back to his conversation. The rest of your shift passes in a blur of orders, coffee refills, and the low hum of town gossip that just won’t seem to die down. Every time you overhear a new piece of the story—“ripped apart,” “the altar,” “found him hanging,”—you feel your heart pounding harder in your chest.

You think of Jill. She’d usually brush off these kinds of stories, laugh at the town’s tendency to blow things out of proportion. But something about this feels different. You haven’t spoken to her since the whole mess with Matt ended, and the thought of her patrolling those same woods makes your skin crawl.

The clock ticks agonizingly slow as your shift nears its end. You keep glancing at the door, half expecting Jill to walk in and make a snarky comment about how she’s surprised you haven’t burned the place down yet. But she doesn’t show. And you can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.

Finally, you toss your apron onto the hook in the back room and grab your jacket, your mind racing as you head out the back door of the diner. The cold night air hits you like a slap, but it does nothing to calm the growing anxiety gnawing at your insides. You pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts until you find Jill’s name. You tap it and hold the phone to your ear, listening to the ringing on the other end.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Your stomach drops.

Jill always answers her phone.

You stop on the sidewalk, staring down at your phone, your thumb hovering over the call button. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe she’s caught up in paperwork or on a call. But the longer the silence stretches, the more uneasy you feel.

You try again. Still nothing.

The street is quiet now, the distant hum of traffic barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. You shove your phone back in your pocket, and it feels heavy as a stone.

The walk home feels like it takes forever. Your mind races, replaying every bit of gossip you heard at the diner, every disturbing detail about the body found in the woods. You try to push it out of your head, but it clings to you, chewing at the edges of your thoughts like an overgrown worm.

When you finally get home, the house feels too quiet. Too still. You turn on the lights, hoping the brightness will chase away the dark thoughts swirling in your mind, but it only makes the emptiness feel more suffocating. You drop onto the couch, staring at your phone, willing Jill to call you back. But the screen stays dark.

Just as you’re about to try calling again, there’s a knock at your door.

You freeze. It’s late. No one comes by this late.

The knock comes again, louder this time. You force yourself to your feet and cross the room, your heart thudding in your chest as you open the door.

Two police officers stand on your porch, their expressions grim. One of them is Officer Mason, a guy you vaguely remember from high school, back when he was just another kid who never left town. The other is older, someone you’ve seen around but don’t know by name.

“Evening,” Mason says, clipped. “Mind if we come in?”

Your mouth goes dry. “Uh… sure.”

You step aside, letting them in. They don’t waste time with pleasantries, both of them standing stiffly in the middle of your living room, their hands resting on their belts.

Mason clears his throat. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Matt Rainer.”

Your stomach churns at the mention of his name. “What about him?”

The older officer steps forward, his eyes narrowing. “We understand you had a relationship with Mr. Rainer. We’d like to know if you’ve had any contact with him in the past few days.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I haven’t seen him since… since he was arrested.”

Mason nods, his expression unreadable. “We’re aware of that. But we’d like to know if he’s tried to contact you since then. Any phone calls? Texts?”

You shake your head. “No. Why? What’s going on?”

The two officers exchange a glance, and the older one speaks again, lower this time. “Mr. Rainer’s body was found in the woods earlier today. We’re still investigating, but... the circumstances are suspicious.”

Your brain malfunctions, stuck on the word—body. They say more stuff after that, but you don't process anything. Nothing but the single syllable rattling in your skull. Body, body, body. You knew something was wrong, but not this. Never this.

One of the cops pats your shoulder in a half-hearted attempt at comforting you. His fingers dig painfully into the meat of your arm, and he leads you somewhere—a room, a chair, the couch. When did you sit down? The world tilts on its axis, and everything moves in a sickening blur around you, reality bending out of focus. Someone turns the television off, cutting through the noise with clinical efficiency. Everything is muffled and hazy, like a dream. Or maybe it's already a nightmare.

You're shaking, your knuckles white from clenching your hands too hard. There's something wet on your face; you reach up to touch your cheek and find tears rolling down your cheeks. You wipe them away quickly, embarrassed. The cops aren't fazed by your sudden burst of emotion. They must have seen it enough times by now. Cops probably deal with this kind of shit every day in the line of duty—bringing bad news to unsuspecting victims.

"I don't... I don't understand, he... How did this happen?" you ask. Words feel sticky in your throat. Everything feels fuzzy and unreal.

Mason nods grimly. “We’re looking into it. But right now, we need to know if there’s anything you can tell us that might help.”

You stare at him dumbly for a moment, your mind struggling to catch up. Finally, you shake your head. You can feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes again, hot and bitter. "There's nothing. He was an asshole, but I didn't..." You trail off as a lump rises in your throat. You don't want to believe this is real. You don't want to believe he's really gone.

"Alright," the older cop says, his tone flat and professional. "Thank you for your time. We'll let you know if we have any more questions."

They both give you sympathetic looks, but you hardly register it. You can barely breathe through the tightness in your chest, the panic rising in your veins. They're already leaving, turning toward the door, and you follow them numbly, still in shock.

"Is... Can you tell Jill to call me after work?" you blurt out. Even though your thoughts are spinning, you don't want to be alone right now. You need her more than ever.

The police pause mid-stride, exchanging another look, and your stomach drops. The lead cop clears his throat.

"Jill wasn't in today," Mason says gently, almost apologetic. "She took some time off."

"Is she sick?" you ask. Panic threads through your veins, twisting icy fingers through every limb. Jill's never been one to miss a day of work. She loves her job more than anyone you know, except maybe Barry when it comes to making furniture.

"No idea," he answers honestly. His partner stands beside him, expression stoic. They're not here to chat; they want answers, and you don't have any to give. You'd hoped Jill would be able to shed some light on what happened with Matt, but it seems like you'll have to track her down yourself.

"Yeah, okay, yeah. I'm sorry for holding you up. Good day, officers."

You watch from the porch as they climb into their cruiser and drive away. You stand there for what feels like an eternity, staring down the now-empty road until finally, a chill sets in and brings you back to the present.

Anxiety slithers up your spine as you walk inside, mind reeling. You try dialing Jill again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

You must have fallen asleep at some point.

The TV is still on, casting a blue glow across the room. It flickers intermittently, causing shadows to dance across the walls like some demented puppet show. A commercial flashes across the screen, some ad for kitchen knives, before returning to static. You blink blearily, trying to adjust your eyes in the darkness. You haven't moved since you crashed here hours ago, slumped against the cushions like some discarded rag doll, and have no memory of closing your eyes, but now they’re heavy with sleep, your body stiff from the awkward angle you’ve been curled in for who knows how long.

It’s the noise that wakes you—the faint tapping of nails on glass followed by what sounds like something scratching along the side of your house. You sit up slowly, your heart already beating a little faster, your mind still half-caught in sleep, half in the waking world. It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing. Just the wind outside, or maybe an animal rustling around in the alley behind the house. But there’s that nagging feeling, that sense of wrongness that you can’t quite shake, crawling under your skin. That persistent urge to look.

You move quietly, making your way across the room toward the window nearest the front door. Every sound amplified by nerves, amplified by whatever adrenaline-soaked instinct makes you seek out what lurks in the dark corners of your mind. By whatever perverse curiosity forces your hand when everything inside tells you not to do it, not to look. You listen, pressing your ear against the cool glass, straining to hear anything over your pounding heart.

And then, again, louder than before, echoing through the night—that same scraping sound, the distinct clack of claws digging into wood, like someone scaling your house. Not stopping there either; the sounds seem to inch closer.

Shit, are you imagining things? You think about the cops you talked to earlier. About their words running over in your head again and again like an old scratched record skipping at the edges, stuck repeating the same note over and over until it becomes a broken chorus in your skull, grating on your ears until they bleed. Matt died in the woods, found hanging. Butchered, gutted like fish.

Your palms feel slick with sweat, and you have to force yourself to breathe evenly because right now? Right now, the air tastes like fear. It's sharp and metallic like blood coating the back of your tongue, and all of sudden you feel very small in this house, very exposed. Like prey caught unaware, just waiting for the teeth to close around its throat. And there's nothing, nothing outside but empty space waiting to swallow you whole.

You glance around the room, the shadows stretching long across the floor, the corners swallowed in darkness. Your heartbeat thunders loud enough for God himself to hear above it all—thump, thump, thump. Each beat echoes off your ribs until every part of you screams with it. You squeeze your eyes shut and listen, wait until you can hear the breathing coming from just beyond the front door, slow and deliberate. You're hearing things; there couldn't possibly be anyone there, and yet…

Every breath hitches in your lungs as it drags itself past lips too dry to move, each second punctuated with terror because what if—what if.

But when you finally manage to turn back toward the window once more, you find only silence filling the void around you. Not even the faintest sign of footsteps retreating into the night. You must have imagined it; the house is empty, the shadows playing tricks on tired eyes and nervous minds. Still, you stand rooted to the spot, fingers balled into fists by your sides until the last traces of adrenaline subside into nothingness.

Matt died today. It must have... it must have affected you more than you thought.

You exhale heavily, scrubbing both hands down your face with a low groan as tension seeps out of your muscles. It's ridiculous. Of course Matt's mutilated corpse wasn't standing outside your house at three in the goddamn morning, scratching at your windows like some freaky stalker. How fucking stupid.

"Fuckin' hell..." You mumble under your breath, stomping back to the couch and flopping down on the pillow, draping an arm over your eyes. The shadows lurch and sway behind your eyelids, leering over you as if laughing silently.

Creak.

Inside this time. Not outside.

The sound of something—someone—moving.

Your pulse quickens. The room feels too small all of a sudden, too quiet, like the air’s been sucked out of it. You swallow hard, trying to calm the irrational fear creeping up your spine. It’s just the house settling. It’s just your imagination playing tricks on you. You’ve been on edge ever since you heard about Matt, ever since the police came asking questions, ever since you couldn’t get ahold of Jill.

But there it is again. A soft scrape, like footsteps on the hardwood floor. This time, it’s closer.

Your breath hitches, and you hold it, frozen in place. It’s probably nothing. Probably. But you can’t ignore the way your heart is thudding in your chest, the way your hands are starting to tremble. Slowly, you swing your legs over the side of the couch, planting your feet on the floor, the cool wood beneath you sending a shock up your spine. You tell yourself to move, lurch for something to defend yourself with. All you can grasp is the remote. Shit. Well, it will do, but—

The sound is coming from behind you now. Closer, moving through the dark. If someone wanted to kill you, they already would have. So why aren’t they? Why hide?

You turn your head slowly, your eyes darting toward the hallway leading to the kitchen. The shadows there seem thicker, darker, like they’re hiding something just out of sight. And then, as your eyes adjust, you see it—a shape. Tall, still, hovering just beyond the edge of the room.

It takes a second for your brain to catch up, to process what you’re seeing, and when it does, you feel the blood drain from your face.

There’s someone standing there. Someone watching you.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you scramble backward, away from the figure looming in the corner of your vision. But before you can move far enough, before you can get your bearings, the intruder steps forward into the the light coming from the TV, and your breath catches in your throat because—

The relief that floods through you is instantaneous, but it’s quickly swallowed by confusion, by fear that lingers, sticking to your skin.

Jill stands there, framed by the flickering light of the television, her face half in shadow. Her hair is matted, clinging to her forehead like she’s been out in the rain, but there’s no rain tonight. Her clothes are dark, heavy with something you can’t quite place, the smell of damp earth and something metallic curling into the air between you.

“Jill…” comes out small, almost a whisper, but she doesn’t respond. She just stands there, her head tilted slightly to the side, watching you with those eyes—those familiar blue eyes that seem just a little too bright in the dim light. Something about her feels off, like the pieces don’t fit quite right, but you can’t put your finger on it.

You push yourself off the couch, your legs shaky as you take a step toward her. “Jesus, Jill, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches between you, confusing and unnatural, and it’s only then that you notice the way she’s standing—too still, too rigid, like she might shatter if she moves. And the smell, that godawful smell rolling off her like fog over a lake. It settles on your skin, makes your stomach churn. Her chest rises and falls slowly, each breath deliberate, controlled.

“Jill?” you repeat, your voice trembling now. You take another step toward her, but the closer you get, the more you realize what’s wrong.

Her clothes—her tank top and jeans—are soaked through. Not with water. Not with mud.

There, glistening in the dull glow of the screen, dripping fat droplets of something wet and shiny—something black as night, and thick as molasses. Darker red streaks run down her arms like veins, spidering across pale white skin that glows ethereal in the dim light coming from behind you. Her lips are parted slightly, stained the color of dried berries, in fact, her entire face streaked with something brownish and clotted at the edges, smeared around her mouth like paint. A thin line runs across her neck, just above her collarbone, not deep enough to reach bone but deep enough to ooze freely. Blood seeps from the wound, drip-drip-dripping onto the floor at her feet, each drop sounding deafeningly loud in your ears as it splashes against the wood beneath.

She looks like she bathed in a fucking fountain of blood. What the fuck?

“Oh my god…” The words slip out before you can stop them, half whispered, half choked as you struggle to breathe, and your arms reaching for her sway in the air.

She doesn't reply. Doesn't say anything at all, really; just stares at you with those glassy blue eyes that seem to hold nothing inside them now. No emotion, no recognition. Jill takes a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate. Her eyes never leave yours, and now that she’s closer, you can see the way they’re hollowed out, the way they seem to sink into her skull like she hasn’t slept in days.

“I’m hungry,” she says softly, low, barely audible above the faint crackle of static coming from behind her. "I'm so hungry." There's something there now—emotion, yes, but something twisted, something unnatural. The word drips with need, with desperation. It makes your skin crawl, makes your mouth taste sour with dread.

This is absurd, all so fucking absurd. Her in this state, somehow having broken into your house, talking about being hungry--you need to call an ambulance. She needs help. But the phone isn’t anywhere near you, and you don't know if you could reach it without passing her. Every nerve feels hyperactive, senses suddenly overwhelmed with...everything.

She’s standing just a few feet away from you now, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that you can see the way her lips part slightly as she breathes, like she’s barely holding herself together. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your hands are shaking, trying to tell yourself that this is Jill, that she would never hurt you, this isn't even about that, she...needs help.

"I'm gonna call an ambulance, okay? Just—" You cut yourself off when she takes a step closer, moving faster than before, her movements fluid like never before. Your body tenses, reacting instinctively, warning signals firing throughout every inch of muscle fiber.

You can smell it—blood, sweat, something rotten. Her eyes flicker down to your neck, and before you can react, she leans in, her nose brushing against your skin, sniffing along the curve of your throat. You freeze, holding your breath, waiting for her to back away, but she doesn't. Her lips graze along your jawline as she inhales deeply, the sound sending shivers through every nerve ending in your body, like she's drinking you in, savoring you like fine wine, her fingers resting lightly on your shoulders like spider legs touching delicate silk threads.

Her shaky breathing is amplified, and so is the horrifying sound of grinding teeth, her cheek still buried in your hair, your hands still clenched tightly by your sides because you've never seen Jill like this, never felt so uncertain of whether you're safe, whether anything around you is real.

"Are you scared?" she whispers, her lips just grazing your ear, and you nod faintly because it's true; fear crawls under your skin, ice cold and electric.

You don't know what the fuck is going on, but all your instincts scream danger at the contact, the uncanny valley making the hairs rise on the back of your neck, every muscle in your body pulled impossibly taut, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure she can hear it. Her breath is hot against your skin, and for a moment, you think she might bite, that she might sink her teeth into your flesh and tear you apart right there. But she doesn’t. Instead, she lingers, her lips hovering just above your neck, as if she’s waiting for something.

“Jill… please,” you whisper, barely audible, your body trembling.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting yours again, and for just a second, you see a flicker of something there—something familiar, something human. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same hungry, hollow look.

The next second, you find yourself pushed away so roughly that you stumble and fall, your tailbone slamming painfully against the floor. Your mind struggles to process the situation, but you force yourself to scramble backward, putting distance between you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her voice cracks, and for the briefest moment, she seems almost… lost.

Then, without another word, she turns and slips into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as she came. The front door creaks open, then closes softly, leaving you alone with the traces of blood on your floor, the scent of something foul and bitter clinging to your nostrils. You sit there for several moments, staring numbly at where Jill stood just moments ago.

Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You sit there, staring at the door for what feels like forever, trying to make sense of what just happened. Jill was here. She was right here—standing in your house, covered in blood. The image of her pale skin streaked with red, speaking so hollow, it won’t leave your mind. You swallow hard, willing yourself to breathe normally, but the panic sits like lead in your stomach.

You reach for your phone again, your fingers trembling as you dial Jill’s number. Each ring feels like a punch to the gut, the silence on the other end suffocating. Still nothing.

Another ring. And another.

Stupid bitch, why are you calling her? Call the damn police.

Your eyes flicker to the bloodstains left behind on the floor, and your stomach churns. You can’t sit here and do nothing. She needs help. This isn’t just…normal. It’s not okay. She’s hurt, she’s bleeding, she needs someone. You force yourself to stand, the adrenaline giving you the momentum you need to move. You scroll through your contacts until you find the local police station, your thumb hovering over the call button for just a moment before you press it. You need them to check on Jill, make sure she’s safe, make sure—

The line clicks, and a voice answers on the other end.

"RPD, how can I assist you?"

“Hi, uh, yes—hello. I—I need to report… I think there’s been an accident. It’s my friend. She was just here, at my house, but she was… she was covered in blood, and I—” The words tumble out in a rush, shaky, breathless. You try to keep it together, but the fear is creeping in, the helplessness, the confusion.

"Slow down, ma’am,” the dispatcher says, her tone calm, professional. “You said your friend is hurt? Can you confirm her location?"

“I don’t know. She left. She didn’t say anything, she just—she was here and then she left. She’s not answering her phone. I don’t know what happened. She needs help,” you manage to get out, your thoughts running at a hundred miles an hour.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you can hear the dispatcher typing. “What did you say her name was?”

“Jill, Jill Valentine,” you falter, remembering her telling you to give as much information as possible to a dispatcher when you called, so that they would be of better help. “She’s an officer with the RPD.”

Since she was at your house just now and it's unlikely she could have gone far, you provide them with your own address, and go on to give them hers, just in case.

“We’ll send someone over to check on her right away. Do you need medical assistance as well?”

“No, no, I’m fine. I just… I’m worried about her.”

“Understood. Stay on the line with me, okay?”

You nod, even though she can’t see you, clutching the phone tight as you pace the room, your eyes darting back to the spots of blood. You feel the weight of it, pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe. You should have done this sooner. You should have sat her down the moment she stepped in here, all covered in blood and—

The dispatcher keeps you talking, asking questions about what Jill was wearing, what she looked like when she showed up. You answer as best as you can, but the details feel blurry, half-remembered, and it’s all mixing together with the dread about Matt, about his murder, everything colliding inside your head into this sickening mess. They probably got to Jill, whoever it was. Jill had to have escaped, hurt from the struggle. What were you thinking? Why didn't you call anyone sooner? Fuck!

The longer you talk, the more your mind drifts to worst-case scenarios. What if she’s hurt worse than you thought? What if something happened after she left? You should have stopped her, should have done something instead of just standing there in shock. The guilt twists like a knife in your gut.

A knock at the door jolts you out of your thoughts, and you freeze. It’s too soon for the police. Too soon for anyone, really.

The dispatcher’s voice pulls you back. “Ma’am? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you say, glancing nervously at the door. “Someone’s here.”

“Do you feel safe? Do you want us to send an officer to your location?”

“I—I don’t know,” you admit. You walk toward the door cautiously, peeking through the window. Relief floods you when you recognize the uniformed officer on your porch, but it’s quickly replaced by the gnawing anxiety that’s been eating away at you since Jill left.

The officer introduces himself, and after a brief exchange, he assures you that they’ll be conducting a welfare check on Jill immediately. He takes down your account of what happened, and though he tries to remain professional, you can see the concern etched into his features.

“I know Jill,” he says softly, trying to reassure you. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

But that’s the problem—you are worried. You can’t shake the image of Jill’s face, the hollow look in her eyes, the way she’d said she was hungry.

The officer leaves, promising to keep you updated, but once the door closes, you’re left alone again. The house feels too quiet, the shadows too deep. The bloodstains still cling to the floor like a reminder of how wrong everything is.

You collapse onto the couch, the weight of it all pressing down on you until it feels like you can’t breathe. You try calling Jill again, desperate to hear her voice, to know she’s okay, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

“Jill, please call me back. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m worried about you. Just… please, be okay.”

You end the call and drop the phone onto the cushion beside you, your hands shaking as you bury your face in your palms.

The next morning, the diner buzzes with the usual low hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware, the sizzle of eggs on the griddle. The world doesn't come to a stop just because yours did, and the routine of the morning rush goes on, the customers filtering in and out like a stream of ants marching to their daily duties.

But you? You feel out of place, like an alien dropped into the middle of this mundane scene. You move through the motions on autopilot, taking orders, pouring coffee, clearing plates. It's all a blur, really. Everything feels... off. Like the world is slightly tilted on its axis. You’ve barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, the image of Jill, drenched in blood, her hollow eyes fixed on you, haunted your dreams. When you did sleep, it felt more like passing out from exhaustion than getting any actual rest. And even though you washed the spots of blood from the floor until your hands were raw and red, you can still smell the metallic tang of it clinging to your nostrils, like a ghostly reminder of what you can't quite comprehend.

You found yourself in the emergency room after that to see if Jill had been brought in. She hadn't. The police said they’d update you, but there’s been radio silence. You check your phone every five minutes, but nothing.

You try to focus on work, to lose yourself in the simple tasks, but you can't shake off the dread that's settled in the pit of your stomach. Every time the bell over the diner's door chimes, announcing a new customer, you can't help but look up, hoping—praying—that it'll be her walking through that door. That she'll sit down at the counter, order a plate of bacon and eggs with that easy smile of hers, and assure you that it's all going to be okay. You imagine that so vividly, it hurts when the door swings shut without Jill stepping through it.

Instead, it's just another stranger. Another face in a sea of faces that blur together.

"You alright, kid?" the waitress calls out from behind the counter. She's been here longer than anyone, and her voice carries a rasp that only years of smoking can give. She's looking at you with that concerned, maternal gaze she often does when you're at your lowest. "Ya' haven't touched yer' coffee."

"Fine," you manage to say, forcing a smile that you hope looks more genuine than it feels.

The waitress arches an eyebrow but doesn't press further. She returns to filling up coffee cups, the sound of the stream hitting the ceramic almost drowning out the low chatter around you. Almost.

And then, the bell above the door jingles yet again.

You don’t look up right away, too focused on wiping down the counter, trying to keep your hands busy. But you hear it—the unmistakable sound of boots on the tiled floor, the shuffle of someone sliding into the booth at the far end of the diner.

You glance up, and your heart nearly stops.

It’s her.

Jill.

She’s sitting there, looking as calm and composed as ever, her blue eyes fixed on the menu, a slight furrow in her brow as she reads. Side-part brown hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and no uniform, but the same leather jacket you’ve seen her wear a thousand times.

There’s no blood. No hollow eyes. She looks like she always does, like everything is fine, and you’re frozen in place.

For a moment, you stand frozen, staring at her like she’s some kind of ghost. Maybe you’re still dreaming. Maybe this is just another twisted nightmare, another hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much fear. But no—she’s real. She’s there.

Your feet move before your brain catches up, and suddenly you’re walking toward her, the damp rag in your hand forgotten. Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which make it past your lips as you approach her booth. You stop a few feet away, uncertain.

She looks up at you then, her blue eyes meeting yours, a flicker of recognition crossing her face. She smiles, and it’s so normal, so familiar, that it throws you off balance. It’s the kind of smile she’d give you on any other day. “Hey,” she says casually, as if nothing is wrong. As if last night was just a bad dream.

Next thing you know, tears start streaming down your face, and you're practically sobbing. You barely reach her before she stands from her seat to catch you, and you throw your arms around her, holding tight.

Jill’s arms wrap around you, her hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. She smells different—like the woods after a heavy rain, with a hint of smoke and something else you can't quite place. But her touch is familiar, reassuring. “I should have come to you instead of those two, I told them hitting you with the news out of the blue would be... Shit, the patrol and paperwork were insane after the last call…” she says into your shoulder, soft and apologetic. She pulls back slightly to look at you, wiping a tear from your cheek. “I'm sorry, I really should have been the one to let you know."

You don't understand any of what she's saying, it's entirely irrelevant to appearing in the middle of your house like a final girl from a horror movie. "I don’t—" You sniffle and try to compose yourself, but the words just come tumbling out. "Where the fuck did you go? Why didn't you pick up your phone? Are you okay? What happened to you?"

Your barrage of questions hangs in the air, and the noise of the diner fades away as you focus solely on her. The other patrons seem to disappear, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of tension. You notice the way her brow furrows, a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Just then, your manager, a gruff man with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, appears next to the booth. “You’re on the clock, kid. No chit-chatting. Get back to work.”

You shoot him a look that’s part desperation, part defiance, but he’s already walking away, his heavy footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor. A moment of silence passes between you and Jill. You can hear the hum of the refrigerator units, the distant clatter of dishes in the back. But your focus remains on her, on the way her expression has shifted, a mask of calm slipping over any trace of vulnerability.

She clears her throat, breaking the silence. “Look, we can talk later, okay? When you’re off work. Let’s not make a scene here.” She glances around, and you follow her gaze, noticing the curious glances from other customers, the waitress behind the counter eyeing you both warily. You feel the tension in your shoulders ease slightly, knowing that at least she’s not going to leave without explaining anything, but the knot in your stomach is still there.

You manage a small nod, your eyes still searching her face for answers. “Promise?” you whisper, hating how small you sound, hating how desperate you feel. Jill’s hand, warm and familiar, squeezes your arm reassuringly.

“Pinky,” she says firmly, and for a fleeting moment, the comedic seriousness makes you feel like everything is back to normal. Like you’re still the two of you against the world, secrets shared under the cover of night, laughter spilling out between breathless kisses that mean everything and nothing all at once.

But then the manager appears again, his face stern, gruff. “Back to work,” he barks, his eyes flicking between you and Jill. “I don’t pay you to socialize.” His words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing the warmth that had started to thaw the cold knot of worry in your chest. With a sigh, you break away from Jill, the cool air of the diner replacing the heat of her body as you step back.

That last look Jill gives to the man makes you uneasy. Her gaze lingers, not with the usual warmth, but with something else. Something darker, sharper, like the glint of a knife in the moonlight.

When your shift finally ends, you step out into the cool night air, the neon glow of the diner's sign casting a harsh luminescence against the inky blackness. Your muscles ache from hours of running back and forth, your legs threatening to buckle beneath you as you drag yourself away from the fluorescent lights. A gentle breeze blows through the alleyway, caressing your skin with its cool touch, cleansing it from the sticky humidity that clings to you like an unwanted lover. You take a deep breath, reveling in the scent of wet concrete mixed with old grease and cigarette smoke that fills your nostrils.

And then you see her—Jill, standing there like a vision under the flickering light of a streetlamp, her silhouette dancing against the shadows that seem to embrace her like old friends. Her eyes follow you as you approach, those icy blues seeming to bore into your very soul despite the darkness that surrounds you both.

"There she is," she sighs, pushing off the wall with a fluid grace that sends shivers down your spine despite the warmth of the night air. She moves like water flowing over stones, smooth and effortless. "I thought I missed you."

Your heart leaps into your throat as you cross the distance between you two, fingers brushing along the supple leather of her jacket as if it were a lifeline. "Jill," you whisper hoarsely, "what happened last night? Where did you go?"

But Jill's smile falters, her brow furrowing in concern. "Whoa, slow down. What are you talking about?"

Your stomach drops faster than a lead balloon, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at her in disbelief. "What?" You ask brokenly, searching her eyes for some kind of recognition or understanding. "I thought... I thought whatever happened to him got to you too—"

She moves closer then, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder as if calming a skittish horse. "Hey," she murmurs soothingly, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. "Breathe. Look at me." There's a frown tugging at her lips now, but it doesn't reach her eyes - those icy eyes still burning with concern for you. "I'm okay," she reassures softly, drawing strength from somewhere deep within herself to offer comfort when all she seems to feel is confusion and fear. "I don't know what you're talking about but I'm okay. I called sick yesterday, slept most of the day after dealing with the double homicide on 4th." She pauses, her gaze steady, almost gentle. “Are you sure you didn’t just have a bad dream? I mean... after everything, it's not hard to see why you might have nightmares."

"No," you shake your head furiously, feeling hot tears pricking at your eyes again because she's lying, you fucking know she's lying. You cleaned her blood off your floor. You saw her. You felt her.

“I didn’t dream it. I know you were there, Jill. I called the police. They looked for you. They said they’d do a welfare check because I told them you were hurt.”

"So that was you," Jill sighs, running a hand through her hair, a tired look settling on her face. "They came by this morning, Asked me some questions. I told them I was fine. And I am." Her tone turns impatient then, not unlike that of a teacher trying to explain something obvious to their student. "But you... I think you might be a little shaken up."

"You're calling me a liar?"

She lets out a sigh again, like she's exasperated already, and walks over, grabbing your arm gently but firmly, leading you further down the darkened alleyway away from prying eyes, into the path that leads to your home. Away from the streetlights, with only a sliver of moon hanging above you. Birds have gone quiet, and the only sound left is the chirping of crickets singing in the tall grass growing along the edge of the asphalt. "I didn't say that, I just think that maybe you're stressed. I know it couldn't have been easy for you, knowing about what happened to him."

"But you were covered in blood, I—"

"Enough of this for now, c'mon. Let's get you home."

Something doesn't feel right. She's too calm, too confident, and the grip she has on your hand is too tight.

"You were bleeding, you had this...cut on your neck and—"

This is wrong. The way she's speaking, the way she's acting, it's all wrong. She's Jill, yes, but not the Jill you know.

"Jill, I'm serious."

"So am I." She leans in, and the scent of something metallic, like copper, hits you. "I think I'd remember being at your house, drenched in blood."

You swallow hard, your throat feeling dry as sandpaper. You want to believe her, you really do. But something about the way her eyes linger on you, the way she seems to be studying you, makes your skin crawl.

"I cleaned up all the blood you left behind." Your words are firm, but there's a slight tremor in them that you can't hide, a fear that's been growing since last night, a creeping suspicion that there's more to this than just a shared nightmare. "You're telling me all the bloodied rags and towels were from a nosebleed?"

Her gaze narrows and she takes a step back, the shadows seeming to cling to her like a second skin. “I legitimately don't know. It could be. Or it could be a break-in. If you're this sure, we could... Police came by to your house, right? Did you let them in? If you're talking to me like this, you haven't... Why didn't you? They would've collected the blood as evidence!"

"Because—" You falter, unsure of your own reasoning. Because she was your friend? Because you didn't want to see her hurt? Because you weren't sure what to believe?

She's really talking like it wasn't her and it's really starting to freak you out. The idea of some stranger in your home, bleeding everywhere, is a horrifying thought, but the idea that the one in your home was a bleeding Jill who refuses to admit to it is somehow even more unsettling. Anxiety is building in your chest like the pressure of a steam engine. "You were there," you finally say, "You were there, and you were covered in blood."

Jill shakes her head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. One side of her face is lit up by the faint moonlight, the other cast in shadow. Her eyes seem to reflect that same light, an eerie mirror of the pale glow from above. "Come on," she pulls you lightly, "We really need to get you home."

The walk back feels suffocating, each step heavier than the last. Jill’s hand stays locked around yours, just firm enough to keep you close but not hard enough to hurt. The night wraps around you like a shroud, the faint chirp of crickets the only sound aside from your own ragged breathing.

She walks a step ahead of you, guiding you through the dim alleyway, but her movements feel strange—too fluid, too deliberate. As if every step is part of some careful choreography. You keep trying to pull your hand away, just to test if you can, but Jill holds fast, her grip unwavering, it becomes almost like a game during your silent walk.

Her “Almost there,” blends with the night air. “We’ll get you inside, and everything will feel better.”

The path to your house looms ahead, bathed in shadow. Your house is just another silhouette in the dark, but it feels miles away, and every step toward it drags you deeper into some unseen pit, as if the very ground beneath your feet is pulling you in.

You try again to wrestle your hand free, but Jill’s grip tightens—not painfully, just enough to make your pulse jump.

“Jill,” you say, voice brittle with fear, “you need to cut the bullshit and tell me what’s going on because I'm not falling for any of this. What happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” she insists, but there’s something hollow in her words, like she’s reciting a script.

You finally yank your hand away, the sudden break in contact leaving you feeling cold, exposed. Jill stops, turning slowly to face you under the moon’s pale glow. Her expression is unreadable, a mask of calm that only makes your skin crawl.

"Why are you acting like this? I saw you. I know I saw you."

Jill’s gaze darkens, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, she seems... off-kilter, like she’s struggling to hold on to something slipping through her fingers.

Then she takes a step closer, and you instinctively back away, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

"Stop fucking with me," you whisper.

Jill's head tilts, the corners of her mouth curling into the faintest of smiles—like she finds your fear... amusing.

"You always were a little jumpy," she huffs, almost affectionate.

Something shifts in the air between you, thick and charged, like the calm before a storm. And then, so quickly it’s almost imperceptible, Jill lunges—not toward you, but past you, toward the house.

Your stomach drops. You spin on your heel, chasing after her as she strides up the front steps like she owns the place, throwing the door open with a casual ease that makes bile rise in your throat.

"Jill, wait—"

But she’s already inside, her silhouette swallowed by the darkness of your entryway.

The house feels colder than it did before, the shadows thicker, more oppressive. You follow her inside, flicking on the light switch by the door, but the light flickers once, then dies with a soft pop, plunging the room back into darkness.

Panic claws at your throat. You stumble forward blindly, your hands outstretched, until you find her standing in the middle of the living room, her back to you.

"Jill. Please."

She turns slowly, the moonlight spilling through the window catching the edges of her face. For a fleeting second, you swear you see something—her smile stretched too wide, her eyes reflecting too much light, like the face of something wearing her skin.

"I told you," she says softly, almost a purr, "you’ve got nothing to be afraid of."

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you’re not sure if she’s trying to comfort you... or warn you.

You stumble back inside, slamming the door shut behind you, your chest heaving like a bellows. The night outside felt too alive, and the house—too still. Cold air clings to your skin, though the room is sweltering. The lamps overhead buzz faintly, flickering like they might die at any moment, throwing jagged shadows against the walls.

You don’t bother to take off your shoes or throw your bag on the counter as you usually would. Instead, you march straight toward the back room—toward the place where Jill had stood, dripping in blood just last night. The room feels darker now, even though nothing’s changed. The curtains are still drawn, the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the thin fabric. But something about the room feels oppressive, as if it knows the secrets it holds, as if it’s waiting for you to uncover them.

The bloodied towels, the ones you hastily stuffed into the corner of the laundry basket—they should still be there. They have to be there. You drop to your knees, fingers scrabbling through the dirty laundry, feeling the rough fabric of jeans and old t-shirts slipping between your fingers, but... nothing.

They’re gone.

Your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. You dig deeper, half-expecting the fabric to appear somehow, like it’s hiding at the bottom, but all that meets your hands is more useless, mundane cloth. You shove the basket aside and rush to the trash can, flipping the lid open. The garbage bag is there, tied neatly as if nothing’s out of place. Your hands tremble as you untwist the knot, breath coming in short gasps. You tip the can over, spilling its contents across the floor—crumpled wrappers, old takeout containers, the usual mess of your life. No blood. No towels.

Nothing.

Your breath quickens, chest heaving. The room spins for a second, the edges of your vision blurring as you stumble back. You grab onto the edge of the counter to steady yourself until you slide down safely to sit on your heels. Where are they? Jill was here, she was bleeding—you cleaned it up. You remember the sticky warmth of her blood on your hands, the awful metallic tang clinging to your fingers as you scrubbed it off the floor.

But there’s no proof now.

You feel the ground shift beneath you, like the rug’s been yanked from under your feet. Your pulse races, pounding against your ribcage as panic sets in.

Jill must have cleaned it up.

There’s no other explanation. But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would she cover it up? And how could she have done it without you noticing?

Your mind churns with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Was it even real? You shake your head, pushing the thought away. No, no, you’re not losing it. Jill was here. She was covered in blood. It was real.

The ground beneath your feet feels like it’s shifting, like the very foundation of your reality is crumbling away. Jill—what did you do?

The floor tilts beneath you, and suddenly you’re stumbling to your feet, scrambling for the bathroom. You barely make it to the sink before you’re bent over, dry heaving, your stomach twisting violently. Nothing comes up, but the spasms wrack your body, each one more painful than the last. You gasp for air, clinging to the edges of the sink as your legs shake beneath you.

The image of Jill, bloody and broken, flashes behind your eyes, and you squeeze them shut, trying to block it out. Trying to make sense of it all. Jill did something. She has to be hiding something.

You force yourself to breathe, gulping down air until your chest aches. The world is spinning out of control, and all you can do is hang on, hoping that the pieces will fall back into place.

But they won’t.

You straighten up, your hands gripping the edges of the sink so hard your knuckles turn white. You have to go to her. There are no more answers here.

You leave the bathroom, not bothering to clean up the mess you’ve made. You grab your coat, your mind a blur of frantic thoughts as you head for the door.

The sky outside is a hazy slate, the kind of early twilight that swallows everything in shades of gray. It stretches thin across the town, bleeding shadows into corners and down alleys. The streets are quieter than usual, but your heart won’t stop hammering, adrenaline urging your legs forward, each step heavier than the last as you approach Jill’s apartment.

You’ve crossed a line, you know that. This isn’t something friends do—not something anyone in their right mind would do—but you can’t stop. Not now. Not when the pieces are dangling so close, just out of reach. You need proof. Proof that you’re not crazy, that what you saw was real, that Jill... Jill isn’t lying. Or worse—that she doesn’t remember.

Her apartment looms ahead, the building silent under the dull hum of the streetlights. You scan the windows for signs of life—none. She’s not home. It’s a calculated risk, but the idea of waiting, letting this simmer, makes you feel like your skin is peeling away inch by inch.

You slip through the entrance quietly, heart pounding in your ears. Jill’s apartment is at the end of the hallway, third door on the left. The key beneath her doormat hasn’t moved—it’s exactly where it’s always been. She trusted you enough to know where she keeps it.

It twists in the lock with a soft click, and the door swings open.

You step inside, the door shutting behind you with an unnerving finality. It’s too quiet in here. The air feels stagnant, as if something is lurking beneath the surface, waiting to slither into your mind the second you let your guard down. You flip the light switch, but the glow is dim, making everything look a little off—a little wrong.

Her apartment is too neat.

Jill’s always been tidy, but this is different. Everything feels staged, like she put everything exactly where it needed to be, not just to live but to erase something. The cushions on the couch are fluffed, the coffee table wiped clean of fingerprints. There’s not a single piece of clutter—no gym socks strewn across the floor, no water bottle half-forgotten by the door.

It’s... sterile.

And that, somehow, makes it worse.

Your shoes are silent against the hardwood floor as you start moving through the apartment, your hands brushing over surfaces, your heart thudding faster with each step. There’s nothing unusual in the living room, nothing hidden beneath the cushions. Nothing personal.

You slip into the kitchen, the metal gleam of the sink catching the faint light. It’s spotless. Her fridge is stocked with a few water bottles and leftovers—nothing strange. No sign of... of anything. No blood. No Matt.

But that makes sense, right? There wouldn’t be blood here. It doesn’t make you feel any less like you’re spiraling, though, your mind playing tricks on you as you search, imagining what could be hidden in these ordinary objects.

You move to her bedroom.

The door creaks as you push it open, the faint scent of Jill’s body wash lingering in the air—something clean, citrusy, familiar. You exhale slowly, grounding yourself, but the knot in your stomach only tightens as you glance around the room.

Too perfect. The bed is neatly made, the closet doors closed. You step inside, careful not to make a sound, and head straight for her dresser, your trembling hands prying open each drawer one by one.

Everything seems ordinary—socks, folded t-shirts, nothing out of place. But then your fingers graze the edge of something solid, something not meant to be there. Your heart skips a beat as you pull it free from beneath a pile of clothes: a black gym bag.

You set it down on the bed, your breath hitching. The zipper feels stiff under your fingers, reluctant, like it knows what’s waiting inside. You tug it open.

And that’s when you see them.

Matt’s things.

They’re tucked carefully into the bag like souvenirs—a necklace you recognize as his, still tangled in the same chain it always was. His phone, the cracked screen smeared with what looks like dried blood. A wallet, black leather, with a folded receipt poking out of the side pocket. Blood crusts the edges, faint but unmistakable.

Your breath hitches, cold air slicing through your lungs like a knife. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your body screaming that this is wrong—so wrong. Jill shouldn't have these things. Why would she? Why would she keep evidence?

The floor tilts beneath you as panic flares hot and electric, sending a jolt of nausea through your gut. Your brain scrambles for answers that refuse to come, twisting like thorny vines around the fragile framework of your thoughts. This isn’t right. Jill is a cop, for god’s sake. She wouldn’t hold onto shit that ties her to Matt’s death—would she?

Your hand trembles as you drop the wallet back into the bag, and the faint scent of dried blood clings to your fingertips. This isn't real. This can't be real. You try to make sense of it, but the pieces don’t fit. Not like this.

And then the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate—cuts through the suffocating silence.

You freeze. Every muscle in your body locks tight, and you feel the air seize in your throat as the door creaks open.

Jill steps inside.

The dim light from the hallway spills in behind her, casting her figure in jagged silhouettes. Her shadow stretches long across the floor, warping unnaturally in the fractured glow from the streetlights outside. She looks different—off—in a way that makes your skin prickle with unease. Her hair hangs loose, damp strands clinging to her pale cheeks like ribbons. Her eyes catch the faint light—too sharp, too focused, like a predator locking onto prey.

For a moment, she stands there, completely still.

Her eyes sweep the room before settling on you, her gaze slow and deliberate. You see the flicker of recognition, the slight twitch of her lips—but it’s not relief that settles there. It’s something closer to resignation.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly, a low rasp that scrapes against the silence. There’s no anger in her tone—just a weary kind of sadness, as if she already knows how this ends. "But I guess it was only a matter of time."

“What the fuck, Jill?” you manage, cracking under the weight of fear and disbelief. “Why do you have these?"

She steps further into the room, her movements slow and deliberate, too fluid to be entirely human.

The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and jagged like broken glass cutting your throat on the way up. The crime scene descriptions are blending together with the amount of blood that was on Jill that night. You can't stop the pieces from pulling themselves together. "Did you... Did you kill Matt?"

For a split second, her expression falters.

The mask slips. And underneath it is... exhaustion. Regret.

"Oh god." You choke on the feeling of rising bile, staggering back and covering your mouth at the same time. Your other hand doesn't know what to do, flailing for a moment before you drop it to your side. "Oh, fuck. I—Jill, what have you done?"

“It wasn’t supposed to go that way,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. Her hands hang limp at her sides, her posture slouched like someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. "I tried to stop him. I did. But..."

"But what, Jill?" Your voice rises, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "You killed him. Jesus Christ, you killed him, and now—"

“He... he ambushed me in the woods, okay? He tried some kind of... ritual or whatever, like he knew what he was doing. But he didn’t. He fucking found it on the internet.”

The words come out in fragments, disjointed and unsettling, but the more she speaks, the more her story begins to take shape—a horrifying shape.

“I tried to stop him,” she says, as if the memory itself is cutting her from the inside. Her eyes are darting around, as if she’s seeing the scene play out in front of her all over again, and every word is punctuated by a sharp inhale. "I tried to talk him down. I tried to stop it." She pauses. “But... he already had the knife.”

She stops, her breath hitching. Her hands shake as she brings them up, staring at her palms like they’re stained with something only she can see. Maybe they are.

“And then I woke up,” she continues. “I should’ve been dead, but I wasn’t. I was... different.” She looks at you then, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I didn’t mean to... but it was too late. Matt was already... He was there and I was fucking starving.”

Starving. You feel it settle deep in your bones, curling around your ribs like barbed wire.

A slow, creeping horror crawls beneath your skin. This is Jill. Jill, the person who’s always saved you, always been your rock—and now she’s standing here, telling you she killed... ate someone because she couldn’t help herself.

"I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t know how. I thought... I thought if I stayed away, maybe it wouldn’t get worse. But I couldn’t—" She scrubs a hand down her face, fingers trembling, you see that her nails are digging into her skin, leaving red half-moon marks. "I ended up at your place because I was scared, okay? I still am.”

You stare at her, disbelief and horror warring within you. “Jill...” you breathe, but you don’t know what to say, how to fix this. The room feels too small, too close, and all you can see is Jill, transformed into something you don’t recognize.

She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. “I can’t stay here,” she says softly, and the words hang in the air between you, heavy and final.

Your chest tightens, panic clawing its way up your throat. “What are you talking about?” you demand, taking a step towards her, but she holds up a hand, stopping you in your tracks.

“This...” she says, gesturing to the room, to herself. “This isn’t me anymore. I can’t—” Jill swallows hard, her eyes meeting yours. "You don’t get it,” she says, soft and cold, like ice running down your spine. “It’s not just about Matt. It’s going to happen again. It’s already happening, even now.”

Her eyes meet yours, dark and intense, and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Jill takes a step forward, her breathing growing heavier, her hands twitching at her sides. You step back, instinctively.

“I don’t want to hurt you, I don't want to hurt anyone,” she declares, but the hunger in her eyes tells a different story. “But I don’t know how to stop it.”

She takes another step forward, her movements slow and deliberate, and you can see the way her body shakes with the effort to hold herself back. Her eyes are locked on you, dark and glassy, and for a moment, you think she might lunge. Might tear you apart right there.

Your throat tightens as you struggle to find words, but all that comes out is a strangled whisper. “Jill...”

She reaches for you, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through your body. You can feel the tension in her, the struggle she’s fighting—and losing. Her lips part, and you can hear her breathing, sharp and ragged, like she’s on the verge of snapping.

“I can't leave you," you say, trying to hold onto whatever remnants of her you can still see. "I won't leave you. We can figure something out! Please—"

But before you can finish, Jill lunges. Her hands are suddenly on your shoulders, pushing you back with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. Your back hits the wall behind you, and you gasp for breath as she presses against you, one leg sliding between yours to keep you in place. The movement is almost too quick for your eyes to follow, one second she is pulling your hair back and the next she is biting your shoulder.

Your scream is lodged in your lungs, the pain searing and blinding. You can hear her teeth grinding against your skin, tearing through the flesh, the sound of it wet and terrible. There's a sickening crunch of bone as her jaw locks around your collar, her teeth scraping against the bone, and you can feel every inch of her mouth on you.

Your body jerks against the wall with the pain of it, trying to get away, but she doesn't move. Her grip on your shoulder is iron tight, and her nails dig into your skin, drawing blood. She bites deeper, harder, and your vision blurs with the agony of it, eyes rolling back in your skull.

You can smell your own blood, hot and coppery, filling the room, and you can feel the warmth of it running down your chest. You can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stare at the ceiling, your body wracked with shudders as you try to process what is happening.

Jill is eating you, and all you can feel is a deep, terrible ache. It's like she's carving out a piece of you, her teeth tearing into the soft meat of your shoulder, ripping away chunks of your flesh. You can hear her breathing, feel her chest rise and fall against yours, and you're sure that she can hear your heart pounding in your ears. She pulls away for a moment and licks your blood off her lips, mouth smeared crimson. There's so much of it everywhere, drenching the both of you; you've never seen this much blood before. You swear you can see strands of meat caught between her teeth when she smiles at you, almost wistful.

You are sliding down the wall, losing strength, but she's holding you in place, pinning you there with her hips. "I wanted to taste you," Jill breathes, rough, hungry. Her hand slides down your stomach, pushing under the hem of your shirt, nails scratching along your skin as if trying to find a softer spot to sink into. "I've always wanted to."

"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop yourself.

There's no answer. At least not a verbal one. Jill leans forward, pressing her mouth against yours, her kiss desperate and devouring—a clash of teeth and tongues that leaves you reeling. Your hands scrabble for purchase against her arms, her back, trying to ground yourself as she steals the breath from your lungs. There's nothing pleasurable about it, your body is spasming from shock, blood pooling in your mouth as Jill continues her assault. Then there are fingers digging into the bite wound on your shoulder, making you gasp into her mouth. The pain is sharp and immediate, flooding your senses, sending your mind spinning. You feel lightheaded, dizzy, like you might pass out—and maybe that would be a mercy right now.

Jill pulls away with a low moan, a string of pink saliva and blood hanging between her swollen lips. You see it glisten under the faint streetlights streaming through the window; your spit mixed with hers and mingling together like this moment is something forbidden or sacred. Or both. Her eyes flash red as they meet yours, filled with longing—hunger—but there's something else there, too. Something human. A part of her fighting for dominance over whatever dark urges drive her now.

You stare at Jill, transfixed and terrified, waiting for what happens next. Will she attack? Kill you outright or continue toying with your emotions? Part of you wants her to rip you to shreds so that your misery will finally end, while another part yearns desperately for the familiar closeness that seems so far out of reach.

Whatever happens, whether it hurts or kills you, won't bring her back completely. Your heart aches at the realization, tears welling in your eyes as you remember everything that was lost. It feels like someone is tearing at your insides, clawing at your chest and squeezing until you can't breathe. But despite everything—all the pain and suffering Jill has inflicted on you—you still love her more than anything, despite knowing that she may never be able to reciprocate those feelings again. You swallow hard against the lump rising in your throat. "I'm sorry… Forgive me."

Jill freezes then, blinking twice like she isn't sure what just happened. She stares down at the spot where she bit into your shoulder, her nostrils flaring slightly, and you're dropped unceremoniously when she lets go and staggers back. For a moment, time stands still. Your blood on her lips, and a look of confusion etched across her face like she'd forgotten where she was or why she was doing this, almost makes you want to laugh because it's ridiculous. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, and the red smear remains even after multiple swipes; the contrast between her pale skin and the stain reminds you vaguely of paint spills spreading across white tiles. Jill shakes her head like she's trying to clear some fog.

"No," she chokes out finally, as if she's seeing something in front of her she couldn't possibly fathom existing before, "No, no—I told you to run!"

You manage a smile through clenched teeth, your vision blurring with unshed tears. The pressure you're trying to hold down to stop your shoulder from bleeding keeps building up in your chest, threatening to explode. It's agonizing, but all you care about now is her: the only person you've ever trusted. Your best friend. The one you promised forever, even though she didn't ask for it and probably wouldn't have accepted it when you were young and naive enough to believe it would last forever. You should hate her right now for destroying what could've been more than just friendship over the course of many years without knowing any better, but somehow, all you feel towards Jill is sympathy. A crushing pity born out of helplessness, like watching someone fall off a cliff. Knowing that there's nothing either of you can do, that it'll never be the same again, except worse: far worse.

It's then when she notices her hands covered in blood—your blood, specifically—which turns them scarlet instead of ivory white. They shake visibly, but not out of fear or disgust; rather, her entire body trembles like an animal waiting for release. Her eyes flutter shut momentarily, mouth twisting in a grimace before falling open slightly with heavy panting that soon becomes louder and more erratic until finally erupting into short gasps, followed by several sharp exhales. Finally, a scream pierces the air, piercing and desperate and angry, so unlike Jill who has always been calm, rational, collected.

The scream lingers in the air, sharp and jagged, ripping through the quiet space like glass shattering against stone. Jill crumples to her knees, her hands clawing at her own hair, as if she can somehow peel away the monster she’s become. Her body convulses, wracked by sobs that come in heaving gasps, each one more desperate than the last.

You slump against the wall, your shoulder throbbing with every beat of your heart. The pain is unbearable, searing through your body, but it’s nothing compared to the agony on Jill’s face as she stares at her hands, trembling and stained with your blood. Her gaze flicks between her hands and your broken form, her eyes wide with guilt, horror, and something deeper—something darker that you can’t quite name.

She chokes on her breath, as though her lungs refuse to work, the weight of what she’s done crushing her from the inside out. "I told you... I told you to leave."

Her voice is small, cracked and pitiful, the kind of sound you'd expect from someone who’s just realized that no matter what they do, they’ve lost everything.

But you can't leave her. Not like this. Not ever.

You drag yourself upright with a pained groan, the blood on your shoulder hot and sticky, seeping into your clothes. Your knees threaten to buckle, but you catch yourself against the wall, forcing yourself to stand. You have to get to her. You have to stop her before she slips away completely.

You stagger toward her, each step a monumental effort, your breath hitching in your throat. Jill stays on her knees, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts, her whole body quaking as if the thing inside her is trying to tear free.

When you finally reach her, you drop to your knees beside her. You don't think. You just act, wrapping your arms around her trembling frame and pulling her close despite the agony it causes you. She feels too small, too fragile in your arms, as though she might splinter into pieces if you squeeze too hard.

“I’ve got you,” you swallow, strained but filled with as much reassurance as you can muster. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jill goes rigid in your grasp for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Then she collapses into you, burying her face in the crook of your neck. She sobs quietly, her body wracked with shivers, and you can feel the wetness of her tears mixing with the blood on your skin.

“I... I don’t know how to stop it… I can't do this. I can't... I don't know how to live like this."

Her words slice through you, sharp as a blade. You can’t lose her. Not like this. Not to whatever darkness has taken root inside her. There has to be a way to save her—you just have to keep her close.

“It’s okay,” you mumble into her hair, rocking her gently as if that will somehow make it true. “We’ll figure it out. I promise, Jill. I’ll help you.”

Her arms tighten around you, a desperate, almost bruising grip, like she’s afraid that if she lets go, she’ll vanish into the void entirely.

"You can’t. It’s too late. I tried to fight it, but... it’s stronger than me. It’s always going to be stronger."

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze, cupping her bloodstained face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I don’t care," you tremble with a raw, dangerous desperation. "You’re not going anywhere. I won't let you."

Jill’s expression flickers, a war raging behind her eyes. Fear. Longing. Hunger. Guilt. She wants to fight it, but you can see the exhaustion in her—she’s drowning, and every second that passes drags her deeper into the abyss.

And that’s when the decision solidifies in your mind.

You can’t let her go. You can’t let her spiral beyond your reach.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you press your forehead against hers, grounding both of you in the moment, in the here and now. Your hands tighten around her face as you murmur, “It’s okay. I’ve got you, Jill. You’ll never have to fight this alone.”

Something shifts in her. You can see it—the flicker of hope warring with the darkness inside her. But then the hunger flashes again, sharp and insistent, and you know that if you give her an inch, she’ll disappear into that hunger and never come back.

And you can’t—won’t—let that happen.

In a flash, your plan forms. It’s insane, but it’s the only thing you can think of.

You shift your weight slightly, your heart pounding in your ears, and before Jill can react—you move.

Your hand shoots to the inside pocket of her jacket, where you know she keeps her pills—sedatives. You’ve seen her use them before, nights when the stress from the job became too much. You fumble for them, your fingers slick with blood, but you manage to grab the small bottle and twist the cap off with a sharp flick.

“Jill,” you whisper, your hand trembling as you bring the pills to her lips. “Just... just trust me, okay? You need to calm down.”

She blinks, confusion clouding her face, but before she can protest, you press the pills to her mouth and gently urge her to swallow.

For a moment, nothing happens. Jill stares at you, wide-eyed and bewildered. You two sit there, holding each other until her body starts to relax—too much. Her breathing slows, her eyelids drooping as the sedatives take hold.

Her grip on you loosens, and she slumps against you, her head resting heavily on your shoulder.

"I... don't want to hurt you," she says again, slurring as sleep pulls her under.

"You won't," you whisper, brushing your fingers through her hair, your heart aching in ways you can’t begin to describe. "I’ll make sure you won’t."

"How..." She trails off, her breath slow and steady, rising and falling against your chest. Her body relaxes fully now, sinking into sleep as the sedatives take over. You ease her onto the floor, cradling her head gently, keeping watch over her as she drifts off.

You sit there, cradling her against your chest, your breathing ragged, your heart thudding dully against your ribs. The night hums around you, the quiet hum of city noise seeping in through the cracks in the walls. The faint drip of water leaks from the faucet in Jill’s kitchen. It’s a cold, indifferent kind of silence, the kind that presses in on you like damp air, heavy and clinging.

And then it hits you.

You could call the cops. You could tell them everything. You could hand Jill over to someone—anyone—and let them deal with whatever the hell this is. You could leave her here and walk away. She’d wake up eventually, and someone would find her. It would be someone else’s problem.

But you won’t. Because you can’t.

The thought grips you with terrifying certainty, a cold realization that snaps something deep inside you like a piano string pulled too tight. You aren’t letting her go. Not after everything. Not now. Not ever. This time, it’s your turn to save Jill.

The air tastes bitter, like copper and ash. You glance down at your shoulder, the torn flesh throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. Blood soaks through the fabric of your shirt, sticking it to your skin, hot and wet. The edges of the wound are ragged, like something wild had chewed through you, and your arm hangs useless at your side. But the pain is distant—something you can compartmentalize, shove into a corner of your mind for later.

Right now, there isn't room for anything but Jill.

Your hands still tremble, though whether from fear or anger you can't say. All you know is this: You have to do something, anything to get through to Jill before she slips away altogether.

"I'm sorry," you choke out, your entire body violently shaking with a raw, desperate urgency. "You have to forgive me."

You look down at her again, at her pale face, streaked with blood and sweat. Her hair clings to her forehead in damp streaks, her lips parted in soft breaths. She looks so small, so fragile, like the Jill you used to know—the Jill who always picked you up when you fell, who always fought your battles when you couldn’t fight them yourself.

And now? Now it’s your turn.

Your hands tremble for a moment, but you force them to steady, gripping Jill tighter, cradling her like something precious. The manic thoughts swirling in your head slow, narrowing into a razor-sharp focus, as if some survival instinct you didn’t know you had takes over. The panic dissolves into adrenaline-fueled clarity. The shaking turns into intermittent tremors, vibrating beneath your skin, rippling through every nerve and fiber. Something settles deep in your bones—a kind of calm that isn’t natural. A cold certainty that this is just the beginning—and maybe this is exactly what you needed.

Because you have never wanted anything more than her. And now you might finally be ready to fight for it.

The first thing you need to do is stop the bleeding.

You stumble into Jill’s bathroom, your shoulder ablaze with pain, each breath shallow and sharp, threatening to spiral into hyperventilation. Blood trails down your arm in thick, hot rivulets, soaking into your clothes and leaving sticky patches against your skin. You strip off your jacket and shirt with trembling hands, wincing as the fabric pulls at the mangled flesh. The bite wound is worse than you thought—deep, ragged, with torn muscle fibers peeking through the gore.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror is ghastly—eyes hollow and wide, face pale as moonlight. Blood streaks down your neck and shoulder like macabre war paint. But you shove the horror aside, your mind narrowing to what needs to be done.

There’s no emergency room for you tonight. You can’t afford prying eyes or questions about how you got chewed up like an animal.

You rummage through the cabinets, throwing aside half-empty shampoo bottles, tampons, and dental floss, until you find what you need: a bottle of prescription-strength painkillers and a first-aid kit that’s seen better days.

The pills rattle like dice in your hand. You pop the cap, shake out five or six, and swallow them all dry. They scrape down your throat, and your stomach churns at the bitter aftertaste, but you don’t care. You need to dull the pain, and you need to think clearly. There’s no time to wait for them to kick in.

You clean the wound as best you can, hissing through clenched teeth as you pour peroxide over the gash. White foam bubbles and fizzes, and the pain is so blinding that your vision swims. But you keep going, keep pressing, wrapping your shoulder in strips of gauze, layer after layer, until it’s tight and secure. The bandage is sloppy, but it’ll hold. It has to.

You lean against the sink for a moment, head hanging low as the adrenaline wanes, leaving exhaustion in its place. Every inch of your body screams at you to stop, to rest, to give in. But you can’t. Not yet.

So, you drag your ass back into planning.

The apartment smells like sweat, blood, and copper. The place is a mess—your blood pooled on the floor, streaked across the walls, splattered over the couch. You’re leaving behind a trail that will scream forensics the second the cops decide to search Jill’s place.

You can’t let that happen.

Your mind churns through the possibilities, balancing the delicate weight of risks and solutions. No one can know you were here. No one can know Jill’s missing. That means no trace of blood, no signs of struggle. Everything has to disappear.

Fire.

It’s the only solution—quick, clean, and indiscriminate. The kind of blaze that reduces evidence to ash and embers, rendering DNA into nothing. But fire takes time. It needs a fuse, a buildup—something that will let you vanish before the inferno swallows the place whole.

Your eyes lock on the stove, the shape of an idea forming in the haze of painkillers.

Staggering into the cramped kitchen, you drop to your knees by the gas line under the stove. Your shoulder screams with every movement, but you shove the pain down. You twist the valve hard, releasing an invisible flood of gas into the room. The metallic-sour stench fills your nostrils, thick and oppressive.

You crank open all the burners, just enough for a slow hiss to join the growing cloud of fumes. No flame. Not yet.

Your gaze falls on an old toaster on the counter—one with a broken timer knob that sticks. A grim smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Perfect.

You drop a scrap of oily paper into the toaster slot and push the lever down. In about fifteen minutes, the coil inside will spark as the toaster tries to heat the paper—and that spark will turn this place into a funeral pyre.

For a moment, you think there’s no way in hell you can carry Jill the whole way to your apartment in your condition. Your shoulder feels like it’s going to tear clean off with every movement, and your legs are shaky from blood loss and adrenaline.

But you don’t have a choice.

Back door. No cameras. North alleyway, avoid the Main Street, and then…

The front door creaks softly as you nudge it open, a sound that reverberates in the quiet of the two-story house like the first nail being driven into a coffin. The familiar scent of laundry detergent mixed with stale air surrounds you, clinging to your senses, oddly comforting. It’s a cruel reminder of normalcy—a twisted echo of how things were just hours ago. The life you lived before everything snapped in two.

You push the door closed behind you with your foot, the lock clicking into place, sealing both of you inside. Jill’s weight is a burden you barely notice now, your arms aching but numb from overexertion, the injury in your shoulder pulsing like a second heartbeat. It throbs beneath the layers of gauze—messy, improvised, and already soaked through—but you ignore it. There's no room for pain right now. Not when so much still needs to be done.

Jill is a dead weight in your arms, her body sagging against you as you make your way towards the stairs, aiming for the spare room. Her breathing is shallow, barely audible above the drumming of your pulse in your ears, and you grit your teeth against a rush of fresh panic. Keep it together. You can do this. One step at a time.

It was supposed to be an office, once, for Matt—the room upstairs, tucked away and forgotten, half-converted but never quite finished. Soundproofed, recording equipment scattered across the floor like abandoned relics from a life gone by. A remnant of a dream never fully realized—a dream Matt had once chased, before settling for whatever scraps came his way. Before he'd decided he'd rather just drink himself into oblivion instead of trying anything real.

The windows have been boarded up, planks nailed into the walls with care, every crack sealed tight. No light gets in. No noise gets out. The air inside is stale, thick with the scent of sawdust and fresh wood polish. The walls are stripped bare—no posters, no shelves, no personal touches. Just cold, empty drywall that presses in from all sides, amplifying the silence.

There’s a bed pushed against the far wall, a sturdy frame with a worn mattress covered by a faded blanket. One pillow. A small lamp on a battered bedside table. Nothing more, nothing less. It looks impersonal, clinical almost—like a hotel room or an unused hospital ward.

You'll fix that soon enough. You'll...

You carry Jill to the bed, your steps slow and deliberate, and lower her down as gently as possible. Her skin feels clammy beneath your hands, her body slack, lifeless but not dead. For a moment, you find yourself brushing her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a strange tenderness.

The house is silent, except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Jill’s breath. Sedated, lifeless, but alive. You stand in the doorway of the spare room, your hands braced on either side of the frame as if you need the walls to keep you upright. The dim light barely touches Jill’s sleeping form, sprawled across the bed like a rag doll, her skin pale in the thin sliver of light from the hallway filtering through the door.

Your shoulder throbs. It’s not just a dull ache—it’s a deep, gnawing pain that pulses with every beat of your heart, a reminder of the teeth that tore through your flesh. The bandages are soaked through already, sticky and warm against your skin.

You thought you had more time. You were wrong.

Your legs buckle, and you collapse onto the hallway floor, your back pressed against the cold wall. The pain is sharper now—a hot knife twisting deep inside the wound. The adrenaline that carried you through the night evaporates like steam, leaving you weak and trembling, the full weight of your injury crashing down on you all at once.

You tilt your head back against the wall, your breath coming in ragged gasps. This is bad. You know it. The blood loss, the bite—it's too much. You need stitches. Proper ones this time. Antibiotics. Something.

But you can’t go to the ER. Not like this. Not with Jill drugged upstairs.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your good hand to your forehead, trying to stave off the dizziness creeping in. Every option you have feels impossible. The idea of explaining your injury to a nurse is absurd. The idea of leaving Jill alone here is worse.

The room tilts, the edges of your vision blurring. You have to act. If you pass out here, it’s over. Jill’s sedated, sure—but what happens when the drugs wear off? What happens if someone finds her? If someone finds you?

You shake your head, forcing yourself to stand. Your knees shake beneath you, but you grit your teeth and push through. Pain is just another obstacle, another problem to solve.

There’s only one answer. You need help, but not from strangers.

Your mind latches onto the only person you can think of—Kendo. He’s seen worse. Hell, he’s patched you up before. No questions asked. No hospitals involved.

You fumble your way to the kitchen, using the walls to keep yourself upright, and grab your phone from the counter. Your fingers are slick with blood as you scroll through your contacts until you find his name. You press “call” and bring the phone to your ear, swallowing down the bile rising in your throat.

It rings twice before he picks up.

“Who the hell—? It’s the middle of the night.” His voice is groggy but familiar. Safe.

“It’s me,” you croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper. “Kendo... I need your help.”

There’s a pause. The kind of pause that stretches a lifetime. Then:

“Jesus Christ. What happened?”

You close your eyes, leaning heavily against the counter. The room spins, tilting dangerously. You clutch the phone tighter, your knuckles turning white.

“Don’t ask. Just... come over.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “Please.”

There’s a rustling sound on the other end, the shuffle of sheets and the creak of a bed frame. “You sound like you’re about to pass out. Stay awake. I’m on my way.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and end the call. The phone slips from your fingers, clattering onto the counter. You stare at it, dazed, until the sound fades into the background hum of your thoughts.

You sink to the floor, your back against the cabinets, your injured arm cradled against your chest. The throbbing pain is relentless, dragging you closer to unconsciousness with every passing second. The world blurs at the edges, the dark corners of your kitchen closing in.

But you keep your eyes open. You have to. If you close them now, you're afraid won’t wake up.

The next thing you hear is the front door creaking open. The sound is distant, almost dreamlike, as if it’s coming from underwater.

“Where are you?” Kendo’s cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent.

You force your head to lift, your eyes sluggishly finding him standing in the doorway. His face blurs, but the concern is clear.

“Jesus.” He drops to his knees beside you, his hands gentle as they lift your arm, exposing the mess of bandages beneath. The blood has soaked through, bright red against the white fabric.

“You’re lucky you called when you did,” Kendo mutters, pulling supplies from a bag slung over his shoulder. "Did a bear take a bite outta you? What the fuck is this?"

You almost laugh at that—the irony. If only it was a bear that had tried to rip out your throat. That might be more understandable. But no, this mess you dragged yourself into is something else entirely. Something he wouldn’t believe even if you told him.

"Doesn’t matter," you manage, gritting your teeth as he carefully peels back the bandages. The air is cool against your wet skin, but there's no relief from the burning pain that rips through you. Each touch feels like knives scraping against raw nerves. You breathe hard through your nose, focusing on anything other than what he's doing. But when you see the state of your wound, everything else goes out of mind.

The gash stretches from just below your collarbone, down toward the soft spot where your neck and shoulder meet, a mess of torn skin, muscle fibers glistening beneath.

"This is bad," Kendo murmurs. His tone is quiet but firm. It's the voice he uses with customers looking at pricey goods—the voice that brokers no arguments. "If you'd gotten to a hospital sooner, maybe—"

You cut him off. "Can't."

He glances up at you, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'can't'?"

"Just..." You shake your head, wincing as the movement sends a jolt of fresh pain through your arm. "Don't ask."

His lips press together into a thin line, his expression stern and unreadable. For a moment, you're afraid he might refuse—that he'll get up and walk out, leaving you bleeding out on your kitchen floor. Then he sighs, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about stubborn idiots.

"Alright," he says, reaching into his kit, "we're going to need more gauze. This isn't exactly a quick fix." He pulls out a fresh roll of gauze and some scissors, placing them on the counter next to him. "I'll sew this shut after we clean it properly."

You nod weakly, your shoulders slumping with relief.

Kendo's brow furrows. He's still annoyed, but at least he isn't walking out. Not yet.

He grabs one end of the bandage and begins unwrapping your shoulder with a careful, practiced hand.

With each layer, you see more of the gash—the mangled flesh and torn tissue. The sight makes your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat, threatening to send everything surging up your gullet.

You turn away, forcing yourself to look at the far wall instead, steadying your breathing through clenched teeth. It takes all of your self-control not to vomit right then and there.

Kendo grimaces, hissing air through his teeth in a sharp exhale as the last strip of fabric peels away from your skin. He stares at the wound for a moment, as if appraising a damaged weapon. Then he reaches over to his kit, pulling out a large needle fitted with suturing thread.

You don't remember anything after that.

When you finally drift back to consciousness, your entire body aches with dull, persistent pain. Your throat burns like you've swallowed acid, and your head feels like someone stuffed cotton inside your skull. But beneath it all is a sense of calm—the comforting assurance that Kendo has put everything back together again, just as he always has before.

You try opening your eyes and wince at the bright light filtering in through half-closed curtains. Your eyelids are heavy and sticky with sleep. Everything feels groggy, muted. As if your body has wrapped itself in a thick layer of insulation. You shift slightly, wincing when you realize your shoulder is held firmly in a sling. You must have made a sound because Kendo reaches you from somewhere nearby:

"Hey, hey, hey, no moving."

His footsteps approach, soft but steady across the carpeted floor. When your vision focuses enough to make him out clearly, you find him sitting at your bedside with his usual frown.

"Welcome back," he grumbles, though his gaze flickers with something akin to relief. "I thought I lost you there for a while."

You swallow past your dry throat, clearing it quietly. You're tired—not physically tired, but bone deep and aching—and your brain struggles to piece together coherent words.

"Thank you," you say after a few seconds. "For..." You trail off, gesturing vaguely toward your shoulder. "All this. I don't—"

"Which one of your assholes made his dog chew on you like a bone?" Kendo asks bluntly, cutting you off. He leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together as he watches you intently. "The scrawny one or that creep?"

His expression says he already knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway—maybe just so he can berate you about it for being an idiot later. That can definitely work in your favor, though, anything to stop this from being connected to Jill at all. So, you give him an easy enough lie, hoping to slip away quickly.

"The guy with the piercings," you reply softly, dropping your gaze as if ashamed. "Guess he wanted payback from the grave."

That part isn't technically untrue; you just left out the fact that he sacrificed Jill to Satan himself, but it's not like it would be any easier to explain that. Kendo sighs heavily, his eyes narrowed in thought before glancing down at his bag. He hesitates briefly but seems to decide something before lifting up a ziplock bag filled with white pills, passing it to you.

"Here," Kendo offers gruffly, "painkillers. You know how these things tend to get infected easily. These'll take care of that."

You nod mechanically, accepting the medicine and stuffing it into your pocket. Your throat still burns painfully, making speech difficult. Everything in you hurts—your shoulder, your heart... you can hardly tell where one ache ends and another begins.

The house is quiet, except for the ticking of your father's old watch hanging on the wall. It ticks rhythmically, counting the seconds like droplets of blood falling from a wound.

"Wish he was alive so I could grind his face in the teeth of his own dog," Kendo spits. "Fucker should have known better."

It takes every bit of your resolve not to break down there, collapsing into a puddle on the floor.

The room smells of paint. It clings to the air, mixing with the scent of fresh wood and varnish, and you can feel it coating your lungs with each breath. The dresser, stolen from your own bedroom, sits awkwardly in the corner of Jill's new space, and a mismatched lamp casts a weak, flickering glow. The bed is pushed against the far wall—a simple mattress with freshly laundered sheets that smell faintly of lavender, a touch of something homely amidst the nightmare unfolding.

Your shoulder throbs beneath the sling, the pain buzzing like a low, relentless hum. It keeps you tethered to your body, to the reality of what you’re doing. Every time you move wrong, the wound pulls, reminding you that this is all real—every twisted choice, every step deeper into the dark.

You pause by the nightstand, smoothing out the folded blanket you brought in. It’s small, soft—a pale pink thing from the closet, far too cheerful for the room it now occupies. But Jill will need warmth. She’ll need comfort. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

The feeding tube snakes out from under the bed, carefully hidden from sight, leading to the IV pole you rigged up by hand. You’ve kept her asleep with a steady drip of sedatives, just enough to keep her body slack, her mind drowned beneath the haze. The effort to keep her under is precise—too much, and she could stop breathing; too little, and she’d wake up before you were ready.

The room isn’t finished yet. Your shoulder is slowing you down, and each trip up and down the stairs feels like a marathon, every task an endurance trial. But you’re patient. Careful. It’s all part of the plan.

You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, smearing dust across your skin. The walls are still too bare, so you pin up a few photographs—ones from before all of this, ones of Jill laughing, sun-kissed and free. You need her to remember those moments.

The knock at your door two days ago nearly shattered everything. You can still feel the weight of it, echoing in your bones. The fire spread fast—faster than you planned—but it did the job. Jill’s apartment is nothing but charred rubble now, her belongings reduced to ash. You remember standing at the window, watching the plume of smoke rise into the sky like a dark omen, your heart pounding with the kind of excitement that made you nauseous. No more evidence.

When the police called, they didn’t ask questions at first—just wanted to know if you’d heard from Jill. She’s been listed as a missing person. Matt’s death already left the town on edge, and now with Jill gone and her apartment burned to the ground, suspicion falls on you. An uncomfortable amount of scrutiny hovers over your head now, your neighbors whispering about rumors, theories—all the things they want to believe are true.

The media is another beast entirely. Newspapers speculate about links between the deaths, calling it a series of crimes unlike anything seen before in the region. TV news crews crowd around local bars and pubs, eager to interview anyone with even the smallest snippet of gossip to share. It's almost laughable how everyone assumes the worst of you. Almost.

The officer's voice was polite but cautious. They want you to come in for questioning. It’s routine, they say. Just a formality. But you can hear the weight of suspicion buried beneath their words—a missing friend, an ex-boyfriend dead, and you standing in the center of it all.

You hadn’t said much. Just enough to satisfy them. But that’s when the idea struck—the room needed to be hidden. No matter how careful you were, there would come a day when someone would come knocking. You couldn't risk it. If they search your house, everything crumbles. So, you set to work.

You know jack shit about building secret compartments, but luckily you know someone who does. A neighbor—he likes fixing broken things, patching up old furniture, restoring antiques. That hobby gives him plenty to talk about with strangers like you, eager for conversation that isn’t quite so stifling.

He shows you his favorite trick for hiding spaces—a clever system of hinges that folds a piece of furniture inward, opening up an entire panel inside.

"See?" he says, showing you how it works. "Hidden away like magic."

The words echo in your head. Hidden away, indeed. Magic—more like a nightmare.

And for the first time, it truly sinks in—this is really happening. There's no going back from here, not with Jill upstairs, not with you planning to hide her right under everyone's noses. All of your options evaporate into thin air. Now there's only one way forward: the road straight to hell.

Anything for Jill, you tell yourself. Anything for Jill.

Weeks pass. The house begins to change. Bit by bit, you bring things into Jill’s room—small touches, pieces of comfort. A chair from the living room. Books she used to like. A few scattered records from your old collection, tucked away on a shelf you built into the wall. Pillows, blankets. Soft things. Comforting things. Things to remind her of who she used to be.

You keep her asleep. Some days it gets harder than others. You don’t always have fresh stock on hand, so you wait. Take longer breaks in-between each dose. Sometimes she wakes up while you're putting saline into the IV port, half-lucid and confused, moaning incoherently. Your heart hammers each time this happens, terrified she might wake up fully, lash out in fear and hunger—but she never does. She never asks where she is. Never asks why you won't let her wake up. If she ever understands what happened to her, it isn't clear. Maybe her mind is too fractured to put it all together. Or maybe she just doesn't want to face the truth of what she's become. What she's done. Either way, she doesn't struggle against her restraints when you're there, content to remain in this fuzzy, dreamlike state, somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

The more Jill goes without food, the sicklier she seems to grow. Her skin becomes pale, almost paper thin, her cheekbones jutting sharply beneath. You know regular food wouldn't help anymore, so you refuse to test it.

You need to let her wake up soon, and feed her properly for the first time. But you've been putting it off, delaying it with excuses: finishing the room, keeping the drugs steady. A week turns into two, then three. When your trips start running dry, you decide to steal, taking supplies from the local hospital whenever you can find an excuse. Every day you spend more time preparing and less time searching for answers. Any path you could have taken to fix Jill has been reduced to one option: waiting until she starves long enough that feeding her will be worth the risk.

By the time you let Jill wake, the room feels almost lived-in. Almost normal. There's art on the walls—stuff from your collection, posters and photos that remind Jill of who she used to be. It's not real yet; you feel that every time you look at her, knowing what needs to happen. How she'll feed and go back under, locked behind these four walls like a fairy tale curse coming true.

Jill’s first breath sounds like a gasp. You stand by the doorway, arms crossed, watching her as she stirs beneath the covers. It takes a moment for her to orient herself, her body sluggish from the long sleep.

Her eyes blink open, slow and glassy, confusion etched into every line of her face. She’s disoriented, like a swimmer breaching the surface of cold water for the first time.

“Good morning,” you say, like you’re talking to a wounded animal.

Jill’s eyes find you, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you. Her gaze is heavy, weighted with a thousand unspoken questions. She shifts slightly, realizing the restraints holding her wrists and ankles to the bed. Her body tenses, a flicker of panic flashing across her face.

“Relax,” you say, stepping closer, your tone gentle but firm. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Jill pulls against the restraints, the leather biting into her skin, but she’s too weak to do much more than squirm. "What the fuck?"

Her voice is hoarse, the words thick on her tongue. She sounds groggy. Confused.

A memory flashes through your mind—Jill laughing at something you said, sunlight filtering in through a car window as she drove you home. Simple. Happy. Easy.

Your stomach clenches, nausea rising in your throat. That was before, you tell yourself. Before things changed. You take a slow breath, steadying the rush of emotions threatening to pull you apart. Keep calm. Keep steady. Stay in control. You owe it to her.

"What happened?" Jill croaks, blinking hard as if to force away sleep, and then her attention lands on the sling around your arm. It seems to bring her back to reality—her eyes widen, pupils shrinking in shock.

"Oh God, I..." She trails off, realization dawning on her features. Her lips press into a thin line, shame glinting in her gaze. Shame—and hunger. She looks away quickly, turning her head toward the pillow, but you've already caught the telltale flash of yellow. "Was it me? Did I hurt you?"

You nod, wincing at the movement. "Don't worry about it." It's meant as a reassurance—it wasn't you; I'd never blame you; you know I'm here for you—but your tone makes it sound like a dismissal. You bite back an apology. Nothing you say will make anything easier right now. "How are you feeling?"

She stares down at her wrists, flexing them under the restraints, testing the limits of how much they'll let her move. You watch as she shifts on top of the mattress, assessing her options.

She exhales loudly through her nose and shakes her head. "Terrified," she admits, looking up at you. For a second, you're not sure what to think. Then, softer: "Of myself."

That last sentence knocks the wind out of you. She meets your gaze, unflinching. You see it written all over her face, etched into every line, plain as day—the realization, the weight of the knowledge. Somehow, she knows what she's capable of now. The horrors she could unleash without a moment's hesitation.

Without thinking, you cross the room to the nightstand beside Jill's bed. There's a bowl waiting for you—plastic, with an opaque lid, filled to the brim with fresh cut meat. Lamb. Uncooked. "If you're hungry—" you start, reaching for the plastic. Jill recoils instinctively, pressing her body deeper into the mattress, as far away from you as possible.

"Stop! Just... stop." She shakes her head, her teeth clenched against some unseen pain, a tear running down her cheek. Your hands freeze, suspended in midair, the metal bowl dangling lightly from your fingers. "What are you doing?"

You blink at her, baffled, unsure what else to do except respond truthfully. "I'm trying to help."

She scoffs, shaking her head again, but this time, there's a hint of sadness in her expression. Something bitter and resigned, like defeat. "This isn't helping."

"You might be right," you reply carefully, not wanting to make her angrier than she already is. Your hand rests lightly against the edge of the nightstand, hesitant to continue. "Dead meat might not be it. Is it only humans?"

Jill watches as your hand lifts the lid, peeling it back to expose the raw cuts of flesh below. You watch her face, looking for any sign of disgust, revulsion, but she simply stares blankly. Blankly—like an empty space, devoid of feeling. Like she's done with all the feelings and moved onto emptiness.

"That's fine," you assure gently, hoping your voice sounds soothing in some way, despite the situation. "We can work with that."

Jill frowns, a crease forming along her brow. She looks down at the plate of raw meat and then back at you again—and maybe it's because you're tired, or maybe it's because you've never been able to handle her disappointment very well, but either way, there's an uncomfortable tightness spreading across your chest as you reach for the discarded plate and shut the lid firmly closed again.

"What the fuck does that mean, we can work with that? Work with what exactly?" She snarls angrily, yanking against her restraints like some trapped wild thing, a beast captured by hunters. "The only way this will end is with me hurting someone—most likely you. Look at us," she bites out bitterly, her expression twisting into something between self-loathing and contempt as she tugs on her restraints, "look at us. What the fuck is even happening? What are you doing?"

Her words hit you with the force of a freight train, the weight of their truth settling heavily on your chest. You swallow hard, feeling your heart thudding against your ribs. You’ve always known what this was, deep down. Always known that you couldn’t just “fix” this. But now, hearing it come from Jill—hearing the hopelessness, the anger—it makes you feel like you’re sinking into quicksand.

"I'm doing this for you," you say, though the words come out weaker than you intended, like an apology more than an explanation.

"For me?" Jill hisses, raw with disbelief. Her eyes glisten, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "You think locking me in here, keeping me like this, is for me?"

You take a step closer to her, but she recoils again, the leather restraints creaking with the tension. "You don't understand," you murmur, more to yourself than to her. Your head pounds, the pain in your shoulder radiating through your entire body. "I’m not going to let this—whatever this is—take you away from me."

Her laughter is harsh, brittle. It cuts through the room, echoing against the bare walls. It’s a sound that chills you to the bone. "Take me away from you." And for a moment, the sadness returns—vulnerable and unguarded. "I'm already gone."

Those words twist something deep inside you, but you can’t afford to let them pierce you. Not now. Not when you’ve come this far.

"That's not true." You force yourself to keep yourself steady, though it flickers at the edges.

Jill falls silent, her chest rising and falling with sharp, angry breaths. Her eyes are burning into yours, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. You can feel the weight of her gaze pressing down on you, searching, assessing. "This isn’t saving me. You know that."

Your throat tightens. "I can’t let you be.”

There’s a beat of silence, a terrible silence, and then Jill speaks again, softer this time. Too soft. Too calm. "What's the plan here, then?"

She already knows, but you still give it voice anyway: "You stay here. I get you food."

"You mean you hunt down innocent people so that I can feast." Disgust flashes across her face, along with the disbelief that you're even offering her this like it's nothing. "Are you out of your mind? Do you hear yourself right now? We aren't... we aren't animals!" She breaks on the last word, and turns away, eyes squeezed shut.

She's remembering Matt, no doubt.

"Don't worry," you place your good hand on hers gently. The touch makes her flinch, but you ignore it. "You won't have to do anything like that ever again." You squeeze lightly before pulling away. "I'll take care of it. Take care of you. Promise."

You try to sound reassuring. Like everything will be fine if she just lets herself fall apart. Lets you take control. But you've never seen her so fragile before—so shattered. A porcelain doll teetering at the edge of a shelf, threatening to tumble off with one misplaced breath.

"And what happens when you’re not enough?" she asks quietly. Her eyes gleam in the low light, and the hunger that’s been lurking beneath the surface starts to show itself again. "What happens when you can’t keep me satisfied? What then? Will you just watch as I tear you apart?" She laughs bitterly, shaking her head as she turns away. "We're fucked. Completely and utterly fucked."

A beat passes, stretched out by silence. She seems smaller than before, diminished somehow. Lost. Broken. "Let me go," she whispers finally, resignation bleeding through the words like poison. She sounds so tired, so defeated. And part of you wants to pull back, to withdraw this nightmare altogether. But there's still a flicker within—the last ember of her old flame burning stubbornly against reason. So instead you lean close, resting your forehead against hers as your grip tightens around her hand. Because maybe this time, it'll make a difference. Maybe if you hold onto her hard enough, she won't slip away entirely.

"You'll have to kill me," you murmur softly against her skin, hoping she understands what you mean. That it isn't a threat but a promise: even if the worst comes to pass, even if this breaks you both completely, you're never letting go.

Never.

"Until then," you say, leaning in to steal a kiss. It's brief—too brief—but enough for now, reminiscent of the ones you used to share in the safety and innocence of your childhoods. "Just let me help you."

Jill looks like she has so much to say. One second her expression says 'They'll catch you immediately when people start disappearing, you've got so many eyes on you already,' and the other it turns into 'You couldn't even catch a cat if you wanted to and you're talking about hunting humans.' But you pretend to look at ease and offer a comforting smile, brushing your fingertips against her cheeks and jawline. Your palms come to rest atop the curve of her neck, cradling the back of her head gently. This woman whom you know best, better than anyone else. And maybe she does know you best too. Maybe you two truly did grow together. Because before you can finish mentally preparing your argumentative list on why you're capable and ready to help her, she lets out a soft sigh and relaxes into your touch.

Jill leans forward until her forehead bumps against yours. Her eyes flutter close, lashes fanning across flushed skin. You inhale deeply and stare at her profile, memorizing each detail because God knows how long this will last. How long you can hold onto her. If only forever could really be that simple.

So instead of saying anything, you pull her into a hug—a tight embrace, squeezing every inch of air from between you—as though letting go might mean falling apart entirely. Maybe it would.

"I love you," you say quietly. The words seem hollow when whispered into empty space without warmth or pressure behind them. Without touch, smell, taste, sight; all the little details that make a memory worth treasuring.

She doesn't say it back, but you know she's thinking the same thing.

Why else would she pretend to be too powerless to leave the cage you've worked so hard to create for her when it's clear she's stronger than ever?

[cheolhub]

DREAMS, FAIRYTALES, FANTASIES — CHOI YEONJUN + CHOI SOOBIN ࿐

summary. ever the unconventional gift giver, yeonjun would rather give you something memorable for valentine’s day. what better gift than his smoking hot best friend?

wc. 2.67k

warnings. threesome! oral (m. receiving), light degradation (use of slut & stupid), heavy praise, heavy pet name use (baby, pretty, princess), shy!soobin <3, needy f!reader, teasing dom!jun, unprotected sex, creampie, facial — MINORS DNI 18+

note. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY MY LOVES!! to everyone who voted in the poll for the yeonbinnie 3way, here it is ! i hope u enjoy it <3 kisses 4 u all 💋

p.s. reblogs and feedback are extremely appreciated— i also love to hear ur thoughts <3

most boyfriends get their significant others chocolates for valentine’s day. maybe jewelry or roses or even a nice book, but yeonjun isn’t like most boyfriends. no, yeonjun is unlike any other man you’ve ever dated. he doesn’t want to gift you flowers that would die within days or shitty chocolates that make your tummy hurt– no. yeonjun wants to grant you memorable experiences. ones that’ll make you happy. ones that you’ll definitely remember. he wants all your dreams and fantasies to come true.

so if not chocolate and flowers… what does yeonjun gift you?

his best friend. choi soobin. 

he remembers the first time yeonjun introduced you to him and his other best friends vividly– like it was yesterday. to soobin, you were shy and so cute. just his type. but he started noticing small changes in your behavior every time he saw you. 

he noticed the moment things took off in your relationship with yeonjun. he’d only ever observed from afar, but he could just tell yeonjun was becoming more and more intimate with you as the weeks past; he just knew his best friend was corrupting you, the sweet girl he’d so desperately craved. you had gone from innocently twiddling with your thumbs and blushing to showing small acts of public affection to not-so-quietly begging yeonjun to fuck you in the car away from the guys because you couldn’t handle being empty for longer than a few hours. you turned into such an insatiable little thing, all yeonjun’s doing, of course– soobin knew that for sure. 

but yeonjun also noticed soobin’s desire from the get-go. soobin could barely hold eye contact with you and he’d blush every time you’d giggle or whine or tease– hell, you just needed to breathe in his direction and soobin’s all red in the face. 

once yeonjun knew you were completely comfortable in your relationship, he started implementing things he knew you’d love. i.e. toys, degrading names, and other people. other people being none other than the choi soobin. the soobin he knows you drool over and ramble about from time to time. all he had to do was talk to you. 

he did, and just as he suspected– you were all in. of course you were, he could tell from the second the question slipped his lips. 

he’d asked you weeks prior to valentine’s day. honestly… you barely remember the conversation. blood quickly rushed to your head and core when he suggested adding him to the mix for just a night. you remember the way you bit back a moan at the thought of his tall, broad, undeniably handsome best friend fucking you with a cock you just knew was huge. you remember trying to mask how turned on you got at the idea of it all– the both of them at the same time– and ended up shifting in your seat, nearly grinding your wet cunt against your sofa. you remember yeonjun fucking you on the very same sofa not long after you agreed, calling you a needy slut for wanting two cocks and for nearly cumming untouched over the idea of soobin fucking you.

so, yes, the conversation was a blur, but you do remember agreeing.

you still found yourself very surprised when yeonjun showed up at your apartment on valentine’s day with soobin trailing awkwardly behind him.

“happy valentine’s day, princess,” yeonjun smiles beautifully and your heart flutters at his unbelievable charm. “brought soobin over since he was all alone, hope that’s okay?” he knew it was one hundred and ten percent okay, but he loves hearing your verbal responses. especially in times like these where he knows you’re needy and excited to be ravished by him– by him and soobin now.

soobin feels his pants tighten at the sight of you. he wonders if there’s anything under your hoodie. or if there’s anything past your cute little shorts. he thinks about the silky material being soaked by your folds. how wet you could be. how much prep it would take to fit inside your pussy and– god, what do you feel like? will you wrap around him like he’s dreamed? will you milk him for what he’s worth? fuck– he needs to stop. he’ll cum before you could even be within arm's length of him if he doesn’t.

“y-yeah…” you blush and soobin can’t help but think back to when he first met you and how you were acting the same way then. cute and shy. “hi, ‘binnie,” you walk up to him to give him a quick, friendly hug. 

the height difference has his hard-on pressing into your tummy and his breath hitches, but so does yours. he’s fucking huge. in more ways than one. yeonjun just smiles while watching this unfold, his best friend and his girlfriend exchanging greetings… if they could even be called that. 

he stuttered, looking down into your eyes, “h-hi.” you smell so fucking good to him. 

“hi,” you parrot, mind forgetting that you already said that. you can’t seem to rid the memory of his cock though. even through his pants, you could feel the shape, the size, the perfection of it all. 

yeonjun stifles a laugh and you quickly snap out of your thoughts and the mini-staring contest you didn’t realize you were having with him. “baby?”

your voice comes out thick, dry, “yeah?” you turn to see a cheeky smile spread across his face. 

“you wanna go to your room ‘n wait for us?” he asks but you see in his face he’s not really asking, he’s telling you. you nod, padding over to your shared room to wait for the boys. your boys. 

only then do you realize how lucky you are to have yeonjun and not only that but have him so willing to share you with his best friend of many years. then you realize again– you’re going to have both of them tonight. you’ll get to feel both of them filling you to the brim, stretching you out, making it work– making themselves fit like a glove. 

you find that soobin is a soft kisser when they finally come into your room. quite the contrast from your playful lover. you start with a peck, barely letting your mouth open out of mere shyness, but gradually, the kiss gets more and more heated. his lips are plush as they glide against yours, tongue slipping into your eager mouth. he’s letting out tiny whines while he’s heavily breathing through his nose and you see that he’s just like you– someone who easily gets worked up by a little makeout session. 

yeonjun smiles, watching the two of you. he grows harder in his jeans at the sight of you breaking out of your bashfulness and reverting back to your needy self as you are with him. with your arms wrapped around soobin’s neck, you move to straddle him and his large hands laid flat against your back, pulling you deeper into him. 

when you finally break from the kiss and blush at your current position, noticing the way your half-covered cunt is just above his clothed bulge. your eyes quickly avert to yeonjun’s, silently asking if this was okay. 

he comes to the edge of the bed where soobin sits, patting your head. “‘s all good, princess, want you to feel good, alright? make soobin feel good, too, he’s been dreaming ‘bout this a long time.” yeonjun outs soobin and he blushes furiously, sending his best friend an incredulous look.

your eyes come back to soobin, “you have?” you whisper, core aching at the thought. you’ve been dreaming about both of them for a long time, too. 

he nods his head slowly, surely embarrassed. 

you let out a sharp breath, rolling your hips against his. “i really want you to fuck me.” you murmur, dreamily sighing out your following words, “both of you.”

and that’s how you ended up in your current position on your knees with your ass raised in between yeonjun’s legs.

“don’t be so gentle, soobin, she can handle it,” yeonjun grunts, hands tangled in your hair, gently tugging at the strands between his fingers. “isn’t that right, beautiful?” 

you hum, looking up at your handsome boyfriend through your wet lashes, attempting to nod your head. he looks so good back pressed against your headboard while you reside in between his legs, but you know he thinks the same of you, if not more. your mouth is full of his cock, hands splayed over the top of his thighs as your pretty, painted nails dig into the muscles causing a delicious sting for your masochistic yeonjun. 

soobin was so nervous when you asked him to fuck you. not only fuck you but fuck you raw– promising all will be well with your overly needy and whiny voice. eventually, he couldn’t resist, the offer being too good to pass up. 

you were drooling from the second he showed you his pretty, flushed cock to when he pushed into your tight, dripping hole to now. he’s taking yeonjun’s words into consideration before slamming into you harder much like he’s been deprived of pussy. 

your face scrunches up in pleasure as you choke over your boyfriend's cock. said boyfriend moans out loudly, “that’s it, baby, is binnie making you feel good?”

you pull off him, gasping and eyes screwing shut, “yes! yes, binnie, you’re making me feel so good!” you praise soobin and his grip on your waist tightens. 

yeonjun pushes you back onto his length, thrusting at a nice pace into your mouth concurrently muffling your moans and whines. his grip on your hair tightens and his eyes nearly roll back– your mouth is always so fucking good to him. 

“such a perfect little slut, taking me ‘n soobin so well, baby– fuck, so so well.” he groans before looking to soobin. “tell her what a good girl she is, soobin.”

you clamp tightly at your lover's words, a high-pitched sound making its way out your mouth full of cock. 

soobin’s hips stutter as he feels your gummy walls contract around him, enveloping him oh-so enticingly. “s-such a good girl, Y/N– so tight ‘n pretty,” he moans breathily, fueling your ego. 

you nearly cum on the spot, digging your fingernails deeper into yeonjun’s crescent-marked thighs. you muffle out a ‘thank you’ body taking a mind of its own as you push your hips back desperately to meet his. you don’t forget about yeonjun either, letting your throat constrict around his long cock. 

yeonjun notices how the praise spurs you on, “you just love being called pretty things, don’t you?” he chuckles airly, brushing your hair out of your face and admiring the way tear streaks coat your flushed cheeks. 

“love it, junnie,” you say, taking a break from constantly gagging on your boyfriend's heaven-sent dick, replacing it with one of your hands instead. “love it s’much.”

“pretty girl,” he coos, thumb brushing against your swollen lips. “look so pretty taking it all for us.” his thumb slips past the pillowy muscle allowing your lips to warp around the digit. he basks in the way you moan, eyes trained on him. “shit, bet soobin wishes he could see you looking like a mess right now.”

soobin moans loudly at this because, god, yes, he would kill to see you right now. he would kill to see you in tears over getting fucked by him and his best friend. he would kill for the way your pussy is swallowing him whole and grasping onto him for dear life. 

mindless and unaware, soobin’s thrust grew harder, pushing deeper, tickling that spot. he feels like he may burst any moment and then he hears yeonjun say his name, causing him to halt. 

“‘s not fair that i’m the only one who gets to see her,” he says, a devilish smirk overtaking his features. his eyes divert back to yours, “on your back for him, baby, let him see what a pretty princess you are.”

you nod eagerly allowing your boyfriend to move out of the way so you can switch positions. your back hits the mattress and you finally take in soobin’s appearance. silky hair sticking to his forehead, pink lips swollen and parted, chest huffing– he looks like a dream. 

he could say the same and more about you, though. he’s sure he’s gonna fall in love with you if he stares at you for a second longer, but he’s just so mesmerized by you that he can’t tear his eyes away. you’re more than a dream, more than a fantasy– you’re a fucking real-life princess. 

“put it in me, ‘bin…” you whimper, nimble fingers moving to toy with your clit to avoid losing momentum. “please? wan’ it so bad, baby.”

soobin curses under his breath, the pet name making him twitch. now he knows he’s gonna fall in love with you. he knows it isn’t just because it’s valentine’s day.

he slips his bulbous head back into your soaked cunt, groaning when he feels you stretch to take him again. he’s gonna die, he knows it.

your eyes roll and your back arches with a whine leaving your lips. “‘binnie, ‘s so good, so so so good.” 

yeonjun snickers, “stupid girl.” he pinches your nipples, rolling the perky nubs between his fingers while soobin fucks into you eagerly. 

you gasp at the onslaught of pleasure, eyes screwed shut and a stream of moans and cries leave your mouth. to yeonjun’s surprise, you blindly grab at his cock, stroking it with your free hand. 

“fuck, baby.” your boyfriend moans out when you squeeze the girth in your contrastingly small hand. “not too fast, shit.” his words are breathy and you just wish you could open your eyes to see how gorgeous his god-crafted face looks at this moment. 

“wan’ you both to cum– fuck, please cum for me– ‘m so close.” you cry as soobin’s cock finds your sweet spot again, ramming against it with every stroke. “s-soobin! inside, please cum inside me!” you beg him, rubbing your clit faster and gripping him like a vice. 

“pretty girl.” soobin whines the pet name out and you gasp, mind fuzzing over the sound of his voice and the cute name he’s called you. “shit, ‘m cumming.”

“f-fill me up!” 

at this, soobin chokes, hips stilling as he feels himself cum. you’re suddenly filled with warmth and it practically triggers your own orgasm. the tightrope in your tummy unraveling as you coat his cock in your arousal, a near-silent scream leaving your mouth.

you lay there and he fucks you through his orgasm, the aftershocks leaving you shaking and shivering under the men as you languidly pump yeonjun’s still-hard cock. 

“junnie,” you whine, teary eyes finally opening to see how he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you. 

he grunts, “so fuckin’ cute, baby, my cute lil fucked out princess.” his rambling makes you realize he’s close just at the sight of you. he’s twitching and throbbing in your hands and you just smile nonchalantly.

“please cum on my face, baby.” you purr, regaining strength and pumping his wet length with more vigor. “make a mess on my face, junnie.” 

he moans when you stick out your tongue expectantly, sitting up on his knees and replacing your hand. he comes faster than you think, breathily calling out your name and curses. his seed shoots across your face, some of it landing on your tongue and some landing on your chest. 

the room is filled with soft pants as everyone tries to recollect themselves. after a few minutes pass, yeonjun pipes up. 

“did you like your valentine’s gift, princess?” he asks with a smug grin. 

you and soobin both laugh before you look between the two unbelievably handsome men and you give him the most honest answer you can conjure up.

“i loved it.” you whisper. “but i think it’s your turn to fuck me and soobin’s turn to watch.”

© cheolhub — all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[prettyboypistol]

merc Valentine headcanons if you're up for it?

TF2 VALENTINES HEADCANONS!

no art for this post because I've posted 3 times todayyyy

Scout

ridiculously corny and a tryhard- you're getting the whole shebang with him! Flowers, dinner(?), a teddy bear!

gets really frustrated/anxious when things don't go exactly as planned

you thought his planned pick up lines were cheesy? just wait til you put him on the spot. You could probably quote them all from specific books of pick up lines.

Soldier

He'd make an honest effort to try and romance you- but nothing would really turn out as you would expect traditionally. With your luck, the date will be fighting a pack of bears for more of his honey stash!

In the end though, you can tell through Jane's actions that he loved you with all his heart. Even if the romance was a bust, he's still going to be your ride or die forever!

The day would end with you two covered in various ratios of blood and honey staring at the setting sun. So I guess that's a win?

Pyro

Doesn't really have a concept of Valentine's Day, but once explained to them, they are so on board with pampering you the entire day!

Of course, the way to make their day is to just relax by a bonfire and snuggle up next to a radio.

They give you one of your shirts back as a gift- only to see that they embroidered little rings of fire around the cuffs! (who let them touch needles????)

Engineer

definitely a lot more relaxed about valentines than most of the other more "passionate" mercs, but he's still earnestly sweet nonetheless.

His gift to you is a little music box he made and a rose he welded together out of sheet metal.

Dell probably had your gifts done ahead of time then subsequently forgot what day it was (you had to remind him of the dinner date that you two planned earlier that week)

Heavy

Mikhail lust loves kissing and loving on you, he will play coy about valentine's day until the evening, where he spoils you senseless.

Dinner and drinks get shared over a movie and cuddles. Nothing feels better than your big teddybear of a boyfriend and the smell of mulled wine as you laugh at some stupid movie you two are barely paying attention to.

Once you fall asleep in his arms he murmurs poetry to you in Russian, all of them written just for you.

Demoman

He... well, honestly, he kinda blows it.

He remembered the special day, but he's really just lackluster. Valentine's day is just another day to him and he thinks he doesn't need a specific day. When he realizes that you are hurt, he overhauls it in the next few days. He shows off the multimillions that he actually does make and pampers you rotten.

Apologies and kisses and wonderful dinners aside, Tavish holds you close and murmurs just about how much he loves you.

Medic

He trained his doves to do little tricks just for youuuuu awww

Remember that shitty ex you had? Yeah, that's their heart. Mhm. Yep. Go ahead. Stab it. :) (Gift giving, act of service, quality time)

Puts a record on and dances you around the medical room with little kisses and flirtatious lines of how cute you look when you're flustered and trying not to step on his feet.

Spy

Romance KING! The fright of commitment is still there and paralyzing at times, but he powered through it for you! After all, you see him at his worst every day and to see him, he is slightly more comfortable to be honest with you.

Roses and a bottle of wine are in your room, along with a card signed by "Your handsome rogue"

You two go to dinner and then to his smoking room to really relax, those parfaits were perfectly handmade just for you two.

Sniper

He invites you out to camp with you and hunt, but he really liked showing off his survival skills in front of you. You ever had gator?

Mick loves cooking in front of you and really putting on a show. It feels like the one time he can really accept praise is when you look in awe.

Everything is done for you whenever you try to do something. Making coffee? "Nah love, I'll get it." Your back hurt? "Lay down, chickadee, I'll give you a massage."

[saerins]

─── 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

+ sae x f!reader | wc 3.2k | content: angst, insecurities, death

notes: i’m sorry idk how this came about but i was in a mood :’) i promise i love him okay <3 feedback & reblogs appreciated !!

summary: he’s back home, and you recall the times you’d spoken to him. all the calls you made, then all the calls he made, and then all the times it went to voicemail.

you remember every conversation you’ve had with your boyfriend. the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. it’s hard to quantify into numbers since you’d been together for the last five years.

but there’s a few of them that are prominent, that are burned into your mind, engraved onto your brain. the sound of his laugh, for one, that’s always been precious to you, if only for the fact that he doesn’t laugh often.

sae always said you were the only one who could get that out of him, and you’ve kept it close to your heart since.

to the world, he may have seemed rude and off-putting at times, and despite the countless false reports of sae being an asshole to all his girlfriends in private (because the media can never decide who he’s actually with), he’s always been the same itoshi sae to you—the kind of guy who only ever bothers what you think about him because the other people not involved in your relationship don’t matter.

you remember everything he’s ever done for you.

“you know that one day you’ll be mrs. itoshi, right?”

yeah, you definitely remember.

MARCH 2020; [ sae’s fifth day in spain ]

“you miss me, itoshi sae?”

you can feel him rolling his eyes from the other end. “i should just hang up right now.”

“you could, but then you’d miss me even more.”

sae suppresses a grin, even if there’s no one around to see it. you’re right, but he doesn’t say anything.

it was rare for sae to call you at all. but then again, it is the first time you two had been apart since you got together. maybe it isn’t so weird after all.

“how’d practice go today?”

“it’s fine, nothing i couldn’t handle.” of course he’s fine, he’s the youngest on the team and yet it was as though he’d played the longest.

“of course it was fine, mr genius,” you tease, and he smiles because he knows you’re smiling too.

you can’t really remember how the rest of the conversation went. but you only remember this moment because it was the first time you realised that amidst all the times you’d pester him to go on a date with you, amidst all the times you asked him for a kiss, sae could miss you too.

SEPTEMBER 2020; [ sae comes back to japan soon ]

“hey so i was thinking, i’ll meet you at the airport?”

sae hums, “wanna see me that bad, huh?”

“shut up,” you snap at him, hating his quick tongue that so easily gets you flustered. “so i miss my handsome, successful boyfriend, big deal.”

he missed you too.

“am i just arm candy for you, y/n?”

“what? no—”

“too late. i’m offended. bye.”

then he actually hangs up on you.

it takes you half a second to pull up your message thread with him.

itoshi sae, you wanna die or something?

it takes him the same amount of time to respond to you.

y/n l/n, okay, then maybe i’d get some relief from you.

before you can even be actually offended, your phone vibrates again.

miss you too, stupid. see you tomorrow.

you can’t seem to rub the smile off your face.

FEBRUARY 2021; [ first valentines’ apart ]

it takes him three rings to pick up.

“happy valentines’, lover,” you giggle over the phone.

it’s been a few months since your about-to-go-pro soccer player boyfriend had gone back to spain, doing pro soccer player things. you miss him, especially since it’s the first time you guys are spending the romantic occasion apart.

it sucks that you couldn’t even spend new years with him. it’s okay though, you managed to video call him while you spent time with his family.

“think you got the wrong number.”

“itoshi—”

“open the door, smarty pants.”

“w-wait, what? did you send me something?”

you hurry over to your front door, not knowing what to expect. but you definitely didn’t expect sae to be there, in the flesh, sighing when you finally open your door, a pretty bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“what are you doing here?” you’re still shocked from his mere presence.

sae smirks, and you realise just how much you miss him. “think i got the wrong apartment, i was supposed to deliver these to my other girl—”

but you kiss him to shut him up. he’s full of nonsense, and so, so witty, and he’s here.

sae’s always claimed that it was not soccer stealing him from you, it was more the other way around. and he had been joking at the time he said that, but right now he thinks maybe there’s some truth to it.

if there’s anyone capable of having and getting him to willingly relinquish his attention from soccer, it’s you.

JUNE 2021; [ night of sae’s first PR event ]

“someone looks handsome,” you comment as you watch your boyfriend getting ready over the phone.

he has an entire entourage of people over at his hotel—they must be the makeup crew and stylists. his entire team is getting vip treatment for being champions of the league thanks to last week’s game. now, even more brands are trying to sponsor them and you really shouldn’t be surprised over the amount of girls going crazy over your boyfriend.

“and someone should really sleep,” sae pauses for a moment when the man beside him (presumably his stylist, because he’s double checking sae’s suit) asks a quick that your girlfriend?, to which sae says “yes.”

the man winks at you through the video. “lucky girl,” he comments, eyes back on the fabric he’s touching, “the only time i caught him smiling was while he was texting ya.”

you snicker through the phone as you watch sae’s face go beet red before frowning at you.

“he did not.”

his stylist is laughing at his reaction too. “totally did. i thought he was possessed.”

sae grabs the phone and relegates himself to the bathroom, glaring at you through the screen. he’s not mad at you, he’s just embarrassed and you know that. you’ve known him long enough now to tell his cues.

“i hope you know i hate you.”

he’s always all bark and no bite and you’re still laughing at him.

“aw, i hate you too, mr itoshi.”

“stop with the smart mouth before i find another contender for a mrs itoshi.”

you and sae had been staring at each other through the screen up until that point, when sae realised what he just said and has to look away.

“you… think i could be?”

neither you nor sae have ever broached another about the future, and sae has always been generally avoidant about it, which is why it makes you even more surprised that he’s the one who slipped up about it.

after a moment of silence, he sighs, trying to suppress a smile. it tugs at the edges of his lips, not really there but you can feel it.

“you know that one day you’ll be mrs itoshi, right?”

you don’t know that, he doesn’t know that, not until the day has come. but yeah, you really, really want to be.

OCTOBER 2022; [ sae’s birthday ]

“happy birthday, mr. itoshi,” you greet when he picks up the phone.

things had been rocky lately, admittedly. only because you and sae lived worlds apart.

sae is famous now, in both japan and europe, and it’s no surprise because he’s one of the best midfielders anyone has ever seen. his life is now full of the glitz and glam that you’re not even close to familiar with.

and you; you’re just a simple girl living in tokyo, with a normal life and normal friends and normal everything. except for the fact that sometimes people stalk you online because based on theories, you’re his girlfriend.

he was advised against confirming your identity with the press. for a myriad of reasons, apparently. and you’re fine with it, because yeah, you’re aware there are games to be played when you have his status. and it was fine with you, except for times when it’s not.

like how at his previous PR event he had to appear like he was dating some other celebrity. which was fine, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t suck having to see your boyfriend appear intimate with someone else. even worse when you hear said someone else mention in multiple interviews that she’s always had a huge crush on him.

“thanks, though it kinda sucks today.”

but it’s fine; you’ve been with him long enough to know that sae isn’t the type to hurt you like that. so even if it’s rocky, it doesn’t stop you from loving him.

“why? i thought the guys were bringing you out drinking tonight.”

sae sighs. “that’s exactly why.”

you smile, thinking how sae is still the same sae you’ve always known. “you’ve been playing with them for more than a year now, i think one night out wouldn’t kill you, babe.”

“but they’re freaks.” and sae says that because they’re rowdy, noisy guys and he doesn’t even want to imagine them drunk.

“we both know they’re going to bother you to no end if you don’t go,” you point out, and sae relents. “and if you need an escape when you’re too tired, you could just use my name.”

you break into a grin because you know for a fact that sae uses you as an excuse to his publicist sometimes to not attend events.

“yeah, maybe i’ll tell ‘em the missus is angry,” he jokes, and you find yourself wishing you could hug him right now.

“have fun tonight, okay?” a little hesitance comes to you before you ultimately open your mouth, “i love you.”

sae chuckles, and he can’t even describe the relief that comes to him each time he hears you say those words.

“i love you too.”

DECEMBER 2022; [ the day you break ]

you don’t pick up his call.

when you saw the picture earlier, it’s like you’ve gone numb. and now everyone in the world will see the picture too. but you don’t really care. the images the paparazzi capture will die down after a while. the rumours will take longer.

right now you’re not even sure if your relationship is dead.

but you love him. you still do. and he’s still calling for what seems like the ninetieth time tonight.

this time you pick up.

“what?”

sae flinches on the other line because he’s not used to this coldness. “can i at least explain?”

you sniffle, gritting your teeth to stop your crying. “sure, why don’t you explain why i had to find out from the fucking news that you kissed someone else on your birthday?”

it’s that girl. the same celebrity you’ve seen ogling him and gushing over him and the one who has PR relations with him.

“i promise, she means nothing,” and you can hear the panic in sae’s voice. he sounds apologetic and manic and scared. “look, i-i was drunk, and she kissed me, and i pushed her off right after—”

“then why didn’t you tell me?” you yell back. because you’re sure that’s what happened. you believe him. but it wasn’t the fact that some other girl was so desperate for him that she’d do that, it was the fact that sae kept it from you.

sae can’t answer. he knows it, but he’s struggling to find the words. “i-i didn’t want you to misunderstand,” is all he can manage.

you pause for a while because you’re crying again, and sae can sense it even if you’re silent. he loves you and he’s killing himself for his stupid decisions.

“sae,” you call him, softly. “is that how much you know me?” because after all this time, you’d think he’d know better. you trusted him. a hundred percent. now? you’re not sure.

“please, y/n, i’m sorry, please just- forgive me?” and sae’s not sure how to do this. sae’s never had anyone he cared about this much other than you. you’re the only one and you forever will be. and he’s stupid and clueless outside of soccer but he’s always had you to hold his hand through this, yet now you feel further away from him than ever.

you’re quiet and he’s not sure what to expect. you’re just sniffling on the other side, not saying anything, and for the first time in his life, sae is afraid.

“babe, i—”

“don’t say it, sae,” you sigh, because you don’t want to think that he’s saying it just to appease you.

sae obeys, because he’s scared that just a little nudge would push you right off the edge. “i’m gonna fix this, okay? i’ll tell everyone that—”

“it’s fine,” you interject, your mind in shambles. you’re tired, and you really don’t know what to do about this when it’s so fresh in your heart. “i need to think things through anyway.”

“no- y/n, please, i—”

and for the first time ever, you’re the one who hangs up abruptly. then you turn off your phone because you know sae’s not going to stop but you really just don’t want to to feel bad about not picking up.

you still love him, but you’re just heartbroken right now.

sae stares at his phone after you hang up. he can hear his heart beating out of his chest and his breathing gets shallow. he tries to call you again but it’s not even ringing.

there’s only one thing he knows: he fucked up.

a stupid, stupid mistake which was grave enough to make you doubt everything and you’re right. this was on him for not opening his stupid mouth and just trusting that you’d understand.

for the first time ever, he heard what you sounded like when you’re hurt and he can’t forgive himself. not if he doesn’t do anything about it.

he gives up on trying to call you and pulls up his club’s coach’s contact instead. “sub someone else in for me tomorrow, i won’t be there.”

“what? what are you talking about? we can’t play without our star midfielder! it’s a big match against our home rivals—”

but everything he’s lecturing sae about falls on deaf ears because sae’s already packing his duffel bag and searching for his passport. he doesn’t even bother acknowledging anything before he hangs up, dialing his assistant’s number instead.

“i need to fly back to tokyo. immediately.”

his assistant’s distraught voice is apparent. “wha- um, you have a game tomorrow—”

“i don’t care. i need to fly now. get me a flight or you’re fired.”

“uh, but- um, the private jet’s not available—”

“then get me tickets on a commercial flight. i don’t fucking care about what kind of plane it is.”

yeah, because he only cares about fixing things with you. no one and nothing else, just you.

his assistant sighs because he knows he’s going to get in trouble for aiding sae. “fine, i’ll send you the details soon.”

JANUARY 2023; [ the present ]

it goes straight to voicemail. you still talk.

“you know, i hate you so much for not having a voicemail recording.”

you pause, the tears streaming down your face. you’re staring at your phone, at his instagram, at his last post. something he posted before his flight.

a picture of the both of you in private, in your room. he’s sitting behind you on the bed, his arms around your neck as he kisses your head and you take the picture.

it’s funny because he was forbidden from sharing any sort of those pictures yet he still did it anyway. you stare at the caption.

i love only you

“itoshi sae, how am i going to hear your voice now, huh?”

you’re already full-on crying now, as you have been for the last month.

“itoshi sae! talk to me, answer me!” you’re screaming but no one will ever hear you.

how can sae hear you? you’re unreasonable for expecting that.

“tell me how to reach you,” you wail into the receiver.

you’re painfully aware of what you’re getting now.

“i love you, mr. itoshi.”

there’s no one on the other line who’ll chuckle now. you can’t hear the same fondness in his voice when he says he loves you too. you can’t ever hear him joking with you again.

no more sighs, no more video calls, no more love. no more you know one day you’ll be mrs. itoshi, right?

you hang up and look at the note in your hand; something sae’s assistant passed to you on the day of his funeral.

a few weeks ago, sae asked me to get this for him. i know he wanted you to have this. before he left for tokyo, he told me to get this done for you at all costs. it was only ready a day after he left. i thought you might still like to have this. i’m sorry you have to go through this.

the gold velvet box sits heavy in your hand. it’s all of sae’s commitment to you, feelings for you—it’s all of his resolution in one tiny package and it’s heavy.

you open it, same as the countless times before.

it’s still beautiful. it’s shiny and four carats and princess cut because you were always his princess. inside the band, he has mrs itoshi engraved.

you know one day you’ll be mrs. itoshi, right?

you bring up his messages and play the last audio he sent to you.

“look, i know i fucked up and it was stupid of me to keep it from you. i’m sorry, okay? and i know you don’t want to speak to me right now but i can’t just sit around and do nothing. i love you, so i’m coming back home, and we’ll talk, and then… i promise you, nothing like this will happen again.”

you remember your last words to him and can’t help but to hate yourself. you should’ve told him one last time before you lost your chance.

if you’d just stayed on the line, he wouldn’t have come back. if he didn’t come back, he wouldn’t have gotten into that cab. if he didn’t get into that cab, he wouldn’t have been in that fatal accident in shibuya.

staring at the ring, calling his number, getting no response, visiting his plot and running into rin. and repeat. that’s all life is now.

sometimes you wear the ring to pretend he’s still here. to pretend he’s already proposed and you’re waiting for him to come back from spain.

you’re probably at voicemail #314 now.

mrs itoshi stares at you until you’re crying all over again.

you’ll never hear his voice again. never hear his laugh. never get to hug him, or pick fights with him. you’ll never get to feel his broad shoulders or his strong arms around your body. you won’t get to go home ever again.

you’ll never be mrs itoshi now.

[starryylies]

LOVE YOUR STORIES💓💐

Simon is my favorite character; and I always think of him funding his girlfriend’s book addiction. She doesn’t spend too much money on books due to paying rent and other things.

But she loves to go to bookstores and look at books and read the first couple of pages. And as a attentive boyfriend Simon is 🥺 he takes notes of the books she touches and buys them for her.

Then he surprised her with a book bouquet💐🥺

Gonna go sob now since I don’t have a Simon in my life.😭

Simon giving you a book bouquet

Hii love! I’m sorry for not responding I had this in my drafts :(

And yes simon would definitely do that! I think he’s personally the type who won’t mention it at all at first but he always has a mental note

Ps since it was in my drafts I made it according to valentines so yes again I’m so sorry

✎ᝰ Simon who always took a note of how you loved books

✎ᝰ Simon who knows the name of all your favourite authors by the tip of his fingers

✎ᝰ Simon who also knows your favourite books and their plot

✎ᝰ Simon who always saw how enthralled you were in a good book, your reactions evident whenever there was any plot twist

✎ᝰ Simon who thought it was weirdly cute when you said you love the scent of books

Simon who now agrees

✎ᝰ Simon who loved taking you to bookshop’s discreetly in malls by never suggesting it first but always going towards the area of the bookshop so you drag him in and look at the books in awe

✎ᝰ Simon who one day saw a sad look on your face as you walked out of the bookshop with nothing

✎ᝰ Simon who was quick to realise because it’s of the ever inflating rent of your apartment

✎ᝰ Simon who then made it his goal to get you some books from wherever he’s travelling

✎ᝰ Simon who once bought a book in Portuguese just because the cover looked like a painting you like

✎ᝰ Simon who started reading books with you

✎ᝰ Simon who wanted to do something special for you on valentines

✎ᝰ Simon who decided on getting you a bouquet of books would be better because flowers die anyways right?

✎ᝰ Simon who got this idea through soaps Instagram feed

✎ᝰ Simon who searched around the whole town for books of your favourite authors, limited editions and even a signed one

✎ᝰ Simon who arranged all of the books himself

✎ᝰ Simon who felt very proud of his gift and knew you’d love it

✎ᝰღ Simon who never looked like he would be infront of his girlfriend on his knees asking her to be his valentines :)

✎ᝰ And you who ofcourse said yes :)))))

[willownwisp]

starry skies, blue eyes

ii. loving you and the little things you do. (re4r!leon x gn!reader)

author's note: no proofread i work and die alone. i write and called it a day,,, hehe,,, hurrah for second entry of leon valentine's advent !!!! this is actually two parts bc the fic on the third day follows the events after this fic. <3

cw: SFW, SILLY IDIOTS IN LOVE !!!!! part 2 of ree's leon valentine's day advent.

The baby blues melt into pink hues against the watercolor bloom skies as the sun slowly sets.

Leon presses a kiss to your temple as you both hike side by side to the camp site.

"Stay close, baby. It's getting dark soon. It's my bad, we should have gotten here earlier."

You blush and shake your head, it's not like he was at fault. Leon is a man of action, ask him what needs to be done and it is done. Perhaps it's drilled into him to obey and follow orders, or that after a turbulent run as a DSO agent, he just wanted to get away. Desperately so that the minute you impulsively chatter how romantic it would be to have a camping trip, he's on his ass getting ready that same day.

"No, lovey. It was spontaneous anyway. It's kinda more romantic, yeah?"

You giggle at him, linking your arms around his thick ones as it flexes underneath your touch as he guides you to the spot.

This playfulness earns you a sigh from him. Not one out of frustration, you know him. Know how his trauma operates in the way that there is a small cork in his heart that needed a bit loosening up before he shows his tenderness, it was a sigh of fondness from him as he pulls you close.

"Of course, baby."

He'd reply with a half-smile because you're adorable. The light to his life that seeps warmth in the cold crevices of his being. There was something in your spontaneous nature. Your laidback demeanor, and playfulness that had lured him in. A breath of fresh air.

It was almost night after that small hike, and you're currently faced with your mortal enemy.

Forgetfulness and a knot. A freaking knot.

You wanted to impress Leon by offering to be the one to set up the tent as he leaves you for a little while to gather wood for the fire.

How hard could it be to set up a small two-person tent?

You ask yourself, and this was your downfall.

Upon Leon's arrival, bringing in wood for the fire, he sets the wood down to roll his neck before removing his jacket. His muscles flexing underneath the fabric of his muscle fit turtleneck and you gawk at him like a horny teenager while pretending to be busy "reading" the manual for the tent.

Leon turns to you, oblivious to the fact that you were eyeing him.

"Do you need any help, baby?"

He asks, blue eyes and the softest gaze and fuck if he isn't the prettiest man on earth.

"Psh. Who? Me? Nah, I can do it lovey. People used to ask me for help with these you know. I'm like an expert."

A bald-faced lie, and you even had the audacity to throw a boast. In your defense, you do have the experience. The faint memory of your childhood suggests you do.

"I used to be a Scout, you know."

You give him a wink as a reassurance and he chuckles, an amused smile graces his lips as he pets your head.

"Wow, I didn't know I was in the presence of a camping veteran. I'm in your care, baby."

He replies with a playful wink, matching your energy before he turns to start the fire, busying himself with lighting up the wood and setting up the camp site.

Meanwhile you stew in the fact that you're screwed, and yet instead of helping yourself, your gaze wanders to that of your boyfriend.

You've always known that Leon is dependable. He's brilliant like that even if he doesn't see it. That seriousness in his sapphire eyes, the way he moves around to check for any hazards and dangers around the camp site. He was walking all over, completely engrossed with his tasks. Setting up the portable mini gas stove on the ground. You were just… staring.

You've always known you love him, but sometimes there are moments when you look at a person and that feeling of love washes over your being, because that's him. That's your boyfriend. The only Leon in the world, there with you. In this space, breathing the same air.

Your reverie is cute short when he calls out to you.

"Baby."

"Huh?"

You respond quite taken aback and Leon quirks his eyebrows at you.

"Are you okay? I've been calling you. Is there something on my face? You seem occupied."

He asks and you clear your throat before shaking your head to try and find your voice.

"Oh no, just… nothing."

You clear your throat again, but Leon's eyes narrow at you.

"You don't know how to set up the tent, don't you?"

He asks with a playful smirk on his lips and you respond with an over-the-top gasp of horror.

"Why I never!"

You huff and turn to tug on the little poles on the tent.

"I swear I still remember how to tie my knots!"

You exclaim before Leon looks at you and just… laughs.

A laughing Leon Kennedy is a treat, because you get to see him throw his head back in laughter, his dirty blonde hair delicately framing his pretty face and from up close you could see the mole on his neck. He was always so majestic.

You blush in embarrassment, but mainly at the fact that you were absolutely whipped for your boyfriend you can't help but admire him a like a living artistic sculpture.

"Baby."

He continues after he laughs, his arms wrapping around your waist as he hugs you from behind.

"You don't even need knots for that, all you have to do is put the poles in those holes."

He grins, looking down at your pouting face before snickering and kissing your cheeks.

"Aww, is my baby upset?"

He asks, tilting his head to get a clear view of your sheepish face, now blushing and huffing at him.

"Come on my Scout, let's put this up together yeah?"

He pulls away from you to give you a boyish grin, the look in his blue eyes is enough to get you to soften as you pick up the poles, with present pout.

Leon looks at you and he melts at how adorable you are.

Perhaps this is what makes life a little more light and a little more bright. The small things like the way you pout and the way you're already red-faced at light teasing. He doesn't say a word but only grabs your chin to plant a chaste kiss on your lips.

Short and sweet as he smiles.

"I love you. Let's go on camping trips more often."

You smile at that and nod. For Leon, this is what makes life bearable. Silly moments like this and the love that you two share.

[euphoricfilter]

For the drabble game could you write fluff with youtuber bf jk ? I am not creative so I couldn’t think of a sentence sorry😭 but maybe he does one of those 24hr streams, I love your writing!

youtuber boyfriend! kook headcanons:

tags/ warnings: none. just a lot of fluff and feelings <3

notes: when i got sent this idea ages ago i got so excited. and i wrote three fics for it but hated them all and then made sure they were to never see the light of day. so my solution is to write some cute boyfriend headcanons instead to make up for it!! simply because i absolutely love this idea and i need to write anything for it to sate the need within me.

notes 2: this got slightly longer than i’d intended LMAO sorry 🕺

𓇻 i feel like jungkook’s channel has a plethora of videos, though he specializes in gaming.

𓇻 its probably one of his biggest passions. though i do see him dabbling in commentary, or even review type videos. maybe he’s a bit of a collector as well and goes on hour long rants about rare items or hauls of what he purchased over the years.

𓇻 i see the both of you probably meeting at one of those second-hand game and film stores.

𓇻 maybe you’re just milling around. more content to browse the movies than the games because you only own an old console (something cute like a nintendo DS) but they don’t really sell the game cards commercially anymore

𓇻 and jungkook loses track of why he was even there in the first place when he spots you. slowly scooting towards the corner you’re in.

𓇻 jungkook might not exactly believe in love at first sight, finds it a little hard to imagine loving someone so soon. but he definitely believes in destiny, even fate. and some small part of his mind had convinced him that surely this was just that.

𓇻 he’d be a bit shy about trying to approach you, mouth opening only for nothing to come out because what was he supposed to say? and maybe he accidentally startles you, offering to pay for the few dvds you had hugged to your chest as a lame sort of compensation

𓇻 he’d be the one to ask for your number, he’d be the first to text. you’d tell him later on it’s because you didn’t want to come off too head-strong. worried you’d scare him off messaging only hours after meeting. and then he’d tell you he had worried about the same thing

𓇻 jungkook wouldn’t straight out tell his audience he’d gotten into a relationship. it’s not that he was embarrassed about you, quite the opposite; he’d love to flaunt you to the world. it’s just he’d worry about the reaction from fans.

𓇻 he’d have a pretty hefty audience, a well established one even. and he wasn’t blind to the mean comments that would occasionally show up beneath videos or social media posts. he, himself, never found much issue in dealing with them, on occasion he’d get a little down but he knew that really he put himself up for this. he chose to show his face online, and with that would come some backlash. however, that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about you or how shitty comments would effect your well being.

𓇻 definitely the “in a relationship but it’s private” sort of photos would slowly creep their way onto his IG posts. maybe of little date nights— candles on the table with a dinner you’d cooked together (2 glasses, 2 plates and 2 sets of cutlery), or your favorite cake he’d tried to bake himself with the lego flowers he’d spent the previous evening trying to make (because at least you could look at the lego ones forever and they wouldn’t die). or maybe even your hand snuck in a photo or simply your silhouette beneath a sunset.

𓇻 maybe a few of your own collectible items had made their way onto the shelf in his studio. an obvious beanbag in the corner (you’d often sit there and read as he went through emails or scripted videos). valentines cards that he’d never thought to take down, or posters of yours that never exactly fit in the bedroom

𓇻 it would become apparent that he was in a long-term relationship when he’d film a moving video. so much of your stuff mingled with his own, split seconds of the shared rooms he’d add to the video before showing his audience his new office space. the extra shoes and cute little additions to his home; soft cushions on the couch, ceramics you’d begged him to buy. your hoard of plushies that took up half the bed or the stupid amount of skin care products stacked up in the bathroom. all a sure way of telling his fans that he was serious about you, even if they had no idea of your name or face

𓇻 maybe with enough comments he’d make a little announcement at the end of a video.

𓇻 “i know you’ve all probably guessed by now, but i am in fact, in a relationship”

𓇻 and then proceeded to talk about you for 7 minutes because really he wanted everyone to know how much he loved you. and truthfully he never knew when to shut up when it came to you, not when you were what’s on his mind most of the time. he’d tell them how you’d met, and how he had been absolutely enamored by you almost instantly. he’d show everyone the matching bracelets you’d made. grinning as he showed off the receipt he’d kept in his wallet from your first date together at a small cafe in town, mentioning how he kept a baby photo of you in the back of his phone too.

𓇻 the first time you’d show up in a video, he’d plan for the both of you to do some crafts together one afternoon. a hobby you’d been trying over the last couple of weeks, and jungkook liked to indulge you. loved to watch you sprawled across the floor of an evening with glue coating your fingers and way too much glitter imbedded in the carpet.

𓇻 he’d have been worried at first. asking you over and over if it was truly okay for you to be on camera, and after your reassured him with a kiss, he’d settle down slightly. though his anxiety had still clung to him, eyes flitting your way throughout the afternoon

𓇻 he could tell how shy you’d been, and had reassured you that really you didn’t even need to address the audience. he’d do all the silly little things you giggled at him for. and all you had to do was sit there and be pretty for him. you’d been a lot quieter than usual; itching to give him a kiss each time he was just so awfully jungkook. eyes like those of galaxies when he got something right, or the happiest smile on his face when you asked him for help

𓇻 the day he did a 24 hour charity stream would be when his audience sees you the most. milling around the house, making sure your boyfriend was fed and watered. maybe even sitting down and reading the chat when he wanted to shower. or answering questions while perched on his lap. he’d want to smother you with even more love when you’d catch his eye— a silent question if you were doing okay, that you answered all the questions correct. and he’d squeeze your thigh in reassurance, head resting over your shoulder as he listened to your voice, humming to let you know he was still listening

𓇻 you’d startle him at 4am, a little pouty that you’d had to fall asleep alone. dragging a chair from the kitchen to sit on as you watch him play a game you’d never seen before.

𓇻 “go back to bed, baby” he’d coo, “you’ll fall asleep sitting up and get a bad back”

𓇻 and maybe after that he’s a lot more open to showing you on camera. filming you on beaches, eating cakes and ice creams from a million different restaurants or dancing around hotel rooms or sitting on the balcony with the sun warming your skin when he takes you on holiday. short films dedicated to you with your favorite songs playing in the background

𓇻 maybe he even makes a playlist on his youtube channel, titled “my love” for every video that he includes you in

𓇻 idk just very much in love boyfriend kook who wants the world to love you almost as much as he does (because in all honesty, no one would ever love you more than he does)

[rewrittenreality]

Sweet Cherry Pie

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 621

Warnings: A little cursing but not much at all

Summary: You are taking care of your sick boyfriend

A/n: Hi! Hello! It has definitely been a while! Life has been so incredibly busy. I wrote this while I was sick because it kept me happy and busy. I have a little something planned for Valentine's day this year! Love you all!

Dean never got sick, his immune system was steel. You, however, got sick more than him. He was used to being there to baby you when you got sick and he enjoyed it. Now, here Dean was, sick and confined to the bunker while you and Sam went about your daily routines. You stayed home with Dean in case he needed anything while Sam was out getting food for the 3 of you. 

 Things had been fairly slow hunt wise so you knew you could be there for Dean. He was laying on the couch letting out frequent coughs as he watched the Tv. When he went into a coughing fit, you stood up from where you were in the other room and made your way to your sick boyfriend.

“You need to sit up, Dean. Laying down makes your coughing worse.” You tell him, helping him sit up as he coughed.

“I hate being sick, it sucks! I feel like I’m gonna die! AGAIN!” Dean whined as you rubbed his back to soothe his coughing fit.

One thing about Dean on the off chance that he did get sick, he was a whiner. He acted like the world was going to end and you found that funny. You, on the other hand, somewhat enjoyed it because it meant that you could baby him for a change. 

“You’re not gonna die. You have a cold.” You stated, trying to hold in a giggle. 

Dean glared at you, huffing in annoyance at the truth of your words. You ignored his glare as you got up to get him a blanket and some medicine. You covered him in the blanket when you came back and tried to give him the medicine.

“I’m not taking that.” Dean huffed, turning his head away from you. 

“Why not?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Because it tastes gross.” Dean said, still keeping his head turned away from you.

You grabbed his chin and pulled his head to turn back towards you. Dean glared at you again, acting like such a drama queen. His cheeks were flushed and his nose was red because of his cold. It was cute to you in a way. 

“I want the cherry stuff. It tastes better.” Dean whined, trying to push your hand away.

“You want me to go all the way to the store to get different flavored cough syrup?” You asked, your eyebrow still raised in a questioning manner.

“It tastes like that sweet cherry pie you make for me! It’s better than that grape shit!” Dean argued, giving you his puppy dog eyes.

“Are you saying my pie tastes like cold medicine?” You questioned, putting your hands on your hips while giving him a look.

“No!” He tried to sit up, but started coughing. You sighed and lightly pushed him back, so he is laying down again. “I promise your pie doesn’t taste like cough syrup.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”You sighed, not even trying to hide the smile on your lips. 

You laughed softly as he gave you those eyes you simply couldn’t say no to. He really did act like a big baby when he was sick. You sighed with a small smile, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead as you thought about it. You just couldn’t say no to him, not when you had the chance to take care of him for a change. Dean smiled all big at your words, proud of himself for immediately convincing you. He wouldn’t admit it, but he secretly loved when you took care of him like this. He knew that he could ask for just about anything and you’d say yes to it. 

[rosakuma]

Since I'm starved from a lack of any Charwhitruko content, I’m leave some HCs about my fav OT3. If anyone has some, please share(alternatively I will take Charwhit or Charuko ones too if you don't have anything, I just miss these goobers and when they were all happy in ch.1 before things went downhill).

Before they all got together, Whit tried playing matchmaker for Charles and Teruko because he knew Charles like Teruko and she seemed to feel the same(they both won’t admit it). Whit succeed in getting them together, but at the cost that Whit had feelings for both of them. Fortunately for Whit, those two tsundere dorks still like him back too! Charles and Teruko never had any previous relationships before and this is their first one, but they’re aware of the concept of polyamory. It was both a very sweet, but very awkward confession to Whit(bro couldn't believe it that he pulled himself a boyfriend AND girlfriend).

Usually when they all cuddle, Charles is big spoon and Teruko and Whit switch at times who be in the middle and who is little spoon. Though rare times they put Charles in the middle.

Whit and Teruko tag team to tease the heck out of Charles at his expense(he secretly loves it).

If in a non-killing game AU or if they all survive at the end, they end up together in apartment. To which Whit solely provides dinner for them until Charles improves his cooking skills enough to be able to cook for them(Teruko is banned from the kitchen, they love her, but they do not want to have to pay for damages alongside rent). Everything is safety proofed.

They have little cactuses near the window of their apartment that Whit decorated to look like them :3

Teruko still worries she’ll hurt Charles or Whit thanks to her luck or worse, they’ll die because of her. Along with thinking they’re both better off not being with someone so troublesome and bad as a person. Whenever this happens, the boys reassure her the best way they can. With Whit, its a lots of kisses, silly jokes, and telling her how that she’ll never hurt them nor them leave her. With Charles, he lectures her how much she is of a good person to them and that how lucky they are to have her in their lives.

For Valentines day, Teruko and Charles team up to create at least some edible chocolate for Whit to eat. They kinda succeeded as Whit was at least able to stomach it for them.

Date nights for them is a mixture of fun night out on the town, a peaceful time at the park or a cafe, or relaxing night in chilling and cuddling.

They tried creating a little shrine of their love ones to keep around and remember. A photo of Whit’s mom resides there. Since Teruko and Charles can’t remember how their brothers look like, they put items that represents them based off vague memory. Bonus: If taking place in a AU where they all survived the killing game, they have a shrine for everyone who died during there to honor their memory.

If Charles gets a burn from his chemist set or cut from the kitchen, Teruko patch him up and Whit gives his boo boo a lil kiss. He gets upset because he can patch himself up, but he appreciate the gesture.

Charles leaves sticky notes for Teruko and Charles listing chores, but also chemistry/science related flirting lines for fun sometimes. He picked this up from Whit(is both surprised and proud). Be something cute like this: