#hot girl summer? more like hot cannibal summer

[vixnovacoda]

The weather is hot, the wind is hot, the sun is hot, but you know what else is also hot? Rewatching all three seasons of NBC's Hannibal again

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind. 

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn. 

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way. 

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders. 

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it. 

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you. 

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit. 

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you. 

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand. 

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden. 

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride. 

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that. 

“Shall we go welcome her?” 

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes. 

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort. 

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming. 

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan. 

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern. 

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.” 

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform. 

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband. 

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him. 

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you. 

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face. 

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space. 

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have. 

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to. 

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?” 

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully. 

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.” 

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.” 

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it. 

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh. 

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water. 

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his. 

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.” 

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife. 

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right. 

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman. 

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband. 

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink. 

“Sweet,” he hums. 

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not. 

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride. 

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false. 

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his. 

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain. 

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus. 

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip. 

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more. 

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband. 

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length. 

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick. 

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips. 

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something. 

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue. 

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna. 

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses. 

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you. 

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision. 

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you. 

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips. 

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more. 

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain. 

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure. 

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate. 

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility. 

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once. 

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw. 

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband. 

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close. 

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind. 

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them. 

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel. 

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises. 

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina. 

[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?

[theragethatisdesire]

quick bright things - eren jaeger x afab!reader, 18+!!

okay hi. after my many-months writing hiatus, i am offering up this humble creation. welcome to the world of quick bright things, caught somewhere between a fairytale and a shakespeare play and a priceless piece of jewelry. this was inspired by....a lot of things, from midsummer night's dream to saltburn to the secret history to romeo & juliet like, you name it and i've probably crammed it in here. eren is a lot different than i normally write him (or read him, for that matter), i hope you all find him as lovely as i do! this will be 2 parts (for now...), i'm not sure what else to say except i'm happy to be back and i hope you all love part 1 ₊˚⊹♡

pairing: eren jaeger x reader

wc: 10.4k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

cws: alcohol, swearing, smut, fingering, reader has female anatomy, wet dreams, allusions to cannibalism (idk that's a stretch it's more of a metaphor), exhibitionism, cum-eating, creepy stepsiblings, rich assholes, throat-closing amounts of sexual tension, i honestly don't even know what to put here

without further ado...

-

"Last year I abstained / this year I devour / without guilt / which is also an art."

“Now don’t forget: university is for discovery, for adventure.” Your mother tucks the front of your shirt into your skirt, tugs at your collar until it’s sitting prettily against the cliff of your collarbones. It’s not a good fabric, this shirt; it’s cheap and scratches uncomfortably at the summer sunburn still lingering on your chest. “It’s for finding your passions, your life path, yourself…”

“Darling, you’ve been philosophizing since breakfast. You’re going to give the poor girl a conniption.” Your father chuckles lightly, swinging the hammer at the wall of your dormitory and finishing the hanging of one of your many posters over your creaky, lofted bed. The posters are bright and colorful, almost garish in the pristine, ancient light pouring in from the windows. With a slow blink, you realize you’re going to take them down later, that they feel incongruous with the dust particles and the oak furniture.

“It’s alright, really.” You manage a smile of compromise, lips clamped tight to hold the flutter of nerves in your throat at bay. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

There’s an expectedly teary goodbye, a small monologue from your father about how much you’ve grown, and a few reminders from your mother to separate the darks and the lights when you do laundry, to focus on your studies. Just before she slips out behind her husband, she grabs you by the shoulders and presses her lips to the side of your head, kisses a blood-red print into the shell of your ear.

“Don’t forget. Find something.”

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Whether it started with that conversation or with the buildup that accompanied the thirty-six months of monotonous paper-writing and numb boredom of your first three years at Oxford, you can’t be sure. In truth, maybe your first three years weren’t all that boring, and they only seem so by comparison of everything that came after, but you can’t be entirely sure of that either.

What you can be sure of is that something down the line—between meeting Sasha in that class on Milton and squeezing her hand as the plane landed and the dozens of bottles of champagne you’ve consumed over the last weeks—something led you to this moment, standing in this kitchen somewhere outside Verona with your bare feet against the hot clay tiles, staring at the sharp angle of an unfamiliar, tanned collarbone. 

He’s coated in linen: a half-unbuttoned, burnt-orange drape of a shirt is rolled carefully up around strong forearms, and one large, boyish foot peeks out from his baggy jeans, propped up on its throne upon the opposite knee. A golden cross winks at you from his chest, nestled in the sparsest dusting of chest hair and dripping with the same peach juice that’s sliding down his Adam’s apple, from his strong chin, from the crooked smirk that’s pointed at you like a knife.

You recognize him before he speaks– this must be Eren. Sasha’s mentioned him enough times: the shock of rich, dark hair, the lakewater eyes, the way he leans back in his chair like a king and cocks his head like a trickster. This is Eren, and you tell him so.

“Guilty.” The sun compliments everything about him but his smile, a little too sharp with too much danger behind it. It’s a smile made for moonlight. “And you are?”

A memory surfaces in your mind, a cautionary childhood tale. “You can never let a fairy know your name,” Emma tells you, graver than death, crouched in the bushes beside you, “or they steal you away, and you can never be human again.”

“Well?” Eren says expectantly, head leaning even further to the left. He’s studying you, the baggy linen pants pooling around your toes and ruby-studded ears poking out of a fray of frazzled bedhead. You feel naked, feel a wild urge come over you and wonder how his eyes would glow at you if you were. You shiver, goosebumps raising in the stuffy summer air. When his lips twitch, you realize Eren’s noticed; you feel feverish.

You mumble your name at him, as if it’s something given unwillingly. Waking the espresso machine seems like the right thing to do with your hands, and you’re grateful for the noisy mechanical sounds it provides to shatter the still morning. You bring an absentminded hand to rub over the tip of your ear, feel if it’s grown to a point yet.

“We haven’t met, have we? I feel like if we had, I’d remember.”

God, you wish he’d stop talking.

“Well, do you go to Oxford?”

“Sometimes.” You roll your eyes, and he laughs, little bells and glass shattering. “I’ve been abroad for the last semester. I flew in from Egypt a couple of weeks ago.”

“Hm,” you hum to yourself, choosing a small red cup for your morning coffee. You aren’t sure what to say; the most exotic place you’ve ever visited was a seaside town three hours from your house.

You can hear his newspaper crinkling; the sound of him putting it down betrays his arrival behind you, but you still don’t expect the puff of warm breath over your shoulder. He comes into your space like he belongs there, like there’s never been a door that wasn’t held open for him to stride through. “Are you still asleep?”

Before you can answer, you hear a shriek from down the hallway, and you breathe a little sigh of relief, thanking whatever ancient gods that belong to the hills you’re in for the interruption. Venus springs to mind, and you swat her and her entourage of Graces away from you with a huff.

“You absolute asshole!” Historia comes barreling into the kitchen, dramatic, fluffy dressing robe spilling out into the unrelenting summer heat behind her. You realize that in the three weeks you’ve spent with her, you haven’t once seen her in the actual kitchen, watching the way the breakfast chef’s eyes widen at the sight of her as he hurries by with an armful of eggs.

“Stori!” Eren elegantly catches her best attempt at a tackle with the good grace you assume he does everything with, breaking out into a warm peal of laughter. “Since when do you not love a surprise?”

“Since always.” Historia’s face is scrunched up where she’s buried it into the crook of his neck, forehead red with the effort of squeezing Eren as hard as she can. “You could have at least called, I mean– ugh, I didn’t even get the chance to get your favorite–”

“Relax.” Eren urges her, rubbing soothing circles into the small of her back. He carries them both over to his seat, plopping down and curling her up in his lap like a child. Eren holds his cup of coffee to her lips temptingly, and Historia shoves it away with another scowl. You hide your giggle at her antics behind your espresso, not wanting to remind them of your presence, but enjoying the show all the same. “Brat.”

“Ow,” Historia hisses when he pinches her thigh, expression lightening when she catches sight of something on the wall. “I always forget how pretty the kitchen is here.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Still getting dressed.” Historia’s blue eyes turn to the frescoed ceiling with an irritated huff. “You know he can’t stand to be seen in his pajamas.”

“That’s because he doesn’t wear any,” Eren remarks with an eye roll of his own. “You could have called to let me know we’d adopted such a pretty houseguest for the summer.”

Your face burns with acknowledgement, and you can feel your toes curling into the clay bricks of the floor hard enough to scrape the tip of your pinky. Eren seems satisfied at your bewilderment, letting his eyes drag over your hardly-covered chest lazy as a wandering mouth.

“Why would anyone wear pajamas under those heavy duvets? It’s almost thirty-two degrees out.” Armin breezes in in a feigned display of nonchalance, but you can see the way his eyes skim over Eren like a ship narrowly avoiding an iceberg. The Titanic was inevitable, and so is the gravity of Eren sitting golden on the other side of the room.

“You look good, Min.” Eren squints his eyes at Armin’s shirt, nearly identical to his own. “Where’d you get that?”

“You left it last summer,” Historia hums, tucking her head under Eren’s chin and nuzzling into his chest more completely. Armin makes a soft snort of irritation, grabbing for a fig in the bowl of fruit on the counter and beginning to rummage through the cabinet drawers.

“Do you want half a fig?” Armin’s cool gaze slides to you, and you shake your head, feeling a little underwater as two lifelong relationships unfurl in front of you, your mind still fuzzy from last night’s wine. “Historia?”

Historia says no as Eren says yes, and Armin makes his sound of annoyance again before continuing his rummaging, muttering about the inconvenience of finding a knife.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Sasha, still disheveled with sleep and grinning bright as Christmas morning, pops her head around the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the construction of your pyramid?”

“I’m not dead, Sasha,” Eren laughs—it really is distracting when he does that—pulling Sasha onto his other knee, ignoring Historia’s grumbles of discontent. The NYU Men’s Lacrosse t-shirt that Sasha cropped too short rides up, exposing the swell of her breast, but no one acknowledges it. Eren’s hand tucks in snugly around the curve of her hip, easy and natural, and you wonder if his fingers have ever itched to travel up under the hem of her tiny sleep shorts.

“Not dead yet.” Historia glares up at him venomously, reluctantly making room for Sasha to pile onto Eren and smother his face with kisses. Sasha pulls away from him suddenly and frowns.

“Peaches?”

“Where are the knives in this fucking kitchen?” Armin’s growl of frustration is loud enough to make you jump, and Sasha giggles at you.

“Jesus, Armin, you’re going to kill her, and it’s not even noon.” Sasha slips off of Eren’s knee, practically bouncing over to where Armin’s viciously jiggling a locked drawer. She slides open the drawer next to him and draws a long, wide knife from it, passing it to him with the blade extended and her eyes on you. “Did you meet Eren?”

“Careful of his hand!” Historia squeals, shooting an arm out towards Armin as if she can deflect the tip of the blade from across the room.

“It’s fine, Stor.” Armin’s voice floats across his nearly-bare shoulder, mild and careless as it grazes the collar of the too-big button down sliding off of his slim frame.

“That knife’s a little big for a fig, Sasha.” Eren stands, placing Historia on the table and pinching her cheek when she scowls at him.

“There’s no such thing as a too-big knife– listen to me. Did you meet Eren?” Sasha’s fingers are gripping into the flesh of your arm– hard. Your eyes widen in surprise at the urgency in her eyes, like if you haven’t been introduced to Eren, there’s grave danger afoot.

“We met.” It happens quickly and easily, the slide of his heavy arm around your shoulders. You can feel your body tense under the lazy weight of him, big hand wrapped around you like it belongs there. “I don’t think she’s particularly fond of me.”

Eren shoots you a wink that you’re sure is intended to mean something, a reference to an inside joke that you have yet to establish, maybe.

“I didn’t say that,” you say in your own defense, wanting to yank Sasha to the side and demand to know why she hadn’t warned you that Cupid himself was going to greet you in the kitchen this morning. Armin slices the fig neatly in half, a strangely practiced motion performed by small, soft hands. He offers it to you again insistently, and frowns when you shake your head.

“I said I wanted it, ‘Min,” Eren says with a hint of red to his words, snatching the halved fig from Armin’s hand and biting into it voraciously, little pieces of the flesh spattered around the corner of his mouth.

“You’re such a brute,” Armin scoffs, picking the meat of his half out gingerly with an oyster fork that you don’t remember him grabbing from the drawer.

“Why don’t you like Eren?” Sasha pouts at you, grabbing the hand that’s squashed between yours and Eren’s hips. Your palm feels hot against her fingers.

“I said I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say much of anything, to be fair.” Eren’s got the fig pressed to his mouth, digging his teeth and tongue around in the husk of it obscenely enough to make your cheeks warm. Being so close to him is filthy, that cross around his neck is looking you straight in the eye to make sure you feel it. 

“Eren’s always a pest,” Historia provides from her perch on the kitchen table, picking at her perfectly manicured toenails, “why would she like him?”

“You like him plenty,” Armin says, not looking at her. It’s not the first time that’s been brought up, if Historia’s answering sneer is anything to go by.

“You’ll love him if you give him a chance.” Sasha smiles hopefully at you, nodding.

“Yeah,” Eren grins down at you, teeth colored with fig, “give me a chance.”

“Eren, you’re going to scare her off,” Armin says with a roll of his eyes, peering around Eren’s broad shoulders to look you up and down. The way his eyes drag over you makes you feel like there might be a stab wound somewhere on your person that you don’t know about yet, the adrenaline of the moment keeping you numb.

“Back off her, Eren,” Historia echoes, “she’s fun, I don’t want you to make her leave.”

“She’s not going to leave.” Eren looks directly at you as he says it, something in his smile growing imperceptibly darker. A dare. How much will you let me get away with?

You stare and stare at him, ignoring the continued bickering of Armin and Historia in the background. He’s golden and blood-red, oil smeared on his forehead and a crown of thorns nestled in his dark thatch of hair if you look close enough. If you’re not imagining it, his hand might be tightening around your shoulder, maybe he’ll leave a purple bruise on it.

“Of course not,” Sasha interrupts your thoughts, thumbing at your cheek affectionately, “she belongs here. With us.”

“She’s our little fairy,” Historia giggles dreamily, referencing the long-winded fairy tales you drunkenly make up every night, casting each other as heroines and knights and dragons.

“Right,” Eren agrees, not breaking your gaze, “our little fairy.”

The only thing that comes to mind is your childhood friend, Emma, looking on at you sadly with her muddy toes, watching the wings sprout from your back.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Days lug themselves by, barefooted and dragging their heels, and most of the time, even the monotonous rise and fall of the sun doesn’t help to differentiate one calendar block from the next. Like a bat, or maybe a slinky, silvery fish in an underwater cave, you rely on your other senses to track the passage of time.

For example, today, you know it’s a Wednesday because Maria, one of the three house chefs, brings fresh peaches up from the co-op down the hill every Wednesday. Sasha’s spent the last thirty minutes hand feeding you peach flesh as you lounge by the pool, insisting that you suck her fingers clean of juice and feeding you little sips of champagne each time you sober up enough to tell her that that’s lewd. Historia swats at you and giggles at the smacking and slurping sounds you make around Sasha’s fingers, oiled-up palm landing on oiled-up hip with a wet slap; Armin admonishes her quietly from his seat beside her, insisting the girlish noises emanating from the three of you are tearing him from his book. You can feel Eren watching, too– that’s all, though. Always just watching.

You wonder how opaque the lenses of Armin’s sunglasses are, perched haphazardly on your nose, wonder if they’re doing a good job of masking the slow lick of your gaze over Eren’s skin, wonder if you care. Maybe the champagne is finally getting to your head.

“We should go in soon,” Historia sighs, a hand tossed across her forehead. She’s a little movie star, built for the golden age. “It’s so hot.”

“It’s always this hot,” Sasha argues, and you can practically hear the furrow in her brow, not willing to take your eyes off of the trickle of sweat running down Eren’s chest to see it for yourself. You’re really getting the hang of it, this opposite-sense thing. Everything’s upside down here in the heat.

“She’s getting hungry,” Armin supplies, wiping the sweat off his palms to reach up and turn the page of his novel. Brideshead Revisited. A little on the nose, isn’t it?

“I am not!” Historia hates when people point out her appetite, but not really. She kicks up a fuss because it’s “ladylike”, and she’s advised you to do the same.

“You are,” you sigh, really feeling the heat sink into you even with the heavy, lazy movement of lolling your head to face her, “you always get hungry around this time.”

“What time is it, then?”

You don’t reply– you don’t know the answer.

“I think we’re all hungry,” Eren, ever the peacemaker when he can find the time to be so, sits up, letting the shirt that’s been shading his face fall into his lap. Your eyes track its descent– even that seems slow. He says something to you, managing a crooked grin while he squints in the heat of the sun, but you don’t hear it.

“Huh?”

“Everyone except you, anyway,” he repeats himself, reaching over Sasha and smearing his thumb through the peach juice collected on your chin. Eren’s thumb disappears between his pink lips, and when he sucks on it with a satisfied hum, your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.

“I guess it’s getting close to dinner,” Sasha says regretfully, picking her wristwatch, a priceless Braus family heirloom, up from a puddle of orange juice and tanning oil. “We should probably clean off.”

“I might even shower twice,” Armin rubs a hand over his belly with a grimace, “this tanning oil makes my skin greasy.”

“I feel disgusting,” Historia agrees, sliding red toes into her sandals and standing with a dramatic stretch.

“Filthy,” Eren murmurs in agreement. He’s still staring at you.

“I’ll be in soon. I’m so close to the color I wanted for today– I just need, like, ten more minutes.” You peel down the strip of bathing suit stretched over your hip, showing off the distinct mark of yesterday’s color and today’s tan.

“You’re crazy,” Sasha scoffs, throwing some designer sarong her mother lent her over her shoulder, “I’m melting.”

Armin and Historia pause their bickering over who gets to wear Armin’s Cucinelli belt to dinner—Armin wants it for his trousers, Historia for her maxi dress—just long enough to offer a momentary goodbye, breezing along into the house with Sasha. You settle back into your chair and take a deep breath, letting the sun sink into you just long enough to forget that you’re not alone.

“Open up.”

You’ve been enjoying this game of trading one sense for another, and you keep your eyes shut firmly, letting your jaw fall open and your tongue hang out. A piece of peach, fleshy and dripping with juice, finds its way onto your tongue, pinched too roughly between strong fingers. When you close your lips around the fruit, the fingers stay with it, frozen in their pinched position and forcing you to suck the peach from them, to swallow around them, to run your tongue along them and get as much of the meat as you can. When the fingers withdraw from your lips, you open your eyes and gasp quietly.

Eren’s leaning over you, a solar eclipse that smells like tan skin and sounds like Campari, and in the silhouette of the sunlight, you think he’s smiling.

“You’re still hungry,” he says, a question that’s left its punctuation mark behind. You think of Historia, of the improper shame of revealing your appetite. You dodge.

“I’m never hungry.”

“Never?” Eren crawls over you to kneel between your legs, propping one of your ankles up on his shoulder. The game you started is ripped out of your hands, chess pieces flying into the pool, scattering across the table, knocking over bottles and matchbooks. It’s so silent out here in the sun it hurts, and you almost miss the constant buzzing horseflies of early summer.

“Never.”

“If you’ve never been hungry,” Eren muses, tilting his head so that his cheekbone fits into the sensitive arch of your foot, reaching a hand down to splay it wide on your belly, “you’ve never been full.”

“How do you figure?” Your words come out throaty, waterlogged.

“Can’t have one without the other.” Eren shrugs, turning his head to the side. His lips brush against your heel, your Achilles’, the swirly seashell dangling from your anklet. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, toes twitching behind his ear. “I don’t believe you, anyway.”

“No?” You try to tilt your head coyly, like your heart’s not clawing and scratching against your throat to get to him. Hungry, indeed.

“You wouldn’t stare like that if you didn’t want to.”

You’re taken aback, but not enough to fall out of the moment– Eren’s lips closing around the knob of your ankle slowly, like the pit of a fruit, make sure of that.

“Didn’t want to what?”

Eren’s hands meet the cushion on either side of your head hard enough to rattle the chair, his long, tanned body stretching over yours. He’s close enough to brush his nose against yours, but you can still see the hazy green of his eyes flicking here and there on your face: from your eyes to your lips to the beauty mark on your cheek. Your poolside lounge feels more like a butcher’s block under your taut spine.

Sasha’s told you about the wolves in these hills, that they howl murder at night, but they’re sleepy and indulgent in the heat of the sun. One of Eren’s canines catches the light and glints at you as he grins.

“Eat yourself sick.” He practically spits it into your mouth, one thigh pressed into where you’re sticky and sinful, and he chuckles under his breath when you shudder under him, feverish in the late-afternoon heat.

Before you can even think of biting back, Eren’s off of you, picking your sandals off of the ground and sliding them gently onto your feet, stopping to run his palm from your ankle to your kneecap with an appraising hum. 

“We should head inside,” he says evenly, offering a hand to pull you to your feet, “I’d hate for us to miss dinner.”

You don’t have anything to say back to him, letting him lace his fingers through yours like lines in a play, interspersing seamlessly with the summer scenery. Eren leads you through the kitchen, waits patiently for you to take your sandals off, and waves you on your way up the stairs, saying he needs a cigarette. As the distance between you grows, your mind grows clearer, and you turn on your heel, calling down to him from the top of the stairs.

“Eren? Eren? Where are you, Eren?”

“Call me something else,” Eren pokes his head around the corner, smoke pouring from the grin on his face, “whatever you want, really. Make your own name for me.”

“You stare at me, too,” you say, tearing through his impishness. Eren cocks his head, unperturbed, smile growing wide as he nods.

“I do.”

“So you’re…” You can’t bring yourself to say it, not where it might echo in the cavernous hallway, where it might take the form of a confession. You scamper down the stairs, nearly sliding on bare feet, almost crashing into Eren when he appears at the foot of the staircase, catching you with two broad palms on either side of your ribcage. You pluck the cigarette from his mouth, stick it between your own teeth, narrow your eyes accusingly, and whisper: “You’re hungry too.”

“For every man hath business and desire, Such it is.” Eren takes the cigarette back, pulling on it and making a clear show of trying to hide a smirk.

“Hamlet?”

“A woman with teeth and a brain,” Eren tilts his head at you, “aren’t you something?”

“Do you always quote Shakespeare when you want to fuck somebody?”

“Only when I want to fuck you.” Eren stubs the cigarette out on the ancient oak of the staircase railing, grins up at you brilliantly, smiles brighter when he notices how obviously flustered you are.

“I need to go take a shower,” you say hurriedly, choking on the remnants of your shame and your confidence as they burn out in your throat, making an attempt to back up the stairs away from him. Eren laughs at your attempted escape, catching you by the wrist and pulling you close to him, close enough to dizzy you on the tendrils of smoke still sticking to him. Your breath stills, your heart slows as Eren wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you together, skin on tacky skin.

“Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Eren coos to you, mouth moving against your cheekbone. “C’mon, just one bite.”

“He that is proud eats up himself,” you hiss a quote back at him in response, ripping yourself from his grip and scrambling up the stairs, heart pounding and cheeks burning. You can hear a lovesick sigh follow you up to your room, and hope that the slam of the door behind you is enough to keep it from touching you.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The murky waters of your vision ripple out into clarity, and you’ve found yourself in a forest. You’ve been here before, you recognize the tall, thick trunks and the bed of fallen leaves under your feet. You’ve been coming here since you were a little girl, been wiggling your toes in the greenery since before you could remember. You never come alone.

It appears just as you remembered: a blinding glimmer of light, a flame for a head, and ribbonlike wisps of energy that beckon you like arms, like love. One step towards it, and it disappears, vanishing into nothing with an echo that might be laughter. You think it’s happy to see you.

When it reappears a few feet away, you take your first steps, sighing at the feeling of the wild enveloping you, of the prickling of your skin, kissed by the chill winding through the trees. You wish you could explore this place, so familiar and so strange all at once, but you know you have to keep moving, keep following the lights as they lead you deeper and deeper into the forest. They won’t hurt you; you aren’t sure why that’s true, aren’t sure why you keep moving. You just know better than to stop.

They lead you over a familiar path, winding past a creek, over a bed of flat stones with an ice-cold creek running over them. You never tire here, legs pumping and arms working to push yourself faster. You’ve never caught the lights, and you aren’t sure if you ever will, but again, you know better than to doubt. It feels like hours, feels like minutes, feels like purpose, chasing these lights through the forest, but suddenly, something’s new.

There’s a little chirping sound, almost conversational and too high-pitched for you to understand; you’re not even sure if you recognize the language. It ricochets around the bones in your body, touches something ancient in their marrow. You almost jerk your head to the right to find the source, but you resist, pushing ahead on your path as the lights lead you deeper. You get the feeling that you’ve gone off-script somewhere, that this is a part of the forest you haven’t seen before, but the warmth in your bones shoos your doubts away. You’ve never been this far, but it feels like home.

A growl curls around the shell of your ear, plants fear right in the center of your chest. Your eyes widen at the light before you before it disappears; you frown at the next one, not daring to speak but demanding an answer anyhow. The lights will save you, won’t they?

Shrieks from overhead, guttural, animalistic calls, howls and chatters of excitement; you never presumed to be alone in this forest, but you never presumed to be in danger, either. The lights urge you on, vanishing and regenerating at an alarming rate, your feet drumming against the forest floor faster and faster. A sliver of moonlight begins to glow from the trees a ways off, an indication that there’s a clearing ahead, and you shove the bile in your throat down, swing your arms faster, ignore the frantic fluttering of your pulse in time with the bestial chorus ringing clearer and louder from the trees with each passing second.

You do, against all odds, manage to launch yourself into the clearing, and the moment you feel the soft cushion of moss under your feet, as opposed to the branch-littered, crunchy path of the forest, you nearly stumble to your knees as your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the clearing. The grumblings of the woodland entities have quieted, an almost awestruck silence settling in the open space around you.

“There you are.”

Your head snaps up comically fast– “You?”

“Me,” Eren says, that razor-sharp, moonlight smile lighting up his face. He looks…right here, as if the forest is extending a sense of belonging, as if he’s been here longer than the ancient trees themselves. Even the little crown nestled atop his head is fitting: a tangle of brambles and thorns and leaves tucked into his dark locks. Is that a throne under him, that mass of branches and leaves and some silvery metal you can’t place?

His eyes glow in the starlight, illuminated with a certain hunger that you can feel reverberating through your bones. It should be frightening, but it’s enticing. You feel welcome.

“What are you doing here?” Your tongue is slower on the uptake than your mind, and you can feel the suspicious expression folding your facial features, hiding the thrum of anticipation the sight of him brings.

Eren cocks his head pityingly, smiling at you in a way that would seem predatory if it wasn’t so entirely disarming, so entirely inviting. Your feet are bringing you closer before he even speaks— you know why you’re here before he says it.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren beckons you onto his lap, firmly grabbing your shoulder and silently demanding you straddle him when you try to turn away from him, “you’re beautiful, so…alive here.”

He takes a bit of your hair between your fingers and rubs it, satisfaction flickering over his face. It’s then that you realize how little fabric covers you; really, it’s only a thin, wispy excuse of a dress, hanging in tatters around your body and leaving your skin free for the taking. Taking notice of your dress leads you to take notice of another pressing matter: Eren’s naked beneath you.

“Where are we?”

“Does it matter?” Eren reaches up to toy with your hair again, smiling gently. He tilts his head up, asking you for something you can’t identify, but that you already know you’re willing to give. Your soul, maybe.

Your lips meet his in a tentative brush, a motion that feels shy, but practiced. It’s a reflex, an instinct, to kiss him this way. Eren groans gutturally against your mouth, pressing into you deeper, digging his fingertips into your bare skin. The chorus of inhuman chatter erupts around you both again, and you jump, almost pushing away from him before he stops you with a firm hand against the small of your back.

“Sh,” he whispers, nipping at your chin, “don’t pay them any mind. You’re with me, remember?”

It’s difficult at first with the ever-growing hum of life around you, but it grows increasingly easier to melt into him, to lose yourself in the rhythm of him. He’s thick and hard underneath you, pressed right where you’re already slick and ready for him, and he’s got a tight grip on your hips, working you against him to make sure you feel it and oh– do you feel it.

A debauched gasp pours from your mouth to his; Eren sinks sharp teeth into your bottom lip with a grunt of approval, pulls you up to situate you over his twitching cock. You can feel the lecherous eyes of the woodland creatures, spirits, monsters, whatever they may be around you, looking in on the sticky, tangible arousal building between your bodies. The steady glow of Eren’s eyes, the prick of the thorns in his hair under your fingertips, the insistent weight of him pressing against the wet heat of you: all of it keeps you grounded, keeps your hips rolling into Eren like your life depends on it, like it’s what you were born to do.

“Are you ready?” Eren murmurs, quiet as the grave, stilling your hips and lifting you.

“I’m not sure, I–”

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren interrupts, “so long for you– you’re ready for me, I know you are.”

And with that, he’s sliding you down onto his cock, splitting you open, dropping your jaw. The cacophony from the forest grows deafening, but the glowing eyes in the brush streak and blur as your eyes flutter closed, a stuttered moan falling from your lips.

“Oh–”

“Knew you were ready,” Eren sinks his teeth into your collarbone, lets you wiggle and roll your hips until he’s situated comfortably inside of you. “You were born for this. For me.”

You can’t even bring yourself to disagree, to refute, to question. It’s godly, the way he fills you, the twinge of pain in the pit of your belly that doesn’t waver, no matter which way you squirm. The longer you sit, perched upon him– you feel something akin to divinity, akin to prophecy ringing through your bones. You were born for this.

“Eren…” It’s more of a sigh than anything, a confession and an admittance of guilt, a repentance. He likes the way it tastes, you can tell by the way his hands grip you harder, roll you along his cock faster with an urgency that betrays his calm, adoring gaze. He’s sinking his claws into you, bit by bit, and you’re better for it. You belong here, with the night on your skin and Eren nestled inside of you.

“Don’t ever leave,” Eren smiles gently, as if it’s a choice, “stay with me forever.”

The pleasure’s beginning to peak in your stomach, the howls swirling in the air around you start to feel more like a blanket, the moonlight like a crown. His hands are so hot they almost burn, his tongue licking up your neck feels like a baptism. Your back is arching, your blood is rushing, the stars are speaking to you– what are they saying?

Your fingernails have left angry indents in your throat where you’ve clutched into the skin in a desperate attempt to regain your breath, shooting up out of your slumber with a vicious jolt. Your head spins with the sudden movement, the antique furnishings of the room bleeding into candlelit blurs as you heave for breath.

“Sleeping?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the gravel of Eren’s voice, having believed yourself to be alone. Some instinctual part of your mind almost remembers falling asleep on the loveseat in the glass-enclosed sunroom earlier, one too many martinis to thank for that, but you can worry about that later– Eren’s your priority now, shirtless and leaned against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised and a very telling flush rising to his cheeks. The chilly wetness between your legs brings your dream to the forefront of your mind. Had he heard, somehow?

“What are you doing down here?” You do your best to narrow your eyes into something convincing enough to pass for annoyance, unsure if you’ve managed to pull it off with the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Water,” Eren says simply, raising a glass you hadn’t noticed he was holding, “but it seems like you might need it more than I do.”

“I don’t–” He ignores you, crossing the room to hand you the ornate glass. Your throat is dry, and so you drink, eyeing him suspiciously as you sip.

“Dreaming?” The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.

“Nightmare.” You push yourself up to sit, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “How’d you know?”

A long pause, Eren’s eyes dragging over you slowly, your skin burning. “You were squirming.”

“It was disturbing,” you say truthfully, looking over your shoulder and half-expecting to see some horrible monster leering at you from the doorway, salivating over you and Eren, “but I’ve had this same dream since I was a kid. Part of it, anyway.”

“Need company?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaken by the dream and how low Eren’s pajama pants hang on his hips, “I just need to get to my real bed. I’m sure sleeping outside had something to do with it.”

“That’s not true.” Eren’s scooping you up into his arms before you can open your mouth to argue, as if you even would. This isn’t unusual for him; you’ve grown used to his tendency to touch you, to hold you close to his chest as though you belong there. It echoes in your head, you were born for this. A shudder wracks through your body. “Cold?”

“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your own voice. Eren nuzzles your head deeper into his shoulder, lets you get a noseful of the scent of him. Dewdrops, mankind, a rotting forest floor. It gives you a disconcerting sense of deja vu.

“Sleeping outside is good for you,” Eren goes on, scaling the stairs with impossible ease, “my mom used to tell me that.”

“Is that so?” It brings a sleepy little smile to your face, despite yourself: the image of a messy-haired, fussy baby Eren, curled up in his mother’s lap and looking up at the night sky.

“Sure.” You can hear the nostalgia in his voice. “The stars can talk to you that way, through your dreams. They show you where you’re supposed to go.”

Your blood runs cold at that– does he know? How could he? He’s a man, not a mind-reader, not a mystic. Right? You let him carry you to your door in silence, the only noise being the padding of his bare feet down the Turkish carpet runner in the hall. When he gets to your door, Eren finally starts to move to let you down, and your mouth moves without your permission, voice small and echoing in the still nighttime air.

“Eren?”

He freezes, muscles locking you in place against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Was I talking in my sleep?”

Eren settles you on your feet before answering, leaving one lingering hand on your hip and bringing the other up to brush at your cheek. Your eye must have been watering– his thumb catches a stray tear. His smile is a little too sharp when he answers.

“No, why?”

“Just wondering.” Relief courses through your body, but your muscles stay taut under his touch.

“Okay,” Eren looks you up and down one more time, as if he’s making sure you’re all there, “goodnight, then. I hope your dreams get better.”

When he turns to go, the broad silhouette of him growing darker as he retreats, you remember something fragile underneath the floorboards.

“Wait, Eren! You forgot your water.”

“My what?” When he turns to face you, he’s still grinning– baring his teeth, more like. You think you’re imagining the glow in his eyes, too fresh from that dream.

“Your water. I think I have a cup in my room if you need it.”

“Oh.” Eren waves a hand nonchalantly through the air, catching a stray stream of moonlight. You can see the dust particles dancing around his hand, enchanted by his movement. “Wasn’t thirsty."

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

It’s a slinky, dazzling dress; Elie Saab, Spring 2005, maybe? 2006? Sasha had lent it to you, insisted upon you taking it, really. It’s got to be worth at least your years’ rent payment, dripping with Swarovski and cut low and square across your chest, and easily the most decadent thing you’ve ever worn but– it’s family dinner night. No expense is spared.

Historia sits across from you, reaching one dainty hand out for Armin’s negroni, nearly dipping the massive drop-pearl charm on her bracelet into the first course: a cold, cucumber soup. Armin nudges her meaningfully, scowling and handing his glass to her, glancing apologetically at the stiff-backed butler across the room, who wasn’t looking anyway. Sasha’s at the head of the table, working on Historia’s serving of the cucumber soup, dunking focaccia bread into it in a voracious manner that you’re sure wasn’t outlined in the etiquette courses she’d endured as a child. And he’s next to you, naturally.

His dinner jacket looks out of place on him, oddly enough: angular and overly formal, as well-fitting as it is. You wish it was a little greener, a little more playful, something to match the Eren you’ve gotten to know under all the glitz and glamour. It’s too human for him, really, but that thought makes you shudder faster than you can shove it to the side.

“Wasn’t that the girl from Luxembourg?” Sasha asks through a giggle, finally leaning back to allow the butler to collect the remnants of her first course. Historia frowns at her, gulps back nearly half of Armin’s cocktail.

“No, the girl from Luxembourg was a slut. He wouldn’t have touched her.”

Armin and Eren exchange a look that implies that, whoever the slut from Luxembourg might have been, she didn’t escape their clutches unscathed. Historia notices the guilty smile dimpling Eren’s cheek and smacks Armin in retaliation.

“Ouch, Stori!” Armin scowls right back at her; if you didn’t know about Armin’s father’s remarriage to Historia’s mother, you’d think they were actually related.

“She was a slut,” Historia sniffs, finishing the rest of Armin’s cocktail in a second swig.

“It was Eren’s idea– you’re always punishing me for what he does.” When the staff place the second course, some sort of ceviche, in front of him, Armin crosses his arms over his chest and looks away like a huffy child. Sasha laughs and swats at his shoulder.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have your own hand in things. You can’t blame everything on Eren.”

“Maybe he can,” you shrug, the champagne going to your head. You’re feeling impish, feeling like one of them. Wildly, you reach a hand up to pinch at Eren’s cheek, smiling to yourself when you feel it turn warm under your fingers. “I mean, just look at him. He’s a devil.”

“Am not,” Eren scoffs, slapping a hand on your leg and shaking it playfully, “you weren’t there anyway. Min’s very convincing when he wants to be.”

“I am.” Armin smiles at you, head tilting intrepidly. “I can get Eren to share anything I want, I bet.”

It feels loaded, like a challenge, and Eren’s fingers tighten where he’s gripping your leg. When you chance a glance to the side at him, his jaw is tense, gaze focused on Armin like a threat, like a predator.

“Not anything,” Eren says, voice low and dangerous, more somber than you’ve ever heard him. Armin’s face falls for a millisecond, scrunching his nose at the murderous glint in Eren’s eyes, before he clenches his jaw and glances between the two of you with a haughty smirk.

“Est-ce vrai? En êtes-vous sûr? Tu l'as dit toi-même - je suis convaincant quand je veux quelque chose.”

“Ne commencez pas avec moi, pas pour ça.” It’s hardly louder than a murmur, but the threat carries all the same. You look to Sasha with widened eyes, hoping for a translation, but she’s chewing slowly on a bite of her ceviche, looking at Armin, Eren, then Armin again with a strange expression you’ve never seen before.

A heavy silence settles over the table, Eren’s fingertips leaving sore spots through your dress where they’re digging into your thigh, and Armin’s eyes dancing over Eren’s face, that same smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Daring.

“You two are so in love,” Historia gripes with a roll of her eyes, smashing the carefully-cubed ceviche on her plate into a mush. You eye the smear of meat on her fork disdainfully and set down the bite you had been about to pop in your mouth, opting for your glass of bubbles instead.

The jokingly grumpy lilt of Historia’s comment seems to cut the thread of tension that had grown taut between the two men, as Armin allows Sasha to pull him away from Eren and back into his corner of the table with her and Historia. Their conversation drones on, the ethics of Eren and Armin’s tendency to tag-team women fading into the background as you wait for Eren’s hand to slip from your thigh. It doesn’t.

His thumb rubs idly over the slit of your dress, brushing it back and forth over your bare skin for just long enough to get you used to the pressure of his palm beaming heat through the thin fabric, get your guard down. And then his fingers slip underneath, grabbing into the hot flesh of your thigh.

You jump ever so slightly, flighty as a fawn, and Eren chuckles under his breath beside you when you choke a bit on your champagne. He’s cool—stoic, even—as he bashfully bats away the scandalous insinuations of Sasha and Historia’s storytelling, the lewd raise of Armin’s eyebrows at the mention of a certain leggy redhead in Prague. His hand stays steady, possessive and permanent on your leg. When Armin and Historia start arguing over yet another of Armin’s alleged missteps with one of her college friends, Eren takes the opening to lean into you, murmuring into your ear.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” His breath puffs out hot and sensual against the shell of your ear, and you can feel your earring lifting with the movement of his lips. He’s so close.

“Not jumpy,” you answer under your breath, trying to keep your composure.

“Hm,” Eren hums, leaning back just enough to study your profile, “wasn’t sure if you’d dozed off, started dreaming again.”

Your head whips towards him in what is surely an uncouth accusation of insinuation, borne of shock, but luckily, Armin’s too busy being hand-fed ceviche by Sasha and scolded by Historia to notice. Other than his eyes, Eren’s stiller than death, watching over the antics with the littlest smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, flick down to you, glinting like a dare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means something?” It’s a challenge, and you realize too late that the rope around your ankle has cinched, and you’re caught in his trap.

“No,” you say, hoping for more conviction in your voice, but it comes out as a breathy whisper. The corner of Eren’s mouth twitches, and it pulls an irritated huff from you.

“Tell me about your dream. The one that woke you up the other night.”

“Tell you– w-what? Here?”

“Yes, here,” Eren repeats you, quiet and calm, keeping one eye on your bickering friends to ensure you’re kept all to himself, “unless it’s something you can’t share.”

The blanching of your face tells him everything he needs to know, and that sickening admission almost overshadows the fact that he knows. He undeniably knows, now; maybe not the specifics, but enough to know that you had woken up sticky and gasping after a sinful dream. Maybe he even knows it was about him. 

You’ve given up on trying to understand the otherworldly elements of Eren; the way he seems to appear at inopportune moments and know what you’re thinking at every turn, but this is too much. You quickly realize that while you’re not sober, you’re certainly not drunk enough to deal with him, and you finish your glass of champagne in a single gulp.

“You’re one to talk about sharing,” you hiss at him, trying to will away the goosebumps prickling your arms as his fingers inch higher, skating along soft skin. Eren’s demeanor falters, if only for a moment– he looks frustrated.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Eren leans into you, brows furrowing. “I don’t share just anything, and especially not just because ‘Min wants a taste.”

“Am I yours to share?” That heavy swig of champagne has gone straight to your head it seems, as you turn your face up to him defiantly, finally saying the quiet part out loud. The weight falls off your shoulders like a head, and you can almost feel the itch of the guillotine at your neck as the words leave your mouth. Eren, ever the gentle executioner, only lets the calm fascination return to his face, brings his fingers further up your thigh.

“Tell me about your dream, hm? They’re not listening, it’s just you and me.”

He’s only inches away from where you’re already beginning to grow hot and wet– he hasn’t even done anything, and you want to chastise yourself over the undeniable need beginning to bubble inside you. Eren’s smiling so sweetly, as if he’s lulling you into a sense of complacency, and your tongue hangs heavy in your mouth, eager to spill your secrets.

“I…I’m scared.”

Eren’s eyebrows raise and his smile grows a bit toothier, disbelief written plain on his face. “Of me?”

“Sometimes,” you say, small and honest as the grave, “it’s like you aren’t real.”

“I’m very real,” Eren insists, two fingers pressing against the damp silk of your panties, his eyes lighting up when you stifle a gasp, “doesn’t that feel real?”

“Wait–”

“The dream,” Eren says again, increasing the pressure of his fingers, “were you scared of me there, too?”

“Yes,” you whisper, ashamed and painfully cognizant of the feel of him between your legs, “I was in a forest, running after the little lights, they– I’ve seen them for a long time.”

“Since you were a child,” Eren repeats your confession from the other night. He’s reading you, you realize, not like a book, but like a poem. You couldn’t put the difference into words if you had to, but there’s a certain melody to the flickering of his gaze over your hot face.

“They’ve never led me anywhere before,” your words hitch in your throat, stopped dead when Eren’s fingers start rubbing circles over your swollen clit. The silk is thin and soaked, and his fingers slide over you in a way that feels god-given. Your jaw hangs ever-so-slightly, the butlers coming to change the course. You wait for Eren to slip his hand out from under your dress, fearful of the staff watching as he toys with you, but he only nods encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing thickly and glancing at the plate of bleeding, rare filet in front of you, “they took me to a clearing in the forest. There were creatures, ones I’ve never seen before.”

“Did they hurt you? Any of them?” A furrow appears between his eyebrows, deep and concerned. Some small part of your brain, muted since Eren’s hand slid beneath your dress, worries itself with why Eren seems so disquieted with your dream– it’s not like you actually could have been hurt, it was only a dream. Wasn’t it?

“No, they stayed away. They just made a lot of noise, but they all got quiet when…”

A knowing smirk. “When?”

“When I saw you.”

Eren pats your thighs gently, urging them apart; he looks relieved, exhilarated, unreal. If you didn’t know better, you’d think his eyes were glowing in the candlelight. Armin, Historia, and Sasha’s clamor across the table grows louder with each passing second, but as soon as you begin to wonder if you should be doing a better job of hiding what’s very clearly happening under the slit of your dress, Eren’s fingers have wiggled their way beneath the fabric of your silk thong. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, eyes widening.

“I was glad to see you,” Eren says quietly, “in the dream, I mean.”

“You said you’d been waiting for me,” you whisper, keeping your voice low to hide the whine scratching at the back of your throat, “that you’d been waiting a long time.”

“I bet I was,” Eren hums thoughtfully, grinning viciously when he sinks a finger into you, clearly relishing the way your fingernails tighten into his wrist. “I never lie.”

“Even in a dream?” You feel fuzzy and warm, blinking moony, worried eyes up at him. Eren shakes his head in confirmation, curling his finger and making your thighs clench. “You put me in your lap, and–and, you had a crown. It was nighttime, I think, and the moon was really bright. You were inside me.”

Eren slides another finger in to match the first, and you’re hardly able to stifle a moan when it comes fluttering through your teeth, a breeze of a sound compared to what you’re struggling to keep captive in your chest. Eren’s other hand reaches forward to grab a small piece of the carved steak, brings the meat up to your mouth and brushes it over your lips.

“Eat,” Eren instructs, smiling placidly as you mindlessly obey, biting into the red meat, “but keep telling me.”

He waits patiently for you to chew around the bite of steak he’s offered you, eyes searching you for something– what it is, you can’t be sure. Your mind is wobbling around the flashes of memory of your dream, distracted every few steps by an overwhelming rush of pleasure from between your legs, Eren’s fingers curling incessantly against your walls. You swallow, never taking your eyes off of him.

“You fucked me.” The confession is breathless when it leaves you, and even through the haze of what you pray isn’t a rapidly-approaching orgasm, you don’t miss the way Eren’s shoulders stiffen, the way his eyes flash. 

“Did I fuck you, or did you fuck me?” Eren murmurs back to you, mischief in his eyes and a tense gravel to his voice. “You said you were in my lap, after all.”

“I—oh, god—I don’t know,” you’re barely able to keep your voice low, a little whimper interrupting you, “Eren–”

“Keep going, it’s okay,” Eren’s fingers don’t slow– in fact, they begin to move more harshly, “you’re safe with me, you know that. I showed you in the forest, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You can’t stop your forehead from falling onto his shoulder, teeth digging into your lip so hard you aren’t sure if that coppery taste is from the steak, or your own blood. The conversation in the room, despite being made by only three people, feels like a deafening rush in your ears. 

The realization hits home that Eren’s going to make you cum all over his fingers in front of your friends, the staff, and your dinner, and he’s going to wrench it out of you in a matter of seconds, if the tightening of your gut is anything to go by.

“What else?” Eren practically growls in your ear, low and hoarse. “Is there anything else?”

“You asked me– fuck, you asked me something.” Your hips are canting forward into his palm, your face tacky and warm thinking about the couture fabric under you, now drenched in your cum and sweat. “Eren, you have to slow down, please–”

He’s merciless, pumping his fingers into you ceaselessly, rendering you a lost cause. “What did I ask you?”

“You asked—oh, my god—asked if I, if I would stay with you forever.”

“What was your answer?”

You can’t respond, not with the way you’ve stopped breathing to swallow down the debauched moan bubbling in your chest. Your entire body tenses, strung tight as a bow around Eren’s fingers as the knot in your stomach unravels, cool, inevitable release finally crashing over you. Eren works you through it, murmuring little hushes into your hairline, and placing a comforting hand over your fingers that are digging into his wrist, smiling against your forehead as you slide your hips back and forth over his hand.

You manage to pull the whole thing off impressively subdued, no more than a tinny whimper leaving your lips, only to be absorbed by the sleeve of Eren’s dinner jacket. When you dare to sit up, to meet Eren’s eyes, he’s still looking at you expectantly, as if that wasn’t enough.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you whisper, waiting for Historia to chastise you, or Armin to make a lewd comment. The three of them are still arguing, Sasha stealing bites from Armin’s plate each time he turns to snap at Historia, who’s now sitting amongst a crowd of empty crystal glasses.

“What was your answer?” Eren says again, pulling his fingers from you and smirking at the glisten that stretches down into his palm.

“I woke up,” you say with shaky conviction, trying to glare at him.

“Are you still scared of me?” Eren asks innocently, picking up a piece of his steak with his hand and feeding it to you again. Your cum mixes in with the flavor of the steak, gives it a certain tang and salinity that makes your heart beat faster, even though you’ve just floated back down to consciousness.

“I– I don’t think so, but…” you trail off, looking down at the plate. Eren brings another piece to your lips, letting you bite half and giving the rest to himself, not missing the opportunity to suck on the tips of his fingers. Your thighs press together when his eyes flutter shut, knowing what he’s tasting and watching him revel in it.

“But what?”

“I don’t think I understand you,” you confess breathlessly, “I think that’s what scares me. I spend all day looking at you, and I never feel closer to understanding you, to really touching you. It’s like you’re not…” you trail off in search of the right word.

“Real?” Eren cocks an eyebrow at you.

“Human,” you say without entirely meaning to, widening your eyes at him in apology. “I’m sorry, not in a bad way necessarily, but– you feel…like you’re above me. In a sense.”

“Above you?” Eren frowns, forgetting his dinner entirely and looking straight at you with rejection written all over his face, wrinkles you want to smoothe over with your thumb.

“I just…” you sigh, finding it harder to meet his gaze by the second, “I don’t understand what you want with me.”

“Still?” Eren tilts his head. “Even after that?”

“The dream?” You nearly chuckle in exasperation. “It was just a dream, that’s all.”

Eren frowns a little, reaches for your glass of champagne– oh, god, when had that been refilled?– and hands it to you. He watches you take one sip, and then another, that concentrated pull of his eyebrows never ceasing until you reach a shaky hand out for your fork, beginning to feed yourself small bites of steak. His perplexed expression ripples out into one of contentedness, smiling gently as he watches you take care of yourself.

“All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show me thee,” Eren finally says, looking at you very much like you’re supposed to be parsing something out from his quote.

“On to the sonnets now, are we?” You cock a playful eyebrow at him, despite your tired, slouching posture and your repeated attempts to keep your guard up. Eren grins mischievously, leaning in as if he means to press the tip of his nose to yours.

“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say–”

“If it be love indeed, tell me how much?” You’re quicker than him on this one, a vicious little smirk cutting across your face when you manage to cut him off. Eren’s eyebrows raise, impressed, but you don’t keep him down for long.

“There’s beggary in love that can be reckoned,” Eren finally says, twirling the ring on your pinky absentmindedly. You don’t even remember when he laid his hand atop yours, but it feels heavy and comforting, and so you let it lie there, just for the time being.

Your post-orgasm exhaustion hits you like a train, the temptation to slump against Eren’s shoulder winning out over your propriety. You’ll sit back up by the fourth course, you tell yourself, nibbling on a large piece of parsley that had come as a garnish on your plate. Eren doesn’t seem to mind the weight of your fuzzy head nodded into the cotton of his shoulder; in fact, he seems to adjust himself so you can nuzzle closer, eyes blinking owlishly as you reach for your glass of bubbles. You’re teetering dangerously close to the edge of unconsciousness, and you almost wouldn’t care, until something catches your eye.

Over the rim of your glass, Historia is staring at you. It’s not a look of admonishment, but more…caution? Concern? Pity? All you can discern for certain is that Historia must have seen everything Eren did to you, everything he’s still doing to you, taking a caviar bump off the back of his hand and laughing at Armin, shoulder shaking under your cheek. Historia’s brows furrow at you, her bottom lip wavering slightly.

You sit up suddenly, ignoring the way the room spins with the speed of your action. Eren turns his head to you, surprised, only to follow your gaze across the table to Historia. You’re trying to keep from looking at him, but you can’t help yourself, watching his expression crumple into something stern and disparaging.

Historia withers for only a moment, before narrowing her eyes at him threateningly. Eren squeezes his hand around yours. Sasha shoves Historia admonishingly for not listening to her joke. Armin’s eyes focus in on where your fingers grip your champagne flute hard enough to turn white.

You think you see a few pairs of familiar, glowing eyes in the bushes outside, peering in on the scene at the table. You think you need to go to bed.

[canirove]

Best friends… forever? | Chapter 16

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

“Ok, now, moving on to Betis' strikers” Pep says. “Their actual nine isn’t playing that much, but you never know, we must have them all covered. This is one of his latest goals” he says, playing a video. “As you can see…”

“Holy shit.”

“Everything alright, Rúben?” Pep asks him.

“Yes, yes. Just bit myself with the chewing gum” he says.

“I know it is almost lunch time, but let’s not get into cannibalism, ok?” Pep chuckles. “So, what I was saying…”

“Mate, what was that about?” John whispers.

“I’ll tell you later.”

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

“It was him” Rúben says to John as they sit to eat lunch.

“Who?”

“Betis' striker. He’s the guy who was with Mila over the summer.”

“Mila was with someone this summer?” Rodri says, sitting on their table.

“I thought you said she was with some friends she had just met” Bernardo adds, also sitting with them.

“Anyone else wants to join us?” Rúben says, rolling his eyes.

“Are you sure it was him?” John asks him.

“Positive. You know how much I stared at that photo. I even had dreams with it.”

“Nightmares I suppose” John chuckles.

“Whatever.”

“So, who is this guy Mila was with?” Rodri asks.

“Betis' striker. Fran something.”

“Fran? Really?”

“Do you know him?” Rúben asks him.

“From the national team, yes. He isn’t a bad guy, and he looks like her type.”

“Mila has a type?” Bernardo asks.

“Tall, dark hair, brown eyes, tanned, with more muscles that you could thought possible, plays football, is from the Iberian peninsula, his name starts with R…” John says with a teasing smile.

“We don’t look alike” Rúben replies, focused on his phone.

“You are prettier, but you do have things in common. Just like all the girls you dated these past two years, looked like Mila.”

“They did, didn’t they?” Bernardo laughs.

“I knew he was with her at the wedding!” Rúben says.

“Wedding? What wedding?” Rodri asks.

“One of the guys Mila met this summer was getting married a couple of weeks later, and he ended up inviting her. She said it was because they all had become good friends pretty quickly, but it was because she was going with this Fran. They took a photo on the same spot, look” Rúben says, showing them Mila’s photo, and then Fran’s.

“Maybe it was the perfect spot for photos. It doesn’t mean they were together.”

“Look at the sky. It looks exactly the same. She took his photo, and he took hers.”

“Ok, so they went together to a wedding. That doesn’t mean they were sleeping together or anything like that” Rodri says.

“Doesn’t it? When they had just met?” John chuckles. “And look at Mila that day. It was impossible not to want to… Sorry, mate” he says when he notices the way Rúben is looking at him.

“They follow each other on Instagram and have been liking each other’s photos. The friend’s Mila was with in Cádiz also follow him. And they weren’t at the wedding, it was just her.”

“That does sound a bit suspicious…” Bernardo says. “She ditched us to attend that wedding. She had never done something like that before.”

“I would have also ditched you all for a hot guy” John says.

“So what? She is single and had a summer fling” Rodri shrugs.

“One she didn’t tell me about, and against who we are playing in a couple of days” Rúben points out.

“Well, you haven’t been on speaking terms if we are being honest.”

"So what? Again, she is single, she's allowed to sleep with whoever she wants. Since when are you the jealous type?" Rodri asks.

"Since our boy here fell in love with his best friend" John says, giving Rúben a pat in the back.

"Finally!" Rodri says.

"Bruno was right, then?" Bernardo asks.

"Do not tell a word about this to Bruno. I'm being very serious" Rúben warns him, pointing a threatening finger to his friend. "And what you do mean by finally?"

"Everyone with eyes could see that it was bound to happen. You basically were behaving like a couple, you just were missing the making out part" Rodri shrugs.

"They already gave that a try, didn't you?" John laughs, patting Rubén's back once again.

"But does she feel the same way?" Rodri asks.

"She does, but she's too scared to accept it and that's why she's shagging Spanish dudes and living at Ella's" John says.

"You aren't living together anymore?"

"It's just temporary while she makes up her mind."

"Which doesn't seem to be happening any time soon" John sighs.

"We went out to the cinema the other day" Rúben says.

"What? And you didn't tell me? How did that happen?"

"After the Men's Health shoot we started talking again, like face timing and all that, not just texting."

That day, after letting everything get out of their system, Mila stayed for the night, and in the morning, she asked him if they could try and slowly go back to being friends, see if things still worked before trying anything else.

"Well, that's something" John says. "Step by step."

"But why hasn't she told me about this guy? We've talked about the summer, her new friends, even our Champions League groups, discussing which teams were the toughest. And she never mentioned him" Rúben says.

"Maybe it meant nothing" Bernardo shrugs.

"Or maybe it did, and she doesn't want to hurt me."

"Rúben, mate, you need to talk with her about this before it gets nasty. Especially if things have started to go back to normal" John says.

"I agree" Rodri adds. "Communication is key."

"Ok" Rúben sighs, already dreading the idea of having that conversation with Mila.

What if she fell for that Fran and that's why she kept talking about getting things out of her system? What if she needed it to finally move on? And maybe that's why she wanted to try and be friends again. Because that’s all she wants. Just be friends.

[moon-goggles]

Hot girl summer??? GASLIGHT GATEKEEP GIRLBOSS EVEN???MorE like CANNIBALIZE, CREATION, CUNTIFY NOW AMIRIGHT

[raven-starlight]

I fell in love with you in the summer. 

It was hot and dry and my lips cracked and bled every time I smiled. You made me smile a lot. I like to think it was a metaphor. You made me taste death every time I laughed. Or maybe life. I could never distinguish the two with you. 

Anyway. I dreamed of you, sometimes. You made me laugh and my lips would crack and bleed and you would lean over and kiss me. My friend said it means I desired intimacy but that the blood meant I was scared. She was into Freudian dream analysis. I never liked him, anyway. 

I guess she wasn’t wrong though. I dreamed about you more than I’d like to admit. In my dreams, you were poetry. In my poetry, you were the dream of you. I laughed and my lips bled and you kissed me and I tasted death. Sometimes you wouldn’t stop at kissing me. Sometimes you would keep kissing me, keep swallowing me, keep consuming me until you’d devoured me entirely. 

“Cannibalism as a metaphor for love,” I’d once said. “What do you think?” 

You’d made a face. “I think it’s gruesome. Romanticizes weird things, you know? Like those people who defend the serial killers ‘cause they think they’re hot.” 

I didn’t tell you that sometimes, I dreamed that I bared my neck for you, and that you’d torn it apart, my heart between your teeth. A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism. 

Anyway. It was summer and school was over and everything was golden. When the light hit your eyes right they looked golden. Sometimes they were dark, a soft brown like the piano I tried to teach you to play on and the damp earth after the summer storm. Sometimes they were blue like the sky or the sea and I was suffocating, drowning. When they were gold, they were like amber, sweet-sticky-thick, trapping me. Everything looked golden when you looked at me like that. I didn’t protest so long as you kept looking at me like that. 

It was your birthday yesterday. I wish I didn’t remember. I wish I didn’t text you even though you hadn’t talked to me in months. “Hey. Happy birthday.” It’s dinner time and my mom yells at me because I keep checking my phone. You text me the next day. “Thanks.” I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved or angry. I bite my lip. It’s bleeding again. “No problem.” 

You don’t reply. 

Anyway. I quit piano. I look into my father’s eyes and see you. Blue eyes that make me feel like I’m dying. “Oedipus complex,” my friend says knowingly. “You go after the familiar.” Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember your birthday. You didn’t remember mine. My father didn’t remember my mother’s, but he bought a girl a multi-hundred dollar gift for her birthday. She was closer to my age than his. You sent me a picture of yourself shirtless. My father sent a nude to her. I dated a boy just to see what it was like to be wanted. Maybe that’s why my father cheated. Maybe that’s why you kept talking to me like you could love me. It was summer and everything looked golden and I let you keep using me so long you looked at me like you loved me. I don’t know if I am more like my mother or my father. They are both unhappy. It scares me. Who am I?

Anyway. Sometimes I dream that you kiss me and I taste my own blood on your lips. Sorry about that. Sorry about the mess. Sorry that I bleed every time you speak. Sorry that I gave you my mess of a heart. Sorry that I loved you. I’ll keep bleeding for you. Just keep looking at me like that. Just keep telling me you love me. 

I fell in love with you in the summer. My lips cracked and bled every time you made me smile. I like to think it’s a metaphor. Maybe this summer I won’t remember your birthday. Maybe. 

[m0mmat0rtle]

༝ ˚ ｡⋆𝐎𝐍𝐄⋆｡ ˚ ༝

The Sea isn't like most people.

No, the sea isn't like people at all. She is calm when allowed and wild when provoked.

The sea is not just. The sea is wild, natural. She is a part of nature, the most vital part of nature.

The sea is life. The ocean makes up over half of the planet and is vastly undiscovered.

Who are we without the sea? What is earth without the ocean? We are the blue planet after all, a people with bodies made up mostly of water. The sea flows through us.

"Mother Ocean" as she is so famously called, is as vital to us as the air we breathe. Water is the key to life.

Essential.

We must have it to live but we cannot control it. Not even magic can tame it. The ocean doesn't listen to us and we have chosen to ignore it more and more.

But one day, the ocean did listen to us. The ocean did act as a person and the results were far beyond what anyone could comprehend. Certainly no muggle, no ordinary city dwelling person could ever understand it.

My name is Sereia, I am the one that the sea spoke for. Because of its intervention in my life I became the one and only Sea Witch.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Unlike most people who were raised by their human mommas and pappas, wizard or muggle alike, I was raised by the sea.

I know what you're thinking, I don't need magic for that. How is that possible?

Stop asking questions. Stop doubting me. Just hush up and listen, would you? That's why you're here, ain't it? And don't go telling me that "ain't" isn't a word. I don't care. I was raised by the sea, remember? You really think I'm gonna speak correctly? Nope. get some perspective here, little girl raised by the sea in the wild on one of them remote costal islands. I'm going to do anything but speak correctly.

I've never minded living out here on my own. Some people will claim that the carolina crystal coast is one of the most beautiful things they have ever seen. They'll swear it up and down. And they're absolutely right.

And just how did I get to living out here all alone with no momma or poppa? Well, that's the thing, ain't it? I don't really know. I had parents, once, we all do. But what happened to them I just can't say.

I remember their faces, distant and blurry. I remember being young and loved and laughing as I ran up and down a sand bank, playing with them.

I remember sudden cries of panic and shouts for me to be spared. Then a flash of green light and someone shielding me from whatever took them. Ever since then it was just me and the ocean.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Now you're probably all wondering how such a wild thing as me, ended up in hogwarts.

Go on, you can ask me, I won't bite. You'd say "How did you end up at Hogwarts, Sereia?"

There you go. Well, it all started on a hot summer day. I had been working, doing what I had always done since the loss of my parents. I needed something to distract myself and the only reliable thing in my life now had been the sea.

And thus, I began to study it. I would wake up, eat, go outside to the marsh and find some snails curling up the cordgrass. I'd be in the water with them, of course, no use in trying to study something if you ain't gonna be in the water with it.

I'd sketch a picture of it, write down what I had observed it doing, and then lunch. Then after lunch it was back to studying something.

This time I would take to the shells on the shore. I'd sit out there in whatever dress I had decided to ruin that day, my belly against the sand, and draw whatever shell I had chosen as my subject. I would write down some key aspects of it and how many like it I could find, and then it was back home for supper and bed.

But if it were summer, or at least somewhat warmer out, I'd go out side to watch the fireflies. They were like summer stars, watching them fly about and shine their lights. I studied them too. Fascinating creatures, fire flies, did you know the females are cannibals?

Sure are, they eat the males when they're feeling hungry and don't have to mate. In all my time, studying those fascinating creatures, I never sought to study the most fascinating creature of all. Myself.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

It wasn't until that summer's day that I woke up to an Owl on the perch of my open window, with a letter in its beak that I realized something was up.

Where I come from, we have owls. They're a normal thing. But they don't come out during the day and they ain't decadent snowy white owls.

Which was exactly what this one was. So, naturally, I spent about five minutes just staring at the impossible thing in my window then actually doing something about it.

When I finally processed that there was an actual owl in my window and not just some sort of hallucination, I retrieved the envelope from its beak.

Once I did it flew off. Inside it there were two letters. The first, an acceptance letter to some school I had never heard of. Hogwarts. But the other was the more interesting of the two. It read as follows:

Sereia,

I can't believe I have finally found you.

It fills my heart with joy to know that you are alive and well. I send this to you in great enthusiasm and urgency.

Ever since your parents deaths I have worried about you. I have been trying for years to not only locate you, but to convince professor Black, the headmaster here at Hogwarts, to allow us to take you in and give you a safe home for you to own your skill as a young witch.

I have finally gotten through to him. He has allowed for you to come and start late as a six year. You will be assigned into the house which I am the head of, and your father was in, Slytherin.

Do not worry about any supplies. I will take care of it for you and you will find that it will all be delivered to your new dorm room.

I am ecstatic to meet you. I heard of you often via your parent's letters when you were young. They talked fondly of you, their little sea witch. They had always hoped that you would come here to hone your skill one day.

It is time to fulfill their wishes, Sereia. I will see you soon.

Best wishes,

Marina River

And really that was how this was all set into motion. I was taken to Hogwarts, it was the first time that I had seen a person who was not myself in a long while.

It was a lot to take in, no, that was an understatement, it was too much to take in.

This woman, Marina, had sent me another letter just days before my arrival at Hogwarts and had told me that she would meet me in the "Central Hall".

I had no idea what that was or where it was. I would just have to find my way there, at least that's what I thought. I never expected to meet the most unlikely guide on my first day.

Have you ever heard of "The blind leading the blind"? I'm assuming that you're getting what I'm saying. But yeah, I got so lost and turned around that the blind kid had to show me how to get to where I was supposed to go.

This is how I made my first "Friend". This is how I met Ominis Gaunt, the heir of Slytherin.

Masterlist

Table of Contents

Next Chapter ➵

[fan-cam]

2022 Wrap up (4 Top 5)

Hello and happy holidays! Over the last few weeks I have been pouring over lists of the top albums, songs and movies of 2022, thrilled to see what the world (or at least high budget magazines) are saying about these past twelve months. This year has felt a little more ‘normal’ (not really sure what that word means anymore, or if it even should exist) than the past two and as a result we have received a lot of exciting art.

If I love anything, its making lists. I love keeping track of what media I have consumed, things I need to buy, people I have been romantic with (zodiac signs included), and ranking my various ‘best of’s’.  Below you will find 4 lists of my Top 5 of 2022; TV shows, movies, albums and songs. Each selection is deserving of its own several page deep-dive, but I limited myself to a one-sentence review of each as I know attention spans are quite fleeting these days (my own included). Please enjoy and share your own thoughts!

TV Shows:

HOT D, Season 1

Game of Thrones with a bigger budget, advanced technology and more feminism.

2. Rings of Power, Season 1

Like HOT D, Lord of the Rings but with more than just white men, and a $1M/minute budget (yes, you read that right).

3. Our Flag Means Death, Season 1

Taika Waititi’s new project about gay pirates—do I need to say anything more?

4. Derry Girls, Season 3

Martin Scorsese likes this show, so if my endorsement isn’t enough for you his should be.

5. The Summer I Turned Pretty, Season 1

I feel like most of my life is trying to get back to being a teenage girl and this show really did that for me.

Movies:

Bones and All, Luca Guadagnino

A coming of age cannibal love story that makes you scream, jump, plug your ears, cover your eyes, laugh and cry—what more could you want?

2. Aftersun, Charlotte Wells

Beautiful imagery, incapacitatingly sad plot (my favorite juxtaposition).   

3. X, Ti West

A love letter to horror film, chock full of references that made me feel like all my years spent on horror amounted to something.

4. Bodies, Bodies, Bodies, Halina Rejin

I love blood, I love girls, I love a whodunit, I love jokes—this is my dream film, also Pete Davidson is in it.

5. Tar, Todd Field

This movie is making fun of high-brow art which is funny because this movie is loved by people who love high-brow art.

Albums:

Preacher’s Daughter, Ethel Cain

A 75-minute concept album tackling love, abuse, lots of God, sex and being cannibalized with memorizing vocals, quite the feat for a debut LP.

2. Being Funny in a Foreign Language, The 1975

From dick jokes and a pop song about incel mass shootings to devastating breakup anthems, this album makes you experience most emotions.

3. Renaissance, Beyoncé

This album proves that Beyoncé can literally do anything well; a disco-club-banger-no-skips album invocative of the 70s but that absolutely hits in 2022? No problem. (sorry, this is technically two sentences)

4. Motomami, ROSALIA

Being A Bad Bitch in a Foreign Language: I have no idea what she’s saying but the emotion she conveys through her voice and the flawlessly produced beats transcend language.

5. Caprisongs, FKA Twigs

Another club-banger of an album which deals with being both hot and sad at the same time, relatable.

Songs:

Part of the Band, The 1975

There is so much to say about this song but the ‘Vaccinista, tote bag chic baristas’ line changed my life and I haven’t been the same since.

2. Killer, FKA Twigs

She called this ‘a song for baddies with a tear in their eyes’ and I cannot say anything better.

3. Anti-Hero, Taylor Swift

Famous for being vulnerable, Taylor reaches a new level of honesty with this song, expressing the very unrelatable difficulties that come along with being Taylor Swift in an extremely relatable way.

4. Hard Times, Ethel Cain

A song about a horrific topic, sung in the most ethereal way with stunning guitar accompaniment— once again, we love juxtaposition on this blog.   

5. Weird Goodbyes, The National Ft. Bon Iver

The saddest lyrics you will ever hear, overlayed with a sick 808 beat.

[razorsadness]

Check out this playlist on @8tracks: scummy summer by matildawhiskey.

First mix of the summer (even though it doesn't feel much like summer today). A lot of new favorites, a lot of long-time favorites. Cover image by Izzy Jarvis, found here: https://flic.kr/p/6AfnhJ. (Does it seem weird to have M.I.A. in between Blatz and Downtown Boys? Well, it sounds AWESOME.)

Patti Smith - Summer Cannibals

Skating Polly - Scummy Summer

Sonic Youth - Hot Wire My Heart

Circus Lupus - Straight Through the Heart

Xerox - Around the Eyes

Suburban Lawns - Mom and Dad and God

Saint Ripper - A Wanting Seed

Calamity Jane - My Spit

Broadzilla - Liquor Snatch

Katherine - Eat Me Out

Hard Bitch - 1 2 Cum

Getaway Car - Whatever You’re Hard On

Red Aunts - Baby Tough Luck

Bikini Kill - Speed Heart

In Defence - Call More Dudes pt. 3 (Girls Are Dudes Too)

Rape Revenge - More Mosh, Less Macho

The Wrecks - I Love to Shoplift

Blatz - Fuk Shit Up

M.I.A. - Paper Planes

Downtown Boys - Break a Few Eggs

Cupid Car Club - Vapor Rub-Out

Dishpit - Violent Rainbows

Russian Top Gun - Funtime

State of Alert - Girl Problems

Descendents - Hateful Notebook

Green Day - Sassafras Roots

U.S. Distress - Jess

Pagans - Fever

Hole - Over the Edge

Bad Cop/Bad Cop - Like, Seriously?

Electrocutes - Daquiri Jacquerie

Sleater-Kinney - Surf Song

[the-firebird69]

It washes a lot of the stupid out and some of them are very stupid, and Becca's girls would look like NCIS Miami they just be about 13 or 14 ft tall normally but would be repressed and in doing so could look like her. Ellis would look like great grandma and her best form and people like Trump's daughter because her body is normal and the rain is almost normal would look like pretty much what they look like when they look like Bathsheba they look normal and it would be big and powerful and look almost like osprey it would be very attractive and people would follow all over the place for them and the men would be gigantic like Juggernaut but a little bigger and they'd have to restrain the size and when they trim down they look like beefier Colossus even like your version of hulk cuz the hulk of ours is gigantic. But the whole point is if you combine our son would say the singer who's up now and she's singing Southern song and she's wearing an old fashioned bathing suit and a jacket which is not what you wore back then it would be seduction or something you'd wear a summer dress or it's like it over thing for bathing suit but she would have children about 12 ft cuz she's small and she's not second generation she's first she's from a smaller Mac tribe and it would be deceptive and they look like her a little prettier and her figure would be pretty much similar and that's the best she's looking true and she's doped up and stuff and spiced not massively but she is but they wouldn't have to at all and they would be about 120 IQ with her but she is not that bad off people like Ellie will be about a hundred and people like Jenna it would be about 1:10 and it would look someone normal like I said it's like a decent looking Jenna a little bit better than she looks right now and 110 is like the average in the military for you guys for regular Max no regular Max for about 1:30 and so you think you would have control and the woman heard it and went nuts but he didn't explain much of it so I'm going into detail. Their attitude would be much milder than what the morlock attitude is and they did a lot more control themselves and you teach them and they follow it and half breeds that were meeting with other races didn't make it because they're logical is good and the women see it and they know about it and they'd be protected as some sort of spearhead of the ark of the covenant of the Levi clan which our son is part of. He says well it goes to waste anyways he says no she goes and pulls it out using kju and other means and this guy says how about a bullet with that work s I'm going to see if you have the same resiliency regarding bullets that I do and I'll start in with you it is and I'll send creatures and they'll die was very young perverted cannibal piece of s*** and it's sooner sneeze all over you then talk to you I'll push you over or chop you up into a thousand pieces and you seem to be saying this s*** through people here because you are and you're a piece of dog meat and you're seeing your Trump and you're not. And it is a clone and he's using his name in vain. This happens on the people like that give gestures they back it up with the max now they can't do any of it and the sun has to stand up for himself but really you woman would have your hands full with the children that you teach them like half breeds and they'd learn it the reason why they get pushed out of the way is because of course and people like that who want to have this race that's pure and they don't get they didn't get the idea they can control them and use them and they still fight it I'm not as much because they're competing to grab the sperm to make offspring to devour and using you their wives cuz you say it's good and they'd have the best of both worlds. The movie into a mode to fight over it with Mac and with the clones it brings me to the next point

They're very hot after social security and these two are related items cuz I think there's some in the garbage and they think somebody survive because of elevated levels of preservative in the recent toilet paper and they're going nuts for it and he seals the garbage bag off and there's tons of them fighting out there and granted it it won't be as big as it should be but it will get bigger the point is that they want to have control over social security and it's closed now fighting over the money to control it and he doesn't like the blue jeans because the buttons to the side and it's not a fancy way and it's kind of what happens to men sometimes it goes off center and today they're messing around with this stomach and she doesn't like it but. And the clothes are kind of persnickety and Tommy f is saying it's off just an eighth of an inch and now one of these Max is saying that he's a c*** but it's CMT awards. And his name is what divergents are you have a parallel as warlock with each other and his diverging so it's good. And there's a lot of things happening but social security the fight is beginning to broil over because the clothes want to have control they're fighting Max on it and warlock and foreigners and they're starting to align tonight against the clothes and they're going to start to rely on many items finally and what a disaster these warlock are nothing what they'll probably just still check out pretty quick they're invasion is going on too and they're trying to cut a social security off and they don't have anything to supplement it with and don't care cuz they want to stick him in the hospital or similar or have it on the street begging or fighting for money as a threat and food and health and so forth and we want them dead that is just such a stupid game when armies are fighting over him they haven't get personally involved and be this punching bag, so we turned Trump into a punching bag and that's what they say you get a point every time you hit him let's try doing it and doing it and we're paying people and all sudden it's become this game with ours and it works and we are exercising but right now social security is very hot and we've got tons of people after it the molar going to shut it down but the clones want to take it over so they're keeping it alive and they want the government to pay for it and the max to pay for it and people in the government and it makes sense

Nuada Arrianna

The DNA is hot and it's powerful and everybody wants it and they're starting to see why 100 miles is nothing to spit at and this guy is probably powerful and he might have kids then trying to figure that out too and they're going to beat the s*** out of themselves tonight trying to figure it out cuz people have Intel on it like Trump he was right there and the clones some DGA used to be a geneticist well our son was there in the house and up there with Claudia in the actual facility

[allwaswell16]

These are all the One Direction fics I read and enjoyed in August 2022. You can listen to my podcast to hear me talk about each of these fics as well as an overview of what was posted on ao3 in August including the fics on this month’s fic roundup which you can find here! Please let the writers know if you liked the fics by leaving kudos and comments! Happy reading!

Fanfictional Podcast #41 | ko-fi | fic recs

-Larry -

🍃 Mind of Stone by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose

(M, 41k, mythology au, so much to love about this one!) He needs to find a way back home, and then figure out what the fuck happened at the bar tonight.

🍃 All My Roads Lead to You by @dandelionfairies

(M, 41k, undercover au, great plot!) Harry’s stuck in a life he didn’t choose after leaving home at eighteen. Bartending and running drugs were never on his list.

🍃 As You Wish by @kingsofeverything

(E, 25k, genie au, this was such an adventure!) Harry wished Louis free, and life hasn’t been the same since.

🍃 Close Enough to Touch by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf

(M, 11k, tour au, loved the evolution of their relationship) Louis definitely did not need a masseuse on tour. Not even if that masseuse turned out to be gorgeous, kind, and lovely.

🍃 I Want All Your Saturday Nights by @homosociallyyours

(T, 10k, girl direction, omg so cute with great wish fulfillment) When Louis Tomlinson is announced as the host and musical guest for an upcoming episode of SNL, cast member and writer Harry Styles is prepared to have to hide her longtime crush from her favorite artist. 

🍃 Wild As You by bluegreenish / @greenbluish

(M, 9k, country au, this was so beautifully written wow) a story about how Harry figures out whether the ideal of a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs of a medium-sized city is what he wants, or whether Louis' sheep ranch is the home his heart really desires.

🍃Will Death Be Our Last Kiss, My Love? by @fallinglikethis

(M, 6k, Potter Direction, love this story line!) As a half-veela, Louis has always had a past full of romantic turmoil. But his past comes back to bite him fully on the ass when a case falls into the lap of fellow aurors, Niall and Liam.

🍃 Where I'm Meant To Be by Halos_Boat / @halohamilton

(E, 6k, alpha/alpha, oof the angst hurt just right) When Louis helps Harry out with his rut so he can get it done in time for his exam, they're forced to face feelings they were habouring for a while.

🍃 Close Our Eyes (Pretend We're Miles Away) by @haztobegood

(E, 5k, girl direction, check tags but damn this was good) Louis and Harry have been on the run for a day and a half now. It’s a hard situation to be in, and they’ve been trying to cope the best they can since their relaxing girls’ weekend at a rented cabin turned into a living nightmare.

🍃 accept it, my love (you're mine) by skipper / @skipperxao3

(T, 4k, historical au, loved this soulmate concept!) the 1920's fic in which Louis Tomlinson, a successful architect, gives up drawing buildings to fall in love with the homeless boy who’s captured his heart.

🍃 Cannibalism Love Story by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(G, 2k, kid fic, amazing...just amazing. I have no other words I am in shock) It’s a hot summer day and Louis wants nothing more than to lay on the floor and do nothing. Instead he’s with the twins at the science museum.

🍃 SEX 20mg by @jaerie

(E, 2k, sex pollen au, omg this was so hot) Louis swipes some edibles from Niall and smuggles them with him on a trip to Vegas. After a wild night with his ex-roommate, he realizes they weren't the kind of edibles he was expecting.

🍃 Zoey by @wabadabadaba

(G, 2k, cat fic, oh my god this is a dream fic I'm in love with it) Harry has a huge crush on his cat's veterinarian and finally decides to do something about it.

🍃 Fractured Moonlight by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose

(M, 1k, dark au, oh my goddd what a great stand alone fic but also love that you can read the sequel) Louis huffs because he doesn’t want to deal with this. “Listen, I appreciate your concern.” He doesn’t. “But it’s not your duty to look after the sad man at the bar. Okay?”

🍃 heart meet break by safetyfilm / @larrieblr

(NR, 1k, character study, heartbreaking but hopeful) a skinny twenty-something on the middle of the rug, a hot phone pressed to a cheek so tear-stained it might cause an electrical shock.

🍃 Tears on Paper by Lhhome / @lh-home

(G, 228 words, poem, so many feelings help)

Harry

Who wasn’t

supposed to see

-Rare Pairs-

🍃 Make It Up As We Go Along by @lululawrence

(NR, 52k, OT5, omegaverse, loved every moment of chaos!) When a baby is left on their doorstep, their lives become the definition of chaos...but maybe that is exactly what they need to see what has been right in front of them all along.

🍃 Doin' Somethin' Right by @laynefaire

(E, 5k, Zayn/Liam, future canon, so lovely) While Liam craved the bright lights and excitement of being on the road, Zayn has eschewed his prior fame, instead choosing a life of relative obscurity as the owner of a vineyard and bed and breakfast in Dauphin County, Pennsylvania.

[theminecraftbee]

bee. bee. bee

i’ve just managed to finish stuffed bird (i totally didnt stay up until like 4am nooo) and i need to know what happened to joe

and etho

and iskall

and cleo

and zed

and you get the point

and what in the world was in scar and cub’s minds when they did this (i assume its them, they’re the concorp after all)

-poison anon

i am glad you liked it! as for everyone’s general fate… there’s a joe hills side ficlet, although that’s more pre-apocalypse than post. also, it features etho and iskall! as for what happened to them AFTER… well, I ended up leaving a lot of that ambiguous. it’s been long enough that i’ll say that at one point there was theoretically a sequel/second story featuring iskall and also joe, but the parts for that got cannibalized into other parts of the fic and also i don’t want there to be a sequel (at least not that i write) any longer, so that’s sort of a big shrug? some people in the art tag have drawn at least zedaph as a monster i know, if you want to check that out, they did some cool designs, you could take that one as something. other than that, most of what i’ll say is that none of the people you’ve mentioned were immune, and you can go from there.

as for what cub and scar were thinking… they were living their best evil capitalist lives. their hot girl summers, if you would,

[imsososolesbian]

I was originally just going to comment this but it got to long and I don’t wanna make multiple comments soooo anywho. And it’s really long…

You’re so right. The first time I watched the show, I didn’t like Travis. But that’s because I didn’t pay attention to him.

But he is actually a really complex character. Now I don’t remember much, because I’ve only watch it once (last summer) and am only now rewatching it. But dude goes through it. Sure he’s sexist, but do people not see that it was the 90s? Like I’m not trying to excuse how he was but decades before the 2020’s had more sexism no? Also people gotta see that man went through some shit, like he literally saw his father die right in front of his own eyes, making him basically the sole protector of Javi. Also him being rude to Javi wasn’t right but it makes sense, he literally was just in a plane crash, saw his father die well he was trying to save him, and then Javi wouldn’t listen to him. Even if he was a dick he still did some not so shitty stuff, like he got that ring for Javi, that’s all I can think of off the top of my head right now. Also I forgot to mention how the girls forced him into an orgy and how people in this fandom make it seem like it was okay because it was ‘hot’ or something. It really wasn’t, in the context of the show he is literally a person not some chew toy thing. I would mention stuff from season two but I don’t remember much, meaning I don’t remember if he changed his tune on sexism and such, but he did go out of his way to search and search just for his brother. All he had out there was his brother, he was the only one with immediate family out there. He never stopped look in for Javi, and it was fucked up that Nat tried to tell him he was died by putting blood on an old pair of pants (I hope I remember that part right, please correct me if I’m wrong). This whole fandom likes to say ‘they were just girls!’ Yeah well Travis was just a boy (or girl however you wanna see it) because then too. Like I know Shauna lost Jackie but she was one of the reasons Jackie died, if Shauna went out Jackie would have probably survived, and I know Lottie lost Laura Lee but Travis lost both his father and brother in the spawn of a few months if I’m not mistaken. Also what Van said to him about eating Javi? That was even more fucked. He had to eat his little brother to survive, cannibalism as a whole is bad but imagine you’re the eldest child and your father died, which makes you the person who has to watch over your younger brother because your mother didn’t come, and just when you think everything is fine, he runs off because a bunch of people got high as hell on mushrooms and you can’t find him for months, and all you have left is your girlfriend (once more please correct me if I’m wrong I can’t remember if they were anything more than fuck buddies) and she is the only one helping you look for him. And when you finally find him you get probably less than a month with him, and he’s not really talking to anyone. And then the girls you are with decide to use cards to pick who they will kill and eat, and your little brother doesn’t get the Queen card but your girlfriend does but by the time this animalistic hunt is done it’s your brother that comes back died. And your girlfriend who seemed to get close to the kid didn’t even try to stop it because the others told her not to. And then you have to eat your little brother. Like no one else had to eat their own blood (as in family) other than Travis, and it probably fucked the kid up, because yeah, that’s his little brother.

I’m sorry this is so long, I literally don’t get the hate after rewatching it a bit. It makes no sense to me. I mean I used to be a Travis hater (I think not really, can’t remember that far back) but dude goes through a lot of shit. Also I’m not trying to discredit what the girls went through. But people gotta see that Travis went through some bad shit too.

Also I don’t really know where to break that off into paragraphs so it’s just gonna be one big thing of text.

rocking back and forth. GUAHH how do i get people to understand travis. "i know he went through it but all of the other girls did too" is literally counterintuitive because like... yes. and the other girls were bad too. some arguably worse. and you still stan them. i dont get it!! this is the shitty people show!! hes just a guy! maybe a girl!

[mitchywitchythings]

Don’t Believe In Lies

Summary: What happens when you leave a bunch of teenagers in a summer camp at an island? Not to mention that there’s something suspicious going on in that island. Chaos. Chaos is what happens.

Warnings: No Quirk AU, Cannibalism, Violence, Language, Angst?

Paring: Todoroki Shoto X Fem! Reader

Word count: 2,976 Words

Chapter 6 : To Risk Or Not To Risk? | Series Masterlist

The morning contrasted with the one of yesterday. Yesterday was beautiful, perfect even, but today. The clouds were a dark shade of grey that covered the sky and the sun was nowhere to be seen or heard from.

The heavy and powerful splashes of water that came pouring from above could be heard everywhere. Even asleep, the girls from class 1-A couldn’t help but shiver and pull their blankets up higher in an attempt to protect themselves from the relentless rain.

Jolting awake to the roars of the lightning and thunders that came with the rain. A startled gasp was let out. I took in heavy breaths and tried to calm myself down, my beating heart was frantic and I could feel the cold sweat dripping down both my forehead and back. Wiping them off I put a hand to my heart, concentrating on it and tuning out all of the sounds around me, finally managing to control my breathing.

Taking a look around the room, everyone was fast asleep, having good dreams I presume due to the slight smiles on their faces, or maybe it’s because they were relaxed knowing that school is over, even if only for a few months.

Moments like these were rare and fleeting these days. Smiling in contentment at the sight of them, reminded me of back when we still lived in the dorms. I threw the blanket off of me and climbed down from my bunk, grabbing my phone that was charging with all the other phones, I turned it on and checked the time.

“5:36 AM, damn it’s way too early to be up.” I huffed out in irritation.

Yet I can’t find any trace of being tired and wanting to go back to sleep. We were supposed to gather at the main building for breakfast at 8 AM sharp, so instead of being lazy, I decided to grab my things and take a long and relaxing hot shower before any of the other girls could wake up and we start fighting over who’ll be using the shower first.

You’d think there would be multiple showers in the cabin but no, there’s only one and last night let’s just say we fought a lot about who’d use it first. Tsuyu-chan ended up being the first one to use it, which sucks for the rest of us.

The bathroom wasn't luxurious or anything, just the standard bathroom you’d expect from a summer camp. ‘At least they got that one right.’ I jokingly thought. After taking a bath and changing into my clothes for today. I wore casual denim shorts with the camp shirt that the school provided and over that I wore an oversized hoodie that I stole from Shoto months prior, without his knowledge, of course.

Digging through my luggage even further, I finally found my umbrella and the cap that I borrowed from Shoto yesterday. Ironically, the umbrella had a clear and, red pattern all over it, the design of the umbrella was the umbrella corporation logo. I find it ironic having this because well, I think you all get the hint that I hate that fucking messed up corporation.

Taking another look at my phone, I checked the time, 6:05 AM. Still too early to be up, best to do something more productive than doing nothing. Outside the cabin, the rain was still pouring down cats and dogs. ‘I regret not packing more warmer clothes.’ I groaned, cursing myself for thinking that it'd be hot and sunny the whole time during the trip.

Grabbing my earphones from my pocket, frustrated that they became tangled up. Doing what must be done, I plugged them back into my phone, playing a random song then walked out of the cabin. But of course, luck wasn’t on my side and my hopes of having a peaceful morning were all torn down the drain.

“Where do you think you're going?” Mina dragged me back into the cabin.

“To explore.” I scoffed, raising my eyebrow at her.

Mocking me by scoffing back, she began to pull out her hoodie from her bag, “Without me?”

“I couldn’t sleep and you were. Didn't feel like waking you up.” In response, she gave me a tired smile, “C’mon, go back to smiling. You look so tired, I’ll show you around the camp later when you’re more awake.” Before she could argue back, I looked at her with a warning look.

“O-Oh.” She gulped dryly, “If you insist.” She plopped back onto her bed quickly.

Sighing in disappointment towards myself, I shrugged it off and rationalized that she’ll forgive me for glaring at her. ‘I didn’t mean it, I just couldn’t help it.’

~~~

A slight misty fog covered the whole camp as the smell of wet dirt and greenery-filled my nostrils. If you inhaled and exhaled, you could see the steam come out of your mouth. ‘I wonder why this place feels so cold, I can recall checking the weather reports and expecting more sunny and warm days instead of this.’ I yawned as I stretched nearby the lake.

The men under the umbrella corporation from yesterday, the amount of them reduced greatly today. And I don’t even know whether or not I should be worried about that. There were still a few men that I passed by when I was surveying the area, they were on patrol, still wearing full armored uniforms and carrying guns, which made me uncomfortable. I’m sure it will make everyone else uncomfortable later when they see them.

By now it was 7 AM and the rain hadn’t stopped yet. I had already walked all over the whole camp. And it was bigger than I initially expected. The camp was filled with the usual things you’d expect in a summer camp, rock climbing, obstacle courses, zip lines, and even a baseball field. But that’s not all they have their own laboratory!

All that’s great and all, but my suspicion arises at the firing range that they have on the campsite. It’s a bit far from our cabin, around a 10-minute walk. 2 umbrella corporation men were guarding it, so I couldn’t see much. All I could see were target bags and paper outlines of people with a target on them. I also have a bit about the guns used, and I’m happy to report that it’s all BB guns or paintball. Still hurts though it doesn’t kill anyone.

“Why would they need those?” I wondered to myself out loud when I passed by it.

The men eyed me with death glares, telling me to move along because the range isn’t yet open. He mentions as well that we could only use it by schedule along with our teachers supervising us.

Moving on and going back to the laboratory on the campus site, the door of it was the push to open type, it was made out of tempered glass and to avoid onlookers from looking inside and disturbing, they plastered a dark shade of tint all over the door. Of course, I tried getting in. Even attempted to pick the lock with a hairpin, which resulted in me breaking my hairpin in an attempt to open the door.

Walking on by the shore of the lake, just enjoying the view it offered, it was serene and absolutely captivating. Despite the weather not being the best, it didn’t take away from its beauty. Instead, it added to it, somehow the lake looked more beautiful when the rain was dropping in on it.

The surface of the lake moved so suddenly and weirdly. My heart began to fasten as my eyes narrowed down on it. Just as fast as the unknown object moved, it disappeared right away. ‘Fuck…’ The rain stopped coincidentally as I walked towards the lake, I threw the umbrella I was still holding from before to the ground and took off my shoes and socks. Stepping into the lake, I shuddered at how cold it was, goosebumps rose and the hair at the back of my neck stood up straight. ‘I know this is incredibly stupid, but I have to know if what I think it is, is right.’

Walking even more into the lake, only stopping when the water was up to my knees. There was a disturbance again in the water, it moved violently and headed straight towards me, quickly taking a fighting stance. I raised my fist and aimed at it, prepared for whatever was going to throw itself at me. It headed fast towards me, moving closer and closer until it was almost arm's length away from me.

“(Y/n), what are you doing?” Shoto yawned, stretching on the shore, perfectly safe and sound.

“Huh!?” My concentration broke and I looked back at him for only a second, “Shit, where’d it go?” I whispered to myself because when I looked at it, whatever it was, it was gone.

There was no trace of it or anything, not even a ripple in the water. It was completely calm and left untouched except for the part where I’m standing in it. I was confused, was it scared away because Shoto showed up or something like that? Could it perhaps be that it wasn’t what I thought it was initially, that maybe it’s just a fish? It doesn’t seem that far-fetched when you think about it, but we’re dealing with the Umbrella Corporation so expect the unexpected.

“(Y/n), you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing in the water? You should get out of it now or you’ll get sick.” Grabbing the umbrella from off the ground, he motioned me to come to him, then he rubbed his eyes to try and get rid of his sleepiness.

“I swear, I thought I sa-“ I quickly cut myself off in the realization of what I was doing, “Nothing, Shoto. Just wanted to feel the water a bit.” Smiling at him

He gave me a weird look but didn’t question any further, “Okay… You’ve felt the water now get out of it before you get sick, it’s freezing.”

He grabbed the umbrella that was carelessly tossed to the ground, closing it and waiting for me patiently to get out of the water. A tired look on his face that still wasn’t erased by his efforts from before. I looked back once more to the lake, somewhat hoping that whatever was there would be back at this very moment so that I could do my thing. Unfortunately for me, it was gone.

With a small disappointed sigh, I walked back to the shore. With each step I took, the water became disrupted and loud choosing sounds could be heard, “I find it weird that this supposed education camp looks more of a military training camp, I didn’t know this is what I signed up for” Shoto pointed out in a sleepy voice, randomly.

“Yeah, I even pictured and grabbed a copy of the map for this whole place. Guess what, they even have a shooting range.”

“Guess everyone is asleep and tired from yesterday.” I gestured to the deserted camp, finally stepping onto the false security of the ground.

“Yeah, I only woke up because I accidentally set up an alarm last night. Bakugo became furious and kicked me out.” Pouting he rubbed his eyes again, sighing in frustration he gave up on trying to rub away the sleepiness.

“Sounds rough, do you wanna sleep in my cabin? I’m pretty sure I can sneak you in easily.” I asked innocently with a glint of mischief in my eyes

“It's tempting... As much as I would love to cuddle with you, it’d be very inappropriate, Iida and our teachers would be very mad and disappointed in us.” His voice dry as he wrapped his arm around me from behind while I was still putting in my socks and shoes

“C’mon Sho, it was a joke. You should probably get used to them.” I laughed at his words, sometimes he was always taking things way too seriously!

“Oh…” He deadpanned, his tone slightly disappointed

~~~

By now everyone has gathered in the main building for breakfast. After that, each class has been given a schedule for today, only in the morning though since they’ve given us free time for the rest of the day.

The fresh aroma of bacon, eggs, sausages, and fresh milk filled the air. Students with different preferences for their breakfast, filled their stomachs till they were so full they could drop dead. I sat with my classmates at the tables that were reserved specifically for our class.

The morning weather got better as time progressed, slowly but surely the water that was left by the rain just at least an hour ago started to dry up as the sun finally decided to make an appearance. Gracing is with its powerful warm rays.

“Ahem! Excuse me! May I have your humble attention?!” The over-enthusiastic blonde camp counselor from last night grabbed everyone’s attention, forcing them to stop shoving their food in their mouth for a second.

“You have it now, continue.” Aizawa-sensei spoke from behind her, still in his sleeping bag and eating a single piece of bacon with his bare hand.

“Okay, so I wanted to begin with a good morning! How have you guys been feeling?” She quipped into the microphone

Groans of annoyance and disappointment were the replies from the crowd, “I understand as well! It’s totally relatable, I mean have you guys seen the weather?! Man, it’s crazy! Well moving on from that, right after breakfast we’ll meet at the stadium nearest to the lake got it, kids?” She smacked enthusiastically which made another groan of boredom in response occur, “It’s for our opening ceremony! That’s all, thank you!”

She gave a little bow before exiting the stage, with applause following after her.

~~~

After breakfast, the crowd gathered onto the seats provided for them, separated by grade and section. I sat next to Uraraka and we waited for at least 5 more minutes before the opening ceremony began.

“Good morning! Everyone full?” The man with long hair tied up in a man bun this asked time, from last night and a series of yes responded, “Alright then, that’s good to hear. Now for the welcoming speech, the director of this camp will give it to you. Please lend your ears to Mr. Chris Redfield!”

Emerging from out of nowhere was the man himself, Chris fucking Redfield. ‘Just my fucking luck. You have got to be bitching with me right now! He’ll fucking recognize me! And why is he even here? That’s just so random, isn’t he supposed to be on missions or something like that? Last I heard, he was somewhere in Europe looking for a kid or something like that.’ Panic filled me on the inside, and on the outside, however, I gave the exact expression Shoto usually gave, emotionless. I couldn’t panic, if I did I would only blow my cover.

“Good morning, I am the director of camp Akugoku. Here in this camp, you will learn skills and get experiences from outside of your regular classroom.” He walked around the stage, looking closely at us one by one like he was trying to find someone, “Here you will learn and hone your skills in order to survive. I’m not a man who likes to explain too much so that's all. Welcome to camp.” He finished and stopped in the middle of the stage, eyes locking onto mine.

My breath hitched as I took a nervous gulp. For a second I was shaken and disturbed by the new found information. Why the Hell, out of all people did it have to be him?! He’s not director material! What the fuck was going on in umbrella’s damn mind when they were assigning him to the the director here!

Tearing my gaze away from him, my hands instinctively snakes its way into Shoto’s, gripping it tightly, desperately as if I was afraid to let go, which is true. I felt like if I let go of his hands, everything I have and love will disappear right in front of me. Even if I looked away, I could still feel Chris’ stare boring into me. I let out an accidental whimper at his gaze, which made the dual haired boy realize that something was wrong.

He had just realized how tightly I was gripping onto his hand, so he looked to where I was looking at before and his eyes met with the apparent director’s. His protective mode turned on, so he interlocked our fingers and brought it to his lap with his other hand, he cradled it and without fail, his eyes never broke from the director's, the tension only growing stronger.

For what felt like minutes were only mere seconds, Chris was the one to finally break the staring contest between them and nodded at us before exiting the stage, passing the microphone to Yoshida or better known as the over hyper blonde counselor. Only when he got off the stage did my eyes follow onto his figure. He turned a corner then disappeared, I cursed under my breath in frustration.

“Wow! Such a warm welcome from our very own director, thank you! Now let’s give him a round of applause, please!” We followed her instructions

“You okay, (Y/n)? You seemed uncomfortable when he looked at you.” My boyfriend whispered into my ear.

“Never better, I just didn’t like how he stared at me for so long.” I whispered back

“It’s alright as long as I’m here I won’t let anything happen to you, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Thank you, you’re so caring!” Squeezing his hand gratefully, I leaned onto his body slightly.

He only hummed in response.

[aquamoonchaii]

⍣ genre: fluff

⍣ warnings: heavy cheesiness

⍣ pairing: minho x reader

⍣ word count: 2.3k

⍣ collab: This is for the collab Summer Love - Stray Kids from lovie @bangchan-fairy

⍣ charlie’s notes: hope you guys love the cheesy cheese! this lovely banner was made by the precious @halliney!

⍣ summary: minho is scared of heights. maybe he is a chicken. but he meets another cute chicken that holds his hand.

Summer love is usually about sweet flings that end when school or work starts again. It starts in unexpected places with a smile and an ice cream, or with the adrenaline of meeting new places. Or at least that’s what happened to him.

Luckily, it didn’t go that way for both of you. It didn’t end!

Because it’s your third summer together and he can’t be happier. Even his feline babies love you so much, he has to bite his lips to not scream every single time Dori purrs approaching you and you coo at the kitten so cutely he just- Ugh. It’s no joke he is already searching for the perfect ring so he can propose.

There’s no way in hell he would find another soul like yours that blends so well with his, your sweet self is enough to calm him and make him feel at home, wherever he is. If you could open his heart and his brain, he would be so embarrassed because you would know he would do everything. Anything for you. You just need to say it and he is already thinking how to make it real.

But it’s ok, you won’t. Unless you are a secret cannibal and you kill him to eat his heart.

He chuckles out loud at the thought because he wouldn’t deny you his heart, you already have it anyway so he wouldn’t be upset if you eat it. You would just have to promise you won’t date another boy.

Minho just gets these thoughts as he wakes up from the nap he had holding your hand and here you are, like 10 centimeters away from him holding his hand even when you are not that clingy. The fact you are indeed a girl who isn’t into touch but you let him hug you and cuddle anytime makes him feel so good. So special. His free hand brushes your hair off your beautiful face, he can’t help but feel cheesy this moment so he caresses your cheek lovingly and kisses your forehead.

You stir a bit, but as the heavy sleeper you are, you put a leg on both of his -so he doesn’t escape and eat the last chips you mutter groggily- so he slaps your leg lightly and a small smile is on your face until you surrender again to sleep. Minho suddenly rolls his eyes. Are there people who know these intimate details about you besides him? Like you always put a leg on his body and you can’t open your eyes that easily, is there any chance there would be another guy after him who would know this? He pouts because it's frustrating to feel this way, so freaking protective. About your things, about your habits, about you. You.

Always you.

He feels the softest when you are like this, peacefully sleeping beside him in his oversized shirt and pajama pants that make you look like a homeless man. A homeless man that is going to steal his favorite hoodie, you would say. On these sunny and hot days, he has little bit of time to engulf in his feelings and think how lucky he got. Something he would never in a million years would voice out because Ew, the cringe. Especially when it’s summer. Because he gets small flashbacks about how he met you.

Hiking.

Hiking

Hiking!

What a better way to enjoy this beautiful summer than eating frozen fruits and walking through beautiful places? He originally planned to go to the mountain he enjoys the most, Jirisan but of course it would be too crowded.

So now he is here on a hiking tour. He didn't read the whole tour completely because he didn't want to miss this day and because Changbin wanted to come. And he doesn't like company when hiking or Changbin. Just kidding, he likes him but not when he whines which he would totally do in a long walk.

"Uh, sir? Are you not coming? I'm sorry but you are the last one to pass the bridge and the tour is being delayed right now." Minho bows apologetically and excuses himself saying that he would pay the extra fee to wait for the next group tour because he doesn't feel well. Of course the tour lady noticed him getting paler than a piece of paper when he was told to try sky-biking because it was included in the tour or he could pass that thin bridge that passes through both mountains. There was no other way to reach the beautiful sunset he was looking out for. But it was too high.

It looks dangerous and the vertigo hit right at his face as he is literally frozen right now, ugh.

It's ridiculous he is not going to see the sunset.

But he just can't move right now so he keeps a stern face to save himself the embarrassment and makes everyone laugh -group partners were getting really annoyed but well, Minho is funny- saying that he needed to pee because he was too excited. The female nods and makes a few calls, everyone starts taking pictures and distracting themselves as Minho looks at his phone just to notice his battery is going to die, it doesn't matter as he has a incredible high quality camera who is going to be very disappointed if he doesn't get those damn pictures of the sunset.

"Lee MinHo, right?" He nods and the female explains how this would work. So, this tour needs to keep going and as he is clearly pretty interested in hugging the tree that is right there to hold him, he should wait for the other group tour. It would cost him a lot because the next group tour has the option to stay the night to wait for the beautiful dawn. He agreed still because he wanted them pictures, it didn’t matter if he had to sneak in someone’s tent. “Your client’s code is 1441, please let it know to the next tour guide so he would include you in the other package.”

He buys an extra bottle of iced tea for everyone as he apologizes once more before he says goodbye and apologizes again to the rest of the group tour. Minho takes beautiful pictures as he walks near the damn bridge he doesn't want to cross but he needs to, he has around two hours to enjoy and to prepare himself.

You have to do it MinHo.

You have to.

"Are you sure you are going to hike that mountain? Like really sure?" He remembers Changbin questioning him and MinHo gasped. That asshat knew about the thin bridge.

Whatever, he is already here.

He is distracted with the beautiful little birds that let him take photos of them when he hears noise about a group coming. His moment to shine has come.

He just needs to look forward and not down because he would probably die. Ok, he 's ready. Really ready. Completely ready.

Oof.

"I'm not ready!" What- He is engulfed in his own thoughts of being terrified of heights, he didn't notice the girl that is making a funny scene about being nervous. MinHo approaches the group taking out his headphones and feels a bit better, he is not the only one having a mental breakdown because of the damn bridge. Everyone hypes her up to cross the bridge and cheers, she ties her hair up and gives a step forward and squeals.

"I'm sorry my friends! But I'll need a diaper."

"Uh, excuse me? Is this the second group of the tour to see the dawn?" He approaches the lady who had the little bright flag and after she nods kindly, he gives her his ticket saying his client code was 1441. "Oh yes! Come with us, please. This group usually goes slower so take your time to cross the bridge as you see, there's another client who is a bit nervous."

"I'm not nervous, I just wanted to take more pictures."He says and the lady nods and smiles, the tour guide seems close to the girl laughing anxiously that tries to cross the bridge because she whispers to her something about being a chicken. The girl, undeniable attractive just keeps laughing, voicing out she hopes to not die today. "Huh? Another person that is afraid to cross? Where?"

Damn. They are talking about him. The smile that was on his face dissipates and turns into a serious frown as he tries to appear concentrated to look at some flower. "Guys keep going, I will cross alone and safe! I promise!" MinHo hears the girl say to the group and hurried steps that come closer to him after that. "Hi? Are you the scaredy cat?"

"What?" He quickly turns around and scoffs, she is the scandalous one and she starts with this, pfft. "Are you talking about yourself? I don't remember being the one who squealed."

"Yeah right. Come on! Don't be shy, let's cross together because I'm scared too."

"I'm not scared!"

"Mr. 1441, please. We can be stubborn after crossing this bridge." You stick out your hand at him and he raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to give me a piggyback ride or what? Because Miss Chicken, I am not interested."

"What- Chicken? You are the chicken! Oh, is this a way to ask for my name? I'm Y/N."

"MinHo. But I wasn't asking."

"Me neither, MinHo." You laugh as he doesn't have an answer and you grab his hand. "Let's do this together, it's okay to scream and insult. I do that a lot so I don't mind."

" Wait, wait!" He says as he is dragged by Y/N, the girl who seems eager to cross but is as much as terrified as him or even more. "Why are you so eager if the lady said we can take it easily? You were screaming a second ago!"

"I know but the adrenaline is awesome and someone who understands the frightening feeling will make you feel secure, I promise two chickens make a good team."

"I'm not a chick-" His words die as he is at the start of the bridge, instinctively he holds your hand tightly. He takes a deep breath and looks at you, you smile at him. MinHo wants to run away but something in your secure hold of hand makes him believe.

"So you don't have friends to come with?"

"I do have friends! How can you come to that conclusion just by one look? You also look like a loner." He bickers and you immediately answer. "I am not a loner! The lady guide is my friend, she said this dawn is going to be probably the most beautiful of the year as the weather is awesome."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah! I hope you didn't bring too much stuff because it's hot up there, people don't even bring tents and prefer to talk with everyone and take naps looking at the stars and stuff like that, it's pretty safe too and the tour gives tents if you feel uncomfortable."

"Really?"

"Of course! Is this your first time hiking this mountain?" He nods and as the conversation dies for a moment he remembers he is actually on a freaking bridge that looked too thin to hold him safely so he looks down. He is stepping on plain land.

He crossed the bridge bickering with the woman he is still holding hands with.

Wow.

MinHo bickers a bit more to hold her hand a bit more as she gets distracted easily. Y/N. It is a pretty name.

He smiles.

"So are you going to ask me out or are you ready to let go of my hand?" There is a tiny possibility he would have choked on his idea tea at this statement.

"Wow, that was smooth and pretty direct." He lets go of her hand and she laughs. "I don't date chickens though."

"I don't date chickens either." He scoffed at her attitude, damn. Is there a divinity of summer he can thank for?

After a night of bickering and photos of the incredible dawn, you agreed to give him your number so he would send the pictures he took.

It would be the first of many hiking trips that would turn into summer dates.

You open your eyes finally and your hands search for your phone to see the hour. You slept two hours! Felix said he would call for you to come and eat brownies with MinHo.

"Shouldn't you search for me first?" Your boyfriend sat on the end of the bed eating the last bag of chips making you whine.

"MinHo! Spill my chips!"

"Give me your hand to spill it."

"Ew."

"Tell Felix you are a taken chicken. He is not going to seduce you with brownies, you are more spoiled than anyone could ever think."

"Listen chicken, sweet Australian man is going to invite us both brownies so shut up. Also go tattoo yourself the word taken on your forehead. Girls think my chip robber is single? Tsk." As always, your unexpected statements make him choke, this time on the chips and laughs at your rolling eyes. "Am I spoiled? When? Where?"

MinHo throws himself on you and tickles you until you are kicking him off you, showing him the white blanket as a surrender sign.

"Should we go on a hiking date?" You suddenly ask.

"Why?"

"Why not? Maybe I want to commit murder and take revenge because they were my favorite chips."

"Jirisan?"

"No, the one we met!"

"Huh? Really?" He takes his phone and casually books a tour already for this weekend. "Maybe I should propose to you so you won't kill me."

You both laugh.

But he isn't joking. He also messages the boutique, he would need the ring for this weekend.

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