#i was really good at my time tables esp sevens but i had to really calculate this for some reason adnlkjfsnaf

[udurghsigil]

heh. heheheh. 18 for that ask game :3 also 1 + all multiples of 7 :3

SOBBING ABT ALREADY DOING 18 BUT IM GIVING U A MILLION KISSES MY LOVE!!!!! AND SECRET LORE... the cooking oils are extra virgin olive oil, cold-pressed coconut oil and pure avocado oil.... and microfiber towels are endlessly powerful... also i used to use sheamoisture manuka honey + yogurt hair mask like every fuckin week but 1. im lazy and 2. you probably shouldn't do it for a week i just had severely fucked hair at the time... there was also another hair mask but i cannot remember for the life of me what it was

1.who is/are your comfort character(s)? artemy and sanmos <3 its still them because on god every character i have fallen for latley causes me psychic damage... alknjdfs you could also say kirby but idk how you would tell (pretending like my room is not full of kirby merch)

7. hair-ties or scrunchies? WAIT THIS IS A HAIR QUESTION TOO. IT ALL WORKS OUT . SCRUNCHIES ALL THE WAY BABEYYYY i need XL scrunchies that are turbo stretchy or else my roots get pulled too tight + straighten out... OTL

14. do you love the smell of earth after it rains? i was having a bad night the other night and left my window open and didnt realize it had rained when all of a sudden i smelled wet earth and trees and i think i had been transported straight 2 heaven...

21. something you’ve kept since childhood? wen i was really little (i dont remember exactly when) my grandma sewed me a spongebob blanket and ive had it in my room... For Forever.... i dont always sleep with it now bc i have a weighted blanket but its good for when im awake and cold... :^)

28. do you wear a mask? YES... i dont rly when im alone with friends or walking through the empty parts of my neighborhood but otherwise yes yes yes mask everywhere.

35. what’s your timezone? PST!! god's least favorite timezone!

42. an app you frequently use besides this godforsaken site? spotify is the only one i REALLY use often now... that and emby!!! (basically just another music streaming app asndkfjsad)

49. can you skip rocks? honestly i haven't been to a lake/body of water (or really a pleasant outing thats anything like that) for years now so i couldn't say 😭😭😭 probably not tho... eager to learn

#ask #kissing u a billion times like that dream where we were surrounded by zombies and fell in a well/lake/river/whatever body of water #u know the one #also i like the math aspect to this ask... rly making me use my noodle here #i was really good at my time tables esp sevens but i had to really calculate this for some reason adnlkjfsnaf

[deadpanwalking]

hello!! do you have any recommendations for books or essays about becoming a better reader of poetry? I love the poems you post and esp love when your tags go into what you got out of it / understood from it, bc it’s always so much more than I was able to interpret on my own. and I want to become a better reader and learn how to really sit with a poem and get into all its layers but idk where to start.

I stand behind the recs in this post, but since you want to focus on poetry and poetics, in addition to William Empson's The Seven Types of Ambiguity and Helen Vendler's Poems, Poets, and Poetry, I'd also recommend Christopher Ricks' The Force of Poetry, I. A. Richards' Practical Criticism, and Jorge Luis Borges' The Craft of Verse. They are all beautifully written, by people whose love of the form transcends academia and becomes, at times, a kind of secular worship. I loved poetry before I fully understood language, back when it was just incomprehensible mouthwords my parents repeated to get me to sleep; I'd have loved poetry even if I never toiled a day in the hermeneutics mines, like my grandmother reciting Eugene Onegin after her dementia cleared everything else from the table—she wasn't sure what it meant, all she knew was that this was the nicest thing she had. Isn't that a kind of faith?

There are other good books about how to read poetry, but these were the ones that initiated me into a conspiracy of words, they taught me to be curious about why I liked a poem, how to take pleasure in its vivisection without worrying I'd kill that faith—like martyrs, good poems never fall apart when you open them up, they yield. If anything, the practice of explication has made me even more of a fanatic. I hope it does the same for you!

If there are poets you already like, I can get more specific about recs—I'm partial to modernist poetry, but that just means I like following breadcrumb trails of allusions to lots of different literary traditions and can tell you where the bodies, hatchets and/or treasures are buried.

#where's that bugs bunny meme that's like lord forgive me but it's time 2 go back to tha old me #but it's me about to reblog tha helen vendler emperor of ice cream explication #literary criticism #i read much of the night and go south in the winter #r-osehips #assbox #okay caveat the vendler and ricks books are definitely out of print but get them used—i promise they pay for themselves #in a hypothetical future where the economy crashes and poetry understanding becomes the most valuable form of currency

[junghelioseok]

renegade.

↳ you can’t run from your demons forever. 

◇ hoseok x reader  ◇ angst | action | smut | demon!au ◇ 34.4k [1/1]

⇢ full summary: call it what you will—an unfortunate mistake, a lapse in judgment, a really, really bad fuck-up. it doesn’t change the fact that you willingly signed your soul away to an infuriatingly handsome, disarmingly affable crossroads demon after tragedy struck. and it definitely doesn’t change the fact that you’re on the run from that very same demon, now that ten years have passed and your time’s up.

notes: welcome to the longest one-shot i’ve ever written my contribution to the nightmare on tumblr.com collab with the wonderful and talented @underthejoon​, @bratkook​, @suga-kookiemonster​, @kpopfanfictrash​, @hobidreams​, and @jungkxook​!!! i am beyond excited to bring you this hoseok, who is so drastically different from the others i’ve written. this was delightfully challenging to write, and i hope you enjoy! 🖤

⇢ listen to “overfire” by thc (esp during the smut oop)

warnings: heavily inspired by supernatural and buffy ofc. preemptive apologies to any latin speakers out there. minor character deaths, grieving, implied depression, violence. mc literally dismembers someonething at one point. hobi’s big dick + big dick energy. there are handcuffs involved. oral (m receiving), a tiny bit of choking & spanking, dirty talk, mild degradation. a smidge of jungkook x reader if u squint. 

In retrospect, you probably should have left.

You’re taking a great risk by lingering here—less than a stone’s throw away from the trap you so meticulously laid a few hours prior. A Devil’s Trap etched into the floorboards beneath a garish striped rug, carved deep into the wood with the trusty switchblade you always keep in your boot. There’s another trap on the ceiling, painted with precision and dark enough to blend in with the shadows. Late afternoon is rapidly fading into evening—the sun setting beneath the horizon in one last burst of color. Dusky blue twilight settles into the spaces left behind, leaving just enough illumination for you to duck into the adjoining bathroom and leave the door open a sliver.

Any minute now, your death will arrive. There’s a pattern to inhuman creatures, after all—certain rules and rituals they tend to abide by. Over the years, you’ve found them to be most active in places like the ratty motel room you’re standing in—those liminal sorts of spaces where the laws of hospitality are at their weakest. You encounter the majority during the hours of dawn and dusk, when the borders between worlds are thin and the lines begin to blur.

On the far side of the room, the clock on the table strikes seven. Somewhere in the distance, a dog begins to bark and is quickly joined by two more. Nearby, you hear a door slam, the sound rattling the walls. Tick. Tick. Tick. The second hand moves past the six on the clock face, mocking you with its steady, unfaltering rhythm.

You aren’t ready to die. Not now, and certainly not here in this dingy little motel in the middle of nowhere. Ten years had seemed like a long time when you were eighteen and stupid with grief, but it’s passed now in the blink of an eye and you aren’t ready. You aren’t prepared to hold up your end of the bargain, and while inhuman things may be bound by certain rules, humans aren’t. Humans lie and scheme and fight. And you—you don’t intend to go gently into that good night.

Five seconds. Four. The second hand is steadily approaching the twelve that marks the top of the hour, and you can’t look away.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

And then there’s a noise at the front door.

It’s soft at first—a faint rustle and a series of soft taps that you probably wouldn’t have even heard had you not been listening. Then the door swings open, creaking on rusty old hinges. One beat passes, then two. And then your death steps past the threshold, wearing the face of a man who hasn’t aged a day since the first time you met all those years ago.

Hoseok. It’s the name he gave you then—the name he offered when he introduced himself with a smile dazzling enough to distract you from your grief. And it’s the name you whisper now—drawn from your lips on instinct and exhaled softly under your breath. Your eyes widen at your mistake and your hand flies up to your mouth, but it’s too late. Hoseok cocks his head to the side, his dark eyes flashing from behind the wisp of black hair that’s fallen loose across his forehead. Ever so slightly, his lips tug upward.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs, and his voice is a mocking lilt. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. It’s been so terribly long since we’ve seen each other.”

You suck in a deep breath before boldly stepping out of the bathroom, mustering every ounce of bravado you possess and pouring it into your words. “Not long enough,” you tell him, drawing strength from the fact that you can feel the heavy weight of your gun concealed beneath your jacket. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed quite a bit.” Hoseok’s mouth quirks into a crooked smirk as he looks you up and down, taking in the well-worn denim jacket and durable boots you’re wearing. “You’ve grown into a hell of a woman. Built up quite the reputation in the last few years, haven’t you?”

He hasn’t stepped into the trap yet. The toes of his sleek black oxfords remain just shy of the striped rug, and you stride forward until you’re standing inside the carved lines of the concealed pentagram, gazing at him coolly. “Oh, yeah? What have you heard?”

Hoseok’s smirk widens. He steps forward, just as you hoped he would, and you watch the realization dawn across his expression as the air shifts subtly around him. Quickly, you retreat back until you’re safely out of the bounds of the Devil’s Trap, looking on as Hoseok glances down at the rug before casting his gaze skyward to where the second pentagram is painted on the ceiling. Then his gaze settles back onto you, the warm brown of his irises beginning to recede. His pupils narrow into slits, and you feel a slight tremor beneath your feet as the floorboards begin to warp.

“You think I didn’t see this coming?” Hoseok asks, and when you look up at him, his eyes are blazing gold. “You think I don’t keep an eye on my toys?”

The air shifts again, and you feel your heart rate pick up as the tremors begin to grow in strength and frequency. A sudden, strong wind buffets you back against the wall, and you gasp at the impact even as Hoseok remains perfectly still in the center of your trap with not even a single hair out of place. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that he just came from the office—clad as he is in black slacks and a collared black shirt with the top two buttons undone to reveal a sliver of skin.

“You can’t—” you begin, but you’re cut off by a bark of laughter that worms its way into your head and grates against every nerve ending in your body.

“I can’t what, exactly?” Hoseok asks, leveling you with his burning, golden gaze. “Escape from this little trap of yours?” And as if to emphasize his remark, the floorboards at the edge of the room begin to crumple inward, peeling away from the wall and splintering apart. From the ceiling, flecks of dried blue paint begin raining down.

You don’t stay to watch any longer than that. Turning on your heel, you flee out the door and into the brisk evening air, pounding down the single flight of stairs that leads to the parking lot. You rip your keys from your jacket pocket and shakily unlock your car, diving into the driver’s seat as soon as the door opens and firing up the ignition.

It takes about three seconds for you to tear out of the parking lot and onto the main road, but even the rumble of the engine and the screech of tires isn’t enough to drown out the laughter that emanates from the motel room behind you.

Laughter that echoes in your eardrums, and sounds like the screaming of the damned.

THEN - [Ten Years Ago]

Purple twilight is just beginning to fade into the deep, dusky blue of a warm summer night when the phone rings. The sound echoes shrilly in the silence of the house, tearing your attention from the book on your lap, and you sigh before bookmarking the page. Rising to your feet, you stretch lazily as you pad over to the kitchen, plucking the phone off the counter and raising it to your ear. “Hello?”

“Honey?” The voice on the other end is your mother’s. Faintly, you can hear the hum of an engine, and deduce that they must be driving back from their weekend trip to the lake a few hours north of your town. “Did I wake you?”

A glance at the clock on the wall tells you that it’s just past ten. “Not yet, but I’m probably going to brush my teeth in a few,” you reply. “Are you almost home?”

“We’re still thirty minutes away. Maybe forty, at the rate your father’s driving.” You hear the smile in her voice, and laugh when the receiver picks up the sound of your dad harrumphing in mock offense. “We’ll be home before eleven, at least.”

“I’ll be sure to leave the porch light on,” you reply, grinning. Meandering over to the front door, you flick the switch and watch from the window as warm golden light illuminates the floral welcome mat. Across the street, you see your neighbor’s upstairs light blink off, signaling that they’ve put their twins to bed.

“Thanks, honey.” Your mother exhales—a soft, gentle sound. “Gosh, I’m beat. You should really head to bed. No need to wait up.”

“Soon,” you promise. “Right after I finish this chapter, I’ll—”

Thunk.

You frown, pressing your ear a little closer to the receiver. “Mom? Are you still there?”

Silence. Your brow furrows, concern bubbling up in your chest, and you stare at the phone in your hand for a few seconds before trying again. “Hello? Mom?”

“I’m here, hon.” Relief floods through your system, but it doesn’t last long. In the background, you can hear your father speaking in a low, urgent tone, his voice distorted by a staticky hum that suddenly crackles to life against your ear. The words don’t sound like any language you’ve ever heard, and you’re just about to open your mouth and ask about it when your mother speaks again.

“Honey, I’m going to hang up now, okay? There’s a thunderstorm moving in.”

Your frown deepens. The skies have been clear all day, and the evening forecast had predicted no rain in the area. There’s something else, too—a strange edge to your mother’s voice that brews disquiet in the pit of your stomach, and you find yourself gnawing on the edge of your thumbnail as you find your voice again. “Mom. Is everything okay? What’s Dad saying?”

“It’s nothing, hon. He’s singing along to the radio. We’ll be back soon, okay? We just have to—”

Thunk. Louder this time, and it almost sounds as if something heavy was just slammed against the side of the car. Your father’s voice grows stronger, but so does the static. Quietly, your mom hisses out an expletive, and alarm bells begin to blare in your head at her uncharacteristic use of profanity.

“Mom,” you begin, your voice shaking. “Wh—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence. You hear tires screeching against asphalt, followed by a deafening metallic shriek. Then there’s a dull thud—one that sounds like something crashing into a telephone pole or a tree—and your heart rate takes off in a sprint, thumping erratically against your ribs. Belatedly, you realize you’re shaking as your mother speaks again, the words barely registering over the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

“Honey, listen to me.” She’s speaking quickly, quietly. “You’ve locked the front and back door, right? All the windows?”

“I—” It takes you an inordinate amount of effort to remember. “Y-yeah. Yeah, they’re all locked.”

“Good. Don’t let anyone in, you hear me? Not even us. If it’s really us, we’ll have keys.”

“Mom, what are you—?”

“Do you understand, {Name}?”

You’ve never heard your mother sound so grim. “I-I understand,” you answer shakily, your gaze flitting nervously over to the front door. “But—”

A shout interrupts you this time, and you flinch when you recognize the voice as your father’s. He’s chanting again—a repeated verse in a language that you’re pretty sure is Latin—and his words are clear even through the receiver. You hear something else in the background, too—a gusting wind that sounds like the rustling wings of a thousand birds, growing louder and fiercer by the second. Your father shouts something in Latin again, and your mother grits out another curse. “Something’s coming,” she whispers, and your heart plummets into your churning stomach.

“No,” your father replies softly. “Something’s here.”

It happens in the span of a breath—in the time it takes for you to suck in a lungful of air and release it again. A piercing, metallic shriek renders the air, and you pull away from the receiver so quickly you nearly drop it. Shaking, you raise the phone back to your ear, your heart beating so quickly it feels like it may burst. “Mom? Dad? What was that?”

No response. There’s a muffled thump, and then you hear your mother’s voice, distantly, as if she’s underwater. She’s murmuring your father’s name over and over, desperation and despair lacing her tone, and you bite your lip as you call out to her again.

“Mom—” you start, but you’re cut off by laughter. Strange, strident laughter that echoes in the stillness and reverberates with enough malice to make your skin crawl, accompanied by the heavy, deliberate footsteps of a predator that knows it’s caught its prey. It’s a laugh that doesn’t sound human, and you think back to your father’s words. Something’s here. Not someone. Something.

“No,” your mother whispers. “No.” This is followed by a few words in a language you don’t recognize, before she’s cut off by a fresh bout of cackling laughter that has ice sliding down the length of your spine.

“Pathetic.” A low, cavernous voice—deep and malevolent. “That hunk of steel you call a car couldn’t even outpace me. Do you really think your little chants and tricks will save you?”

Your mother starts to reply. You hear a syllable of a word escape her lips, but then there’s a sickening crack and her voice morphs into a pained, gasping whimper. “Go,” she manages between labored breaths, “back to hell, you bastard.”

Another laugh, and this one rumbles like an avalanche. “Brave, stupid words for a human.”

Through the receiver, you hear another crack of bone, harsh and abrupt. Your mother cries out, your father’s name escaping her lips, and your heart splinters at the edge of raw anguish in her voice. Throat bobbing, you try to speak—to say something, do anything—but your body refuses to cooperate. It’s all you can do to hold the phone up to your ear, listening on as your mom gasps for breath.

“It’s almost a pity I have to kill you.” The cavernous voice takes on a leering lilt. “You’re a mouthy one, and I’d love to see what else you can do with it. A shame, really.”

And through the receiver, you listen. The thud of impact—of something hard colliding with something softer. A nauseating crunch, followed by a soft squelch. “Your eyes,” you hear your mother whisper. “They’re so cold.” Faintly, on the other end of the line, you hear what sounds like fingernails scrabbling against the speaker.

“I l-love you.” Her voice is whisper-soft, and you can hear every labored breath she exhales in the receiver. “Don’t forget it, {Name}. Your f-father and I, we love y…”

Her voice trails off, and you clutch the phone a little tighter against your ear. “Mom?”

Nothing. Shakily, you swallow, but it does nothing to soothe the dryness in your throat.

“Mom?”

There’s still no response, and something splinters the edges of your heart, piercing into your chest and cracking past your ribcage. Your breathing is growing increasingly shallow, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to get enough oxygen into your lungs. Shaking, you clutch at the phone, desperation seeping into your voice as you try again. “Mom? Dad?”

Silence. Quivering, you give into gravity, your knees hitting the tiled floor of the kitchen. The phone drops out of your hands, clattering down to the ground, and you don’t even react as it knocks against the wall. All you can hear is the echo of your mother’s voice—soft and gentle as always—until it, too, fades into nothing.

The quiet has never been more deafening. It presses against you on all sides, suffocating and oppressive, until your splayed limbs go soft and slip into numbness. Your mind is a blank and your head is stuffed full of cotton, and it feels like several eternities have passed by the time your senses begin to return. Dimly, you hear the low hum of the refrigerator as it starts up and the slow drip of the bathroom sink down the hall. You shift your weight slightly, wincing as the flow of blood returns and sends a series of throbbing, painful pinpricks along both legs.

Somehow, when the feeling in your legs returns, you have the presence of mind to pick up the fallen telephone. Autopilot drives your movements as you replace it in its stand, and it compels you to the sink when you register the dryness of your throat. There’s a glass on the counter that your dad was drinking from before he left, and you grab it wordlessly and fill it to the brim. The excess dribbles around the edges and down your chin when you drink, but you don’t pay the spill any mind. Your body is hollow, and water doesn’t even come close to quenching the emptiness that’s settled into the spaces between your ribs.

You aren’t sure when you fall asleep, but you awaken on the linoleum floor to sunlight streaming in through the blue-curtained windows and shards of shattered glass littering the ground around your crumpled form. Listlessly, you crawl to your feet and grab the dustpan and broom from the hall closet. The silence of the house echoes around you as you scrape the shards into a pile, the glass clinking softly. There’s no sizzle of breakfast being made. No hum of the TV from the living room. No splash of the shower from upstairs.

You’re alone. You used to savor moments like these—moments when you got the house to yourself and could blast music as loud as you wanted. Moments when you could sneak a little liquor from the locked cabinet in the kitchen, opening it up with the key hidden beneath the basil plant in the windowsill that your parents didn’t think you knew about. That’s where you head as soon as you put the broom back in the closet, lifting the plant pot until your fingertips meet cool metal. You wonder if you should water the basil while you’re here.

Unwillingly, your gaze slides back over to the phone. It sits there like a taunt, and you consider unplugging it from the wall and throwing the whole thing into the trash. Every moment you stare at it only serves to remind you of last night. Your dad’s strange chanting, and your mom’s last words.

And that mysterious third voice—the one that had sounded like grinding stones and rolling thunder. You couldn’t forget it if you tried.

Somehow, your feet manage to carry you over to where the phone sits on the counter. Again, you consider breaking it—opening the window and tossing it out just so you wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. Swallowing, you shut your eyes. You count to three, breathing deeply between intervals, and then you raise the phone to your ear and call the police.

If there’s one perk of living in a small, sleepy town, it’s that the police arrive quickly. You tell them that your parents were driving back from the lake a few hours north, and that they still haven’t returned. You lie when they ask whether you have any family or friends to stay with, and you walk them to the door when they depart again. Locking it behind them, you slump down onto the couch, and you don’t move again until the shadows are growing long and casting slanted silhouettes against the cream colored walls of the living room.

It takes the police one day to come back to you with news. A detective calls you in a somber voice, and you know before the words have even left his mouth. The police bring you down to the station just once—once, to identify the two bodies they’d found in the forest between your town and the next one over. The lawyers come, too—speaking in jargon you can’t comprehend and don’t particularly care to. The only words you understand are last will and testament, and you stop listening after that. The house is yours now—you know that much. Most of the money, too, though a portion has been willed to your aunt—your father’s younger sister. They were always close despite the fact that she lives on the other side of the country, and when she calls you once everyone has left, you pick up with a tired sigh.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetie.” Her voice is wistful. “How are you holding up?”

You search for something reassuring to say, but are left at a loss. “I don’t know,” you answer, and it’s the truth. Your entire body feels numb, and at this point, you aren’t sure you’ll ever feel anything again.

“Oh, honey,” your aunt murmurs, and you hate the sympathy in her tone. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to fly out there to be with you, but the baby’s due any day now and we couldn’t find a sitter for Abbie. But you can call me anytime you need someone to talk to, okay? Day or night. I’m here for you, sweetie. We all are.”

You nod before you realize that she can’t see you. “Right,” you mumble. “Thanks.”

On the other end of the line, you hear your aunt release a long, slow breath. “I wish there was more I could do,” she says after a beat. “You’re at least staying with friends though, right?”

“Right,” you lie. “I’m cleaning out some stuff now, but after… yeah. Heading out to a friend’s.”

“Good,” she says, with obvious relief seeping into her voice. “Anyway, I’ve got to run—Abbie’s calling for me. I think she scraped her knee on the sidewalk, and—” She stops. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to listen to me ramble on. I’m serious about calling me, though. Day or night, honey. Anytime you need.”

“Thanks,” you say dully, before remembering your manners. “And hey, I hope Abbie’s okay. Give her a kiss for me.”

“Of course,” your aunt says. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Bye.”

The line goes dead, and you slowly lower the receiver back into its stand. A wave of exhaustion overtakes you, sinking into your very bones, and you decide it may be worthwhile to head upstairs for a nap. You shuffle over to the staircase, making it up a single step before the door at the end of the hall catches your attention.

It’s your father’s study. You’ve only been inside a handful of times in recent years, since your father had requested privacy during the final stages of writing his novel. As a child, however, you'd often played inside on the carpeted floor—building block towers and having tea parties with your stuffed animals and dolls while your dad clacked away at his computer. The memories push you toward the door, but your throat constricts as soon as your fingers touch the brassy doorknob. With some difficulty, you swallow down the feeling, and take a moment to gather yourself before pushing open the door.

Immediately, you are assailed by the smell of old books. Underlying that is a distinctly herbal scent—something that you trace to the dying plants in the window and the woven wreath of dried flowers hung on the wall opposite. They’re smells that you’ve grown up with—smells that remind you of what you’ve lost—and your throat begins to tighten again at the thought. Taking a tentative step inside, you grab a book from the shelf nearest you, burying your nose inside and breathing in the old leather.

When your breath evens out again, you raise your head and take a closer look at the book you’ve grabbed. Paradise Lost, the cover reads, and you sigh and replace it in its spot on the shelf. Turning instead to your father’s desk, you edge around and take a tentative seat in the worn leather chair behind it. Resting your elbows on the polished mahogany surface, you glance around—from the stained glass lamp sitting on one corner to the miniature globe on the other. The computer sits proudly in the center, and just to the right of it lies a book. Curiosity has you reaching for it, and you frown when you flip open the plain red cover to see the title inscribed within. Infernale.

Weird.

Slowly, you turn a few more pages, taking in the scribbles that decorate many of the margins. You recognize both your father’s and mother’s handwriting, and frown when you read the words. South Beach, 1991. Your gaze darts up to the title of the chapter, your heart rate picking up when you see it. Lesser Demons.

Heart racing, you return to the table of contents. Chapter one is indeed titled Lesser Demons, and your forehead wrinkles as you read through more of the chapter names. Demons of the Waste. Daeva. Specters. Ifrit. Yōkai. Cambions. Incubi and Succubi.

You stop after a few more. Two pages in the book are dog-eared, you notice, and your fingers shake as you turn to the first. It takes you to the chapter entitled Demons of the Waste, and you scan the page for any reason why it may have been bookmarked. There are only a few words scribbled in the margin—the names of cities you’ve never visited and dates long before you were born. Frowning, you instead turn to the second dog-ear, scanning across that chapter title.

Demons of the Crossroads.

Your gaze drops to the first paragraph, and then the second. You read through the passages describing their powers and abilities—how they’ve been known to grant great power and riches to those who summon them. Anything and everything that one could desire, but at a cost. And though all of this is no doubt a fantasy—a little bit of fiction to spur your father’s imagination and help him find his muse—you find yourself turning to the page that lays out the details of the summoning ritual.

A crossroads, at midnight. A box crafted of wood from an elder tree. A handful of dirt from a graveyard, and a bone from a black cat. And most importantly, a drop of the summoner’s blood.

“This can’t be real,” you mutter under your breath, scanning the text a second time. “Demons… they can’t be real.” But then you think back to the voice that you heard just before your parents died—the one that echoes in your dreams and turns them into waking nightmares. The voice that was distinctly inhuman, and set off all the alarm bells in your brain that your parents taught you should never be ignored.

Groaning, you shake your head and drop the book back down onto the desk, the page still flipped open to the directions for the summoning ritual. You stare down at the required items once more, wondering—and then something possesses you and you begin to look around the rest of the study. The many bookshelves lining the walls house a variety of odds and ends, and you immediately spot a small wooden box on one of the uppermost shelves. Curiously, you grab it and open the lid, inhaling sharply when you see the mound of dirt inside.

Now that you are looking, you quickly find a bone that looks small enough to be from a cat. It’s sitting not too far from where you discovered the box, and you wonder, vaguely, if it’s already been used. Can items be used more than once for summoning rituals? You aren’t sure. You don’t even know if the ritual will work, or if demons are even real. The sheer ludicrousness of the entire situation settles over you all at once and you begin to laugh—slumping against the wall and heaving for air. You laugh until your stomach cramps and your breath grows short, and then you hiccup and laugh some more. It’s freeing, almost—a strange sense of relief after two days of the static limbo you’ve found yourself stuck in. You laugh until you can laugh no more, and then you slump all the way to the ground, sinking down into the thick, tasseled rug.

Slowly, you glance at the little bone in your hand. Then you look at the wooden box, sitting on the table with its lid open. Your gaze slides over to the book beside it, your mind recalling the words you’ve already memorized. Wood, earth, bone, and blood. You already have all four. And as luck would have it, you happen to know of a crossroads at the edge of town, too.

If anything, it’s an excuse to get out of the house. Even if Infernale does end up being fiction, you’ve been cooped up for far too long and fresh air would probably do you a world of good. Rising to your feet, you place the bone atop the mound of dirt and shut the box, latching the little metal clasp.

The remainder of the afternoon passes in a blur. You make yourself a sandwich as the sun sets, watching from the window as it disappears beyond the horizon in one last burst of hazy gold. The deep blue of evening descends over the kitchen, and you finish eating in the dark before finally turning on the lights. Quietly, you wash the crumbs from your hands, making sure to wipe down the counter and clean up the utensils you’ve used.

You leave the house fifteen minutes after eight o’clock, stepping into the garage for the first time in what feels like forever. Your mother’s car is still parked there—they’d taken your father’s that fateful day, after all—and your throat tightens at the sight of the navy blue sedan. Your eyes well with unshed tears but you will them back down, blinking rapidly to dispel them. Swallowing, you dig the keys out of your backpack and unlock the door, climbing into the driver’s seat and adjusting the controls until you can reach the pedals and see all the mirrors.

The drive out is a short one, down a road you’ve driven along many times on your way to and from your job at the twenty-four hour diner that sits on the outskirts of town. Instead of taking a right like you normally do, however, this time you take a left. Soon, the cracked asphalt turns into dirt and you gradually come to a stop, taking care to pull over to the side of the road and putting the car in park. Sucking in a deep breath, you glance over at the backpack sitting on the passenger seat.

“This is stupid,” you mumble to yourself, pulling the keys from the ignition. Throwing open the door, you climb out and walk around to the trunk where you’ve stowed the shovel you found in the garage an hour prior. “God, this is stupid. I mean, what’s next? Summoning the tooth fairy?”

Still, you locate the center of the crossroads and start digging a hole there. Still, you pull the elderwood box out of your backpack once you deem the hole deep enough, placing it inside and opening up the lid. Grabbing the sewing kit you purloined from the hall closet, you carefully select a needle. It gleams silver in the flickering orange light of the streetlamp on the corner, and you shiver as you press the pointed tip to the pad of your index finger, pricking through the skin.

Wood. Earth. Bone.

A single drop of blood drips into the box, absorbing into the dark mound of soil. You wince as you put away the needle and grab the prepared bandaid from your pocket, bandaging your finger clumsily before crouching down to shut the box. Laboriously, you fill up the hole again, tamping down the disturbed earth with your shovel. According to Infernale, the only thing left to do now is wait. You wonder, after a few silent seconds have dragged by, whether you should have brought along the book for some light reading.

The thought has only just crossed your mind when there’s a sound from behind you. It’s the slightest noise—the lightest crunch of gravelly dirt underfoot—and you whirl, immediately on the alert. Mentally, you curse yourself for not thinking to bring a weapon aside from the shovel lying on the ground at your feet.

And then you stop dead, frozen as you stare at the man standing before you.

He looks like a man, at least. There’s no way for you to confirm that the summoning spell worked—at least, not until the man takes a step into the light of the streetlamp and smiles, baring teeth that look just a touch sharper than normal. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be,” he remarks. His gaze flits up, and you follow the trajectory as he gestures up at the velvety night sky where the first stars are just beginning to peek through the darkness. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

Feeling is slowly beginning to return to your body, seeping into your limbs and loosening the chokehold on your throat. “It worked,” you manage, swallowing down what little saliva remains in your mouth. “You’re… you’re a demon.”

“I’m Hoseok,” the man replies, taking another step closer and offering you a hand that you don’t take. Unfazed, he retracts his hand and hooks his thumb into his pocket. “And yes, you’re correct about the demon thing. I’m here at your request, darling, so what will it be?”

“I—” You’re still recovering your full vocabulary. “I think I expected you to be hornier.” The poor word choice escapes before you can stop it, and you slap a palm over your mouth when you realize the implication. “Not like that! It’s just that… I mean, don’t demons usually have—?” You trail off and settle for miming horns at your temples, sticking out your index fingers and wiggling them lamely for emphasis.

Hoseok chuckles and taps the side of his head, ruffling his black hair just enough to expose a glimpse of his undercut. “Don’t believe all the stereotypes,” he advises. “Besides, I usually use my human form for these sorts of things. It’s a bit more… palatable for your kind.”

You aren’t sure what to say in response to that. Fidgeting with a loose thread at the hem of your t-shirt, you glance back at the patch of disturbed earth where you buried the box of summoning items, gnawing on your bottom lip nervously. “I guess… I guess this means that the ritual worked, then.”

“Like a charm,” Hoseok replies, and now that he’s stepped fully into the light from the streetlamp, you see that he appears to be a man in his mid to late twenties. Black hair is parted neatly over his forehead, a few stray strands falling loose into dark brown eyes. He’s wearing an all black ensemble—a silky black shirt that flows along his body like water and tucks into black slacks at the waist—and your throat bobs when you note the way the top two buttons are undone to expose a generous sliver of golden skin.

“So…” You hesitate. “Now what?”

Hoseok’s lips tilt up into a smile. “You’re the one who summoned me, darling. You tell me.”

“I—” Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth again. “I want to make a deal. My parents. Can you… can you bring them back?”

A beat of silence. Then, Hoseok releases a long, slow sigh, and your heart plummets down to the pit of your stomach. “It’s not that simple, unfortunately,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Unlike death, life is a tricky thing. Death is easy. Effortless. But life? Not so much.”

“How can you say that?” you ask, the tears you’ve been suppressing for so long finally beginning to brim. “Death is horrible. And my parents, they—” You stop, letting out a shuddery breath. “They didn’t deserve this. They deserved better.”

Hoseok shakes his head, his mouth curling into a sympathetic smile. “When I say death, I don’t mean dying, darling. Dying is hard, yes. And most of the time, it’s painful. But once you’re dead, it’s a release. No worries or cares, in this world or the next.”

You sniff. “Is this your way of telling me that they’re in a better place now?”

Hoseok’s smile is a bit more genuine this time. “I haven’t seen either of them in Hell yet, that’s for sure.”

That gives you pause. There’s no trace of deceit in his voice—no sign of a lie in his expression—and you instinctively glance up at the smattering of stars scattered across the sky. “Does that mean… are you saying that they’re…?”

You can’t quite finish the sentence, but Hoseok seems to understand nonetheless. “It wouldn’t be very fair to pull them out now, would it?” he asks softly, and you hesitate for a moment before nodding in agreement.

The silence that descends after your acquiescence is a long one. Hoseok doesn’t seem to be in any rush to break it, and you can’t find the words to do it yourself. A cool breeze blows by, ruffling the treetops and sending a stray aluminum can skittering across your path. Idly, you kick at it, watching as it clatters across the gravelly dirt and comes to a stop in the sparse grass at the side of the road.

“It’s funny,” you murmur after a few long moments have gone by. “I never thought I’d be doing something like this.” Glancing down, you pick at the loose thread on your shirt again, winding it around your index finger and pulling until it begins to dig into your skin. “We were supposed to go to the beach this week. My parents rent a house on the shore every summer, and we’d always go down to vacation. It was gonna be the last trip we took before I started college, but now…” You sniff and rub hurriedly at your nose. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, huh?”

Hoseok takes another step forward, until he’s close enough that you could easily reach out and touch him. “Sorry,” he says. “I wish you could’ve gone on that trip. Beaches are one of the best things about Earth.”

You can’t help it—you snort. “Been to a lot of beaches, have you?”

“You’d be surprised,” he replies. “And let me tell you, the ones on Earth are way better than the ones in Hell. Way too much lava.” He chuckles. “Besides—the smell of salt in the air? Waves crashing against the rocks as seagulls fly overhead? What’s not to like?”

“I always liked the sunrises,” you answer wistfully. Between your fingers, the thread snaps in two, and you stare down at it for a moment before letting it fall to the ground. “We used to take walks, you know. On the last morning before we left, we’d walk along the beach and watch the sun rise. We’d pack a picnic breakfast, and—” Your voice cracks a little on the last syllable, and you trail off. A glance at Hoseok reveals him standing silently, his expression unreadable from behind the wisps of dark hair falling loose across his forehead. Beneath your feet, gravel crunches as you scuff your heel awkwardly against the ground.

“Let me help,” Hoseok says at last, his voice low. “I may not be able to bring your parents back, but I can grant you one wish.”

You suck in a deep breath and exhale it back out again through your teeth. “A wish for my soul, right?”

Hoseok inclines his head, sending another strand of dark hair into his brown eyes. “There is a price, yes. Do you want to continue?”

You hesitate. You think back to that dreaded night, and the phone call you’d gotten. You think of the noises you’d heard through the receiver—the cracks and crunches and cries of pain. You think of your mother’s last words, before her breath was cut off short and her voice faded into deafening silence.

“My family,” you choke out. “My aunt. My uncle and my cousins. All of my loved ones—everyone I care about—I don’t want them to suffer. I want them to live long, happy lives, and I don’t want them to… to die in pain. Can you do that?”

“I can.” Hoseok takes another step, until there’s only the barest distance between you and you can feel the heat radiating off of his chest. “Is that your wish?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You wonder, vaguely, if he’s going to conjure up a paper contract out of midair.

Instead, Hoseok simply smiles and tilts his head to the side. “Done,” he breathes, and you feel a ripple in the air around you. On some level, you were still convinced that this was all an elaborate hoax, but that dissipates completely when you peer at his face and see that he’s changed. His features are sharper, and his aura is much more dangerous. He seems to be radiating power—you can feel the energy thrumming in the air, disturbing the very oxygen entering your lungs. And his eyes—they’ve shifted from dark brown to molten gold, with narrow pupils and a distinctly inhuman slant that sends your heartbeat into a raging gallop.

“You know how we seal these deals, don’t you?” Hoseok’s voice has dipped an octave, and you shiver at the deep, cavernous quality it’s taken on. His hand comes up to brush your cheek—the tender motion belying everything you’ve read and heard about his nature. Shakily, you steel yourself, but no amount of preparation could have readied you for when Hoseok’s lips find yours. The touch burns, and you don’t even have a chance to figure out whether what you’re feeling is pleasure or pain before he pulls back again.

“Ten years, darling,” he says. “That’s as long as I can give you.” Then his voice softens, and you wonder if you’re fooling yourself into hearing sincerity in his tone. “And I’m sorry about your parents. It’s unfortunate, what happened to them.”

“I…” Your breath is stuck in your throat. “I, um. Thank you, I guess.”

A smile. “Ten years,” he reminds you. “Enjoy them, darling. I’ll be seeing you again before you know it.”

And then you blink, and he’s gone.

///

A week passes, or maybe it’s only a few days. You lose track after a while, mindlessly going through the motions of life in a house that feels much too large for one. Day and night blur together, until your meeting with Hoseok feels like a distant memory. Sometimes, you even manage to convince yourself that it was all just a dream—a figment of an overactive imagination and one too many reads of your father’s supernatural mystery novels.

But eventually, you wake up. Eventually, the reality of the situation sinks back in and you’re left floating and directionless, adrift in the prison of your own home with the knowledge that you only have ten years left to live.

“Twenty-eight,” you mumble to the empty air of your bedroom. Racking your brain, you try to remember what your parents were doing at that age, but come up short. And maybe, you think, that’s for the best. You won’t have anything to lose if you don’t have anything to begin with. An empty life renders death an easy choice—a welcome one, even. When Hoseok comes to claim what’s his, you’ll be able to give it to him without hesitation.

Another day goes by, and you manage to pull yourself out of limbo at last. You find yourself driving down the road again—only this time, you take the much more familiar path on the right. The roadside diner is deserted and quiet save the soft hum of the jukebox in the corner and the bleary eyed young man standing behind the counter, and you can only blink weakly at him when his eyes widen at the sight of you in the doorway.

“{Name}?” He squints, his nose scrunching as he leans over the counter. “Where the hell have you been?”

You take two steps inside before faltering, coming to a stop beneath the dingy fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. “Nice to see you too, Yoongi.”

Yoongi snorts and adjusts the red paper hat atop his head—a flimsy, shapeless thing that tops off his pinstriped uniform and clashes terribly with his mint green hair. “Seriously? Is that all you have to say after almost two weeks MIA? Old Man Schneider was this close to firing you. You’re lucky I managed to save your ass.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Stepping around the counter, you join him at the cash register and plop your own hat onto your head. Yoongi watches you raptly, a frown etched across his face, and you finally turn to look at him again when the staring becomes too much. “What?”

“You never answered my question,” he answers quietly. “Where have you been, {Name}? I thought you’d died or something. What the hell happened to you?”

Yoongi has always been blunt, and you normally appreciate his no-nonsense attitude. It’s come in handy on many an occasion with the entitled customers and the rowdy teenagers who come in looking to cause trouble. During the two years you’ve worked at the diner, you’ve bonded over stolen midnight milkshakes and sordid gossip about the more eccentric locals. It isn’t much of a stretch to say that he’s your closest friend in this town, and when you hesitate a moment too long, you see something soft enter his irises.

“{Name}...” he says, and he doesn’t say anything beyond that. You don’t give him a chance to, as you spill the events of the last two weeks. You tell him about the phone call and the police and the lawyers— leaving out the inhuman voice you heard and your deal with Hoseok—and he listens in growing horror until you finally lapse back into silence with tears pricking at your eyes. He lays a hand on your shoulder, then—cautious and hesitant—and you wipe hurriedly at your nose before offering him a weak, watery smile.

“It’s okay,” you mumble. “I’m okay.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Yoongi replies shortly. “Do you wanna get out of here? Froggy’s doesn’t card, and I’m pretty sure you could use a drink.”

You bark out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think I can miss any more work, Yoongi. Old Man Schneider will fire me for sure, and even you won’t be able to talk him out of it. Besides, working will do me some good. I… I could use the distraction.”

Yoongi hesitates for a second before nodding. He reaches up and adjusts your paper cap with uncharacteristic gentleness, and you offer him another small smile before heading to the back to restock the cups and straws.

Your shift passes without incident, and for that you’re grateful. It’s nearing one in the morning by the time you finish mopping the linoleum floors, skirting around the booths that are occupied by truckers passing through the area. Thankfully, neither you nor Yoongi are scheduled to work the dead shift, which runs from midnight to eight in the morning. Eileen—a middle-aged woman with graying blond hair and permanent frown lines—has already arrived and is setting up shop at the cash register. Together, you and Yoongi bid her goodbye and head out into the night, breathing in fresh air that’s untainted by the smell of hot grease.

“You gonna be okay?” Yoongi is looking at you, raking a hand through his tousled mint hair, and you consider telling him the truth. For one brief, shining moment, you consider telling him about Hoseok and the strange deal you made, and the way he’d inexplicably disappeared afterward. You wonder if he would think you were crazy if you told him you were beginning to believe in the existence of demons, or if he would write it off as a joke.

Hell, maybe you have gone crazy.

Gathering your wits about you, you muster a smile and nod your head. “I’ll be fine,” you tell him as earnestly as you can. “I just needed to tell someone, I think, so thanks for listening.”

Yoongi doesn’t look entirely convinced. Still, he pulls his keys from his pocket and turns toward where his car is parked on the other side of the lot. “Breakfast tomorrow,” he says shortly. “Not here, obviously. Tub’s Pub okay? At ten?”

You reach out and grab his hand before he can walk away, squeezing it tight. “Yeah. Ten is great.”

THEN - [Nine Years Ago]

Seasons change, but you don’t. Instead, you find yourself stuck in stasis, spending long hours at the diner and even longer hours in your house. Time seems to pass faster when you’re inebriated, and alcohol seems to be the only way you can fall asleep nowadays. The liquor cabinet is kept well-stocked, and while you’re willing to acknowledge that you may have a problem, you aren’t willing to do anything about it. You have a problem that’s much bigger than alcohol, after all.

Hoseok.

Just one year ago, you made a deal and sealed your fate. You came face to face with your death, and he showed up in the form of an admittedly handsome, dangerously charismatic demon of the crossroads. Ten years, he’d promised, and by your count you have nine more remaining. Somedays, you find yourself wondering whether dying will hurt or not.

You’ve spoken to your aunt several times during the last year. She’s busy with her newborn but still finds the time to call at least once a month, and during your call last week she’d finally caved and told you the truth. As it turns out, she’s known about the existence of supernatural forces all along, and the news that her brother was killed in a mysterious car accident came as no surprise. Her parents—your grandparents—came from a long line of hunters and passed along all the skills and tools of the trade. They passed away when you were a child, and you glean from the sadness in her voice that they’d died on the job.

I never wanted that kind of life, she’d murmured wistfully. Hunting wasn’t my thing, and I was bad at it. I was bad at tracking and even worse at fighting, and no matter how much my parents wanted me to learn, I kept resisting. I just wanted to start a family, and I didn’t want to raise my kids in a world of monsters and bloodshed. But your father… I guess he just couldn’t stay away.

I thought things would get better when he met your mom, to be honest. She was a wonderful woman, with a good head on her shoulders and a stable accounting career. But just before the wedding, he told me. She was a hunter too. She was just a lot better at hiding it.

Just before she’d hung up, your aunt had offered for you to move in with her. The promise of a normal life was tempting, and for a few long seconds you’d considered it. Considered packing your bags and leaving this house behind, and starting a new life on the other side of the country. But in the end, something held you back.

Sighing, you set aside your dinner plate and rise from your spot on the couch. The clock on the living room wall tells you that your shift starts in fifteen minutes, and you wearily grab your bag and head out to the car. You drive on autopilot, rambling down familiar back roads and quiet streets until you reach the diner where Yoongi is already standing behind the cash register. “Hey,” he says when you enter, blowing a bubble that’s almost the same shade of pink as his hair. The color is even more garish with the red hat than the mint had been, and is a drastic change from the cerulean blue he’d been sporting just last week.

“Hey,” you reply. “You’re here early.”

“I’m really not. I just filled in for Eileen this morning.” Then he jabs a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “Hey, are you hungry? Donnie just made a whole bunch of chicken nuggets, and they’re probably sitting in the back getting cold.”

You shake your head and don your paper cap, not even bothering to check your reflection to make sure it’s on straight. “Nah. I just ate.”

Yoongi shrugs and spits his gum into a napkin. “Your loss. I’m gonna go grab some—can you watch the register for a minute?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking his place behind the counter. The diner is relatively quiet on Tuesday nights, and for that you’re grateful. You have a sneaking suspicion that most people are staying in tonight anyway, especially since the evening forecast predicted dropping temperatures and a chance of snow flurries later around midnight.

Glancing around, you take in the patrons seated around the dining area. Only one of them you recognize—a regular named Tom who always keeps peppermints in his pocket and loves telling stories about his grandchildren. He’s seated at the far end of the counter with his usual platter of pork chops and mashed potatoes, and waves when he catches your eye. Nearby, there’s a man with a blue baseball cap pulled low over his face, hunched in his booth over a plate of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and a full pot of coffee. No doubt he’s a trucker—you’ve seen his type time and time again. A few tables over, two women are seated with only one small bowl of untouched fruit between them. One has dark hair and the other has light, but both possess the kind of features that make it near impossible to determine their age. Closest to you, lounging in a booth near the window, is a man wearing a full suit. His briefcase occupies the seat opposite him, and you quickly look away when he glances at you with eyes that are too, too blue.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t witnessed any strange events at the diner. Most of the time they’re simple cases of drunk and disorderlies or local teenagers looking to blow off some steam, but every now and then an incident makes you wonder. Ever since you stumbled across Infernale in your father’s study—ever since you met Hoseok—you haven’t been able to shake the feeling that something is lingering at the edges of your vision, just out of sight.

The books all say the same thing, after all. There are other dimensions beyond the earthly one, and the borders between them are weakest at dawn and dusk. Lines blur during those odd, liminal hours—those times that are just a little in between. And now that the sun is rapidly setting beyond the horizon, you can’t help but take another, more careful look around.

Three men and two women. The diner is quiet save the soft clatter of silverware and the clinking of glasses. Yoongi hasn’t returned yet, and distantly in the back you can hear his low drawl as he converses with Donnie and the other cooks. Through the window, you watch as evening settles like a velvety blanket, dark clouds blotting out the moon and stars.

When the door flies open, you nearly jump out of your skin. You hadn’t even seen anyone approach through the glass, but the woman sauntering toward you is definitely not a figment of your imagination. She’s tall and willowy with chestnut brown waves cascading down her back, and the diner audibly falls silent as she approaches the counter and offers you a smile that could instantly end any supermodel’s career.

“Hi,” she purrs. “You’re open, right? Do I just help myself, or…?”

Blinking, you glance over at the Please seat yourself! sign by the door that she just breezed past. “Uh, I guess? You can take a seat wherever, and I can drop off some water in a second.”

Her smile widens. “Make it hot water, won’t you? It’s freezing out there.” And then she walks off toward the booth between Tom and the trucker, her hips swaying with every step.

Yoongi returns, and you bring the woman a mug of hot water as promised. She doesn’t order anything else beyond that, and you do a quick check of the other patrons before returning to the register where Yoongi is idly scribbling on a stray piece of receipt paper.

“Maybe I will have some of those chicken nuggets,” you sigh, stretching your arms overhead and letting out a yawn. “Are there any left back there?”

“Probably,” Yoongi hums, and you nod and head to the kitchen in search of some food.

By the time you return—less than five minutes in total—both Tom and the woman are noticeably absent. Curiously, you raise your eyebrows at Yoongi, who just shrugs and returns to his doodling. Rolling your eyes, you glance outside instead, noting that night has well and truly fallen while you were in the back of the diner. The single streetlamp standing on the corner of the parking lot does little to illuminate its surroundings, and you don’t see anything at first. But as your eyes adjust, you begin to see movement. Two shadowy silhouettes lurking just outside the ring of light cast on the cracked asphalt, locked in an embrace and dancing to music that only they can hear.

Only, they aren’t dancing.

Confused, you take a closer look at the two figures, your brows furrowing when you realize that they are Tom and the mysterious woman. They’re standing close together—practically chest to chest—and maybe it’s a trick of the light but the woman’s face looks wrong, somehow. Inhuman.

And Tom—he doesn’t seem to be moving much at all.

“Son of a bitch!” you hiss under your breath. Grabbing the nearest salt shaker off the counter, you surreptitiously pry off the lid and pocket it. “Going out for some air,” you tell Yoongi, who hums and waves you off without looking up. And on your way out, you grab a knife from the bin and stash that in your pocket too.

As soon as you open the front door, you’re assailed by a gust of brisk air that immediately permeates the thin material of your uniform and mists your breath. Your focus doesn’t waver from where Tom and the woman are standing though, and the slam of the door falling shut again catches their attention and holds it as you make your approach.

“This is private property,” you say as you step into the light of the streetlamp, your grip tight around the knife in your pocket. Somehow, your voice is steady, and you send a silent thank you to whatever deities may exist up in the heavens. “You can’t be loitering here.”

The woman grins and runs a perfectly manicured nail down Tom’s cheek. This close to him, you can see the way he’s quivering, and anger swells in your chest when you spot the razor thin trail of red that she’s left behind on his skin.

“No need to worry your pretty little head,” she coos. “I’m almost done here, anyway.”

Something in you snaps at the condescension lilting her tone—something hard and brittle that releases a flood of cold fury up and into your throat. “Leave!” you shout, wrenching the salt shaker from your pocket and flinging the contents at the woman. With your other hand you grab the knife, brandishing it wildly as you struggle to remember the chant that you’d read in Infernale just two nights prior. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica pose—oh, fuck. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus—”

The woman laughs. “Are you trying to exorcise me? That’s not going to work, you idiot. And that knife? What a joke.” Carelessly, she—it?—lets go of Tom’s collar, shoving the elderly man aside. Tom wheezes and staggers into the rickety wooden fence that lines the parking lot, and you scowl as the woman begins stalking toward you, putting on a brave face even as fear curdles in your gut.

“Get back!” You rip the crucifix pendant out from where it’s concealed beneath your uniform, brandishing it on its metal chain. “Stay back, I’m warning you—”

She merely laughs again, baring glistening white teeth. “Really? Do you think that little cross will save you?” Her grin widens and her face begins to ripple, the skin bulging. Her eyes glint dangerously in the dim light, and yours widen as you watch her teeth elongate in her mouth, sharpening to razor points.

“Vampire,” you gasp. “Oh, shit.”

She smirks. “Finally caught on, huh?”

But you aren’t paying attention—not anymore. You’re looking at the fence that lines the property, and more specifically, you’re eyeing the jagged break in one of the wooden slats from last weekend’s thunderstorm.

“Get back!” you shout, ripping the crucifix off its chain and waving it at her. “You think you’re tough? You go after Tom, of all people? You’re a fucking bitch!”

Much to your relief, she begins backing up, eyeing the crucifix warily. Still, she’s smiling, and you narrow your eyes and point your knife at her as she opens her mouth to speak, her fangs flashing in the dim light. “Oh, it has a name?” she asks, giggling as she glances over to where Tom has fallen to the ground and is muttering what sounds like a prayer. “I thought it was just easy prey. I don’t like working too hard for my meals, to be honest.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” you grit out, tightening your grip on the crucifix. “You’re fucking heartless.”

The woman—vampire—merely tilts her head, sending a wavy lock of brown hair tumbling over her shoulder. “What’s your point?”

Scowling, you drop the knife and cross the remaining distance between you, slamming the crucifix against the exposed skin of her clavicle. The impact sends her reeling back, and she stumbles over her heeled boots before there’s a dull squelch. Shock flits across her face as she glances down, staring at the jagged bit of wood protruding from her chest.

“I guess I just have one point,” you hiss, ignoring the burning sizzle emanating from where the crucifix is still pressed against her skin. “Too bad it’s also the point that’s going to kill you.”

The vampire snarls—outrage marring her face and twisting it into something horrendous. “You little bitch,” she grits out, lashing out at you with the last of her strength. Her teeth graze your neck, stinging your skin, and you gasp and stumble back in surprise.

And then it’s over. The vampire dissolves into dust that quickly blows away on the wind, and you grimace as you touch the spot on your neck and come away with your fingers wet.

When you walk back into the diner, Yoongi is looking at you with concern swimming in his dark eyes. “You okay?” he asks, and you nod. You see the way his gaze drops to the scratch on your neck, but he doesn’t say anything else and for that you’re grateful.

That night, you hole up in your father’s study and find every book you can on vampires. You read until the early hours of the morning, and only then do you stumble your way to the couch for a nap. Sleep brings with it dreams, and in them you see Tom and the vampire you’d killed. You see Yoongi, and you see Hoseok. And then you see your parents.

Upon waking, you know what you have to do. You may only have nine years to live, but you’ll be damned if you don’t make the best of them.

It takes two months. Two months of staying up late to read in the study, until night blurs into morning. Two months of picking up extra shifts at the diner and avoiding Yoongi’s probing questions. Your friend has always been much more observant than people give him credit for. His apathy is often mistaken for stupidity, but you know him better than that. Moreover, you know that he knows something is up. You aren’t willing or ready to tell him about your plans though, and he stops pressing the issue after a while. Leaving is easier once he lets up, and you try not to let any emotion show on your face when you bid him farewell after your last shift.

“Yeah, yeah.” His mouth is twisted into a sardonic little frown, as usual. “Get out of here. Your shift’s been over for half an hour already, and I’ll see you tomorrow anyhow.”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat, your voice surprisingly steady even to your own ears. “Same time, same place.”

“Just like always.” He offers you a little half-smile, crooked with amusement. “See ya.”

“Bye, Yoongi.”

You turn around before the tears come, pushing open the glass doors and stepping out into the dimly lit parking lot. Your breath turns into mist upon contact with the wintry air, and you watch a whorl of it spiral up into the night sky before dissipating into nothing. Up above, cold stars blink at you from their lofty thrones, casting silent judgment.

You’ve already packed everything you can fit into your car. Books, charms, and the few weapons you’d found stashed away under the floorboards of your father’s study. Infernale is tucked safely in your backpack in the front seat, and you look over at it before taking one last glance back at the diner. Through the window, you can see Yoongi’s mop of pink hair bobbing around.

Slowly, you put the key into the ignition. The engine rumbles to life, and you release a long, slow breath.

In. Out.

And you begin to drive.

THEN - [Seven Years Ago]

It’s a cloudless night. The moon is full and the stars are distant and cold, and you know—having now read most of the books and scrolls and grimoires you took from your father’s study—that it’s a perfect night for something unnatural to come out and play.

Werewolves are your first bet. Active for three days around each full moon, you’ve both heard and seen the damage they can inflict on unwitting towns. Overall, they tend to prefer forested areas over urban ones, but in your years of travel you’ve encountered them in almost every place you’ve set foot. As time went on, you adopted more and more protective measures against them, including wearing silver rings on your fingers and silver chains at your throat. All of them are affixed with crucifixes and charms to ward off as many unsavory creatures as possible, and you idly trace the carved rune pendant at your throat before grabbing your trusty gun and climbing out of your car.

You’ve parked right at the edge of town, mere steps from where the dense forest begins. According to the map you’d picked up from a gas station, you’re very close to the entrance of some sort of national park, lauded for its hiking trails and scenic overlooks over the nearby river. But this close to midnight, the area takes on a much more ominous feel. Every shadow transforms into an unseen monster, and the rushing river drowns out any sounds that might warn you of an enemy’s approach. Tightening your grip on your gun, you step onto the loamy earth and make your way into the trees, every sense on high alert.

No matter how many times you find yourself walking through a forest, you aren’t sure you’ll ever be completely at ease among the trees. The undergrowth grows wilder the deeper you get, until there are far too many places to hide and even more unexplainable sounds. Every snapping twig—every crunch of the dead leaves underfoot—has you whirling around to check for anything that might be sneaking up behind you. The wind picks up, whistling through the branches, and you shiver at the sudden chill.

That’s when you see it. A hulking figure covered in scraggly fur, crouched over a lifeless body lying amongst the dead leaves. You can hear the slurping and squelching sounds even over the noises of the forest and the river, and immediately come to a complete standstill, not even daring to draw breath as you assess the situation. Luck seems to be on your side, as the creature doesn’t seem to have noticed your presence yet, but you know that you’ll be found out if the wind changes even a little bit. Warily, you slip into a particularly dense copse of trees, waiting and watching for any signs that there may be a pack.

A minute drags by, and you suppress the urge to cover your ears as the beast continues to feast. Instead, you listen to your surroundings—the neverending babble of the river, the leaves rustling in the wind, the occasional call of a distant bird. You’ve always heard that animals will fall silent in the face of impending storms, but that doesn’t always hold true when it comes to inhuman things. You can still hear the soft scurry of critters in the undergrowth and bits of birdsong from the branches above, and that gives you enough confidence that you’re dealing with a lone werewolf. Slowly, you raise your gun and click off the safety, knowing that you can’t miss your shot.

Even with a silencer, gunshots are loud. It cracks through the night air, startling a flock of birds and sending them skyward, but you don’t pay them any mind. Your bullet finds its mark, and you allow yourself a short sigh of relief as the beast crumples to the ground, collapsing across the remains of its meal. You’ll have to dispose of both that and the werewolf, and already you’re dreading the size of the hole you’ll have to dig. Your shovel is still stowed away in your trunk, too, which means you’ll have to double back and—

The beast stirs. Its clawed hand twitches, then clenches, and your brow furrows as you raise your gun again. You fire off another bullet and catch it right in the chest, just a few inches shy of the first shot, but it barely seems to affect the creature this time as it clambers clumsily back to his feet. You flinch back as it zeroes in immediately on the tree you’re concealed behind, its fur matted with blood and its eyes glowing green-gold in the darkness of the night.

“Hunter,” it rattles, its voice deep and raspy. “I see you. I smell you. There’s no use hiding anymore.”

There’s no use denying the truth of its words. Cautiously, you step out into the small clearing, keeping your gun raised and skirting around the remains of the human lying in the center. You don’t allow yourself to wonder who they may have been, or whether you’ve seen their face on one of the missing peoples fliers tacked to the telephone poles around town.

“You’re not a werewolf,” you say instead. “You look like one, but silver bullets don’t hurt you. So what are you, exactly?”

The beast’s lips twist up into a gleeful grin, baring teeth like needles and just as sharp. “Shouldn’t you already know, hunter?”

“I’m not a hunter,” you reply coolly. “I hate that word. And you know what else? I hate it when I ask a question, and the only answer I get is another question.”

That earns you a chuckle—one that sounds like the scrape of steel against concrete. “Is that so? How interesting. Funny that you hate being called a hunter when you have the reputation that you do.”

Your eyes narrow. “The reputation that I do?”

“You don’t know?” The beast laughs again and drops down to all fours, prowling a few steps closer to where you’re standing. You cock your gun in warning and it pauses, flashing you a feral grin before speaking again. “There are rumors, hunter. Rumors of you taking out dozens of my kin and sending countless demons back down to Hell. Rumors that your life has an expiration date. After all, you’re Hoseok’s bitch, aren’t you?”

Despite your best efforts to the contrary, you flinch at its last words. “What do you know about Hoseok?” you ask, doing your best to sound unruffled. “What’s he saying about me?”

“I’ve never actually met the guy,” the beast admits. “We tend to run in different circles, if you know what I mean. But from what I’ve heard, he’s ruthless. And he always knows more than he lets on.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but once they do, you nod. “Thanks for the info,” you tell it, raising your gun and taking aim. And before the beast can even inhale, you pull the trigger—once, twice, and then a third time. Shots to both hind legs and one to the head bring it crashing to the ground, and you dart forward, scrambling for the switchblade in your boot. Whipping it out, you begin the grisly task of dismembering the creature, hacking at its sinewy neck until you manage to decapitate it.

Silver may not have killed it. But you’ve yet to meet a creature that can’t be brought down by cutting off its head.

It takes nearly an hour for you to finish disposing the corpse, but once you’re done, you head back to your car. There’s no doubt in your mind that the creature you just buried was a demon beast—one that crawled out from the Wastelands of Hell and somehow found its way to Earth. Over the last few years, you’ve read your books and done your research, and you know that demons come in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and levels of power. Only some—called black-eyed demons—require a vessel, relying on human possession to carry out whatever nefarious tasks they desire. Others, such as the demon beast, look and behave more like the animals found on Earth.

Then there’s Hoseok. As a demon of the crossroads, Hoseok possesses significantly more power than black-eyed demons and demon beasts. Just how much power he holds, you aren’t sure, and you aren’t particularly eager to find out. But if the beast was indeed telling the truth—and you do have your doubts about the veracity of its claim—then there’s a chance, however slim.

A chance that Hoseok knows the demon that killed your parents, and can help you track him down.

///

As it turns out, finding Hoseok is harder than you thought it would be. You’ve tried summoning him at several crossroads, but each time you’re met with a different demon—all unwilling or unable to disclose his location, and all irritated by your probing questions. After an encounter with a particularly grouchy demon nearly got you killed, you decide that biding your time is your best bet. During your travels, you’ve caught wind of a crossroads that’s infamous for the sheer number of summonings that occur there. It’s easy enough to make the four hour drive, and even easier to park a ways away, hidden in a dense little grove of trees. You spend two nights there, watching and waiting for someone to come along with a box of bones and dirt and blood, drifting off occasionally in the driver’s seat and stirring awake at every little noise.

On the third night, your efforts finally come to fruition. A middle-aged man drives up just after sundown and hesitantly climbs out with a shovel in hand. Laboriously, he digs a hole in the center of the crossroads and buries the summoning items, his movements clumsy as he packs down the dirt.

One beat passes. Two. You see her before he does—a beautiful woman in a form-fitting black dress, the material hugging her curves and skimming her thighs. She looks bizarrely out of place standing in the middle of the dirt road, and you watch as the man nearly jumps out of his skin when she taps him on the shoulder and offers him a coy little smile.

It’s now or never. Slipping out of your car, you emerge from the trees and make a beeline toward where the man and the demon are standing. She spots you first, her head tilting curiously, and when the man follows the trajectory of her gaze, his eyes widen in confusion.

“Wha—who—? Are… are there two of you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” you snap. Surreptitiously, you slip a hex bag into his pocket, and watch in satisfaction as he immediately slumps down to the dirt, fast asleep.

“Was that a spell?” The demon smooths down the skirt of her dress and fixes you with an amused smile. “I’m impressed. You’ve thought this through.”

“I’m looking for someone,” you reply coolly, making sure that she can see the weapons strapped to your belt. “His name’s Hoseok. Ever heard of him?”

Her lips tilt up into a smirk. “Hoseok? Sounds familiar. What do you need with him, hmm?”

You keep your answer simple. “He owes me some answers.”

She hums, perfectly nonchalant. “Does he?”

Yes, you want to say. He knows who killed my parents, and I want to know so I can kill them. The words are on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t get to say them aloud. Instead, there’s a blur of motion and a flash of silver. You’re left gaping in shock as a young man with shaggy black hair overtakes your vision, a steely blade in one hand and a gun in the other.

“Run!” he yells, and you can only stare. “Get out of here!”

A gunshot rings through the air, and you jolt at the sound. The demon snarls in disgust, clutching at her shoulder where a hole has burned through the fabric of her dress, but you only have eyes for the man who made the shot. He’s around your age, you realize. Decked out in a black leather jacket and ripped jeans, he’s the embodiment of the sort of bad boy your mother always warned you about. “Who-who the fuck are you?” you manage after the shock has worn off, and the man blinks dumbly before opening his mouth to speak.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“My name’s {Name},” you reply, still rather startled by his sudden appearance. “What the fuck did you just shoot her with? Is she… trapped?”

“Jungkook.” He glances back at the demon, who’s still cursing him out. “And yeah, this one should be stuck for a bit. We should still get out of here, though.”

You consider it for a moment before deciding he’s probably right. The two of you turn tail and run, leaving the trapped demon behind, and Jungkook explains how the bullet he’d shot was engraved with a Devil’s Trap. “It won’t last forever, though,” he says as you enter the treeline. “Some of these bastards can push the bullets out with telekinesis, and it’s annoying as all hell.”

As it turns out, Jungkook is staying at the seedy little motel just down the street. You drive him back and park in the lot out front, pulling up next to the car he points out and turning off your headlights and cutting the engine. “So you’re a hunter,” you remark, and he nods.

“Same as you.”

Immediately, you shake your head. “I’m not. I don’t hunt. I just… help. Make the world a better, safer place and all that.”

Jungkook doesn’t press, and for that you’re grateful. “You mentioned someone named Hoseok,” he says instead, and you can see from the questioning tilt of his head that he’s curious. “Who’s that?”

“It’s a long story,” you reply. “You don’t want to hear it, trust me.”

“Maybe I do,” he challenges, and you can’t help but chuckle.

“You don’t. Really.”

Jungkook stands firm. “Try me.”

You glance over at him, taking in his stark profile and earnest expression. You take in his tousled black hair and wide doe eyes, and something inside your chest softens—just a tiny bit.

“It happened about three years ago,” you begin. “I was eighteen, and I’d just lost my parents…”

THEN - [Five Years Ago]

As much as you prefer to work alone, you do have to admit that it’s nice to have someone watching your back. Jungkook is the very definition of brawn over brains, but you can’t fault him for that when he enters your field of vision in a blur and tackles the wendigo you’ve been fighting to the ground. They fall into a wrestling match amongst the dead leaves that blanket the forest floor, and you cough weakly as you scrabble for the iron stake that you dropped. Hefting it in a tight grip, you rise to your feet and look for an opportunity to attack.

Much to your satisfaction, you don’t have to wait long. Jungkook pins the creature down, grunting when a razor-sharp claw bites into the flesh of his shoulder. “Now!” he yells, and you dart forward and drive the stake through the wendigo’s chest, driving past the pallid skin until you hear the crunch of bone. Yanking it free, you wipe the blood on your jeans before grabbing the lighter from your pocket. Jungkook is already kicking dead leaves over the body, clearing out a ring of dirt, and you nod at him as you bend down to ignite the makeshift kindling.

Fire is the only surefire way to kill a wendigo. You know this, and so does Jungkook. Together, you watch as the flame catches, sparking the leaves and licking up the sides of the creature’s body. One of its clawed hands twitches, and you tense up when it opens its mouth and lets out one last horrible, piercing shriek.

The two of stand watch until all that’s left of the body is ash. Then Jungkook turns to you, and you to him. “Thanks,” you murmur. “I thought I was a goner for sure back there.”

Jungkook snorts and shakes a few stray strands of shaggy black hair out of his eyes. “As if I’d let that happen,” he replies, his voice brusque but equally soft.

And then his mouth is on yours.

There’s nothing sweet in the way Jungkook kisses you. He kisses you with purpose, and it isn’t long before you find yourself pressed up against the hood of his old Pontiac with disheveled clothes and the man himself occupying the space between your spread legs. Jungkook nips and bites his way from your jaw to your clavicle, and you keen and fist your hands in his hair, pulling him closer.

Sex with Jungkook is nothing new. The two of you have fallen into bed—or more accurately, against the nearest flat surface—many times since you first met two years ago. Adrenaline is a heady aphrodisiac after all, and there’s always plenty of it coursing through your veins after a good fight. And while Jungkook isn’t always by your side to satisfy your baser urges, he’s here now and that’s all that matters. Sweat slicks his temples and a few stray drops fall onto your exposed chest, but you can’t even find it in you to care as he breaches your walls and sets a tempo that has the car beneath you groaning in protest.

Some time later, as you’re still coming down from your high, Jungkook speaks. He’s sprawled across the hood of the car, his chest bare and his distressed jeans low on his hips, and you crane your head up from where you’re curled up beside him as he lets out a soft sigh.

“I’m headed east after this,” he says, glancing down at you from the corner of his eye. “What about you?”

You hum, mulling it over. “North, I think. There’s been news of crossroads activity up there, and I’d like to check it out.”

Jungkook nods in understanding. “Could be Hoseok,” he says. “That makes sense. You want some backup?”

“Nah,” you reply. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Jungkook grins, shifting until his nose is nestled into your hair and his mouth is hot against your ear. “I don’t mind if you take the lead, babe. You know I love it when you’re on top.”

You snort and thwack him in the arm, trying and failing to push him away. “Shut up, Jungkook.”

“Only if you make me.”

“Oh, you mean by cutting out your tongue?”

Jungkook hums and pretends to consider it. “Kinky,” he replies. “If that’s what does it for you, then suit yourself, babe.”

Laughing, you punch him in the arm again and roll off the hood of the car to pick up your jacket from the forest floor. Jungkook follows your lead and retrieves his t-shirt, and you watch the muscles in his back ripple and flex as he pulls it over his head. There’s a series of tattoos along his spine—symbols of protection and wards against evil and possession—and you know them well because you have the same ones decorating your shoulder blades and right hipbone. You still remember the prick of the needle, the low buzz of it filling the room as ink seeped into your skin. The latest one is still healing, and you instinctively press a fingertip to your newly inked wrist, tracing the black lines there.

Jungkook follows the motion, his gaze raking across the ink. “That’s new,” he remarks. “Looks familiar, though. Is it Akkadian?”

“Ancient Aramaic,” you correct, shaking your head. “It’s supposed to bring luck and good fortune.”

“Damn.” Jungkook catches your fingers in his, pulling them away so he can get a better look at the symbol on your wrist. “I guess we hunters could all use some good fortune, huh?”

Immediately, you scowl and pull out of his grasp. “I’m not a hunter, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s only response is to chuckle. “Sweetheart, your body count is almost higher than mine.”

You don’t have a response to that, and Jungkook knows it. Grinning impishly, he winds an arm around your waist and presses a fond kiss to your temple. The two of you get dressed and climb into the Pontiac, and Jungkook turns on the classic rock station as you drive back into town.

The motel you’re staying at is near the center of town, tucked between a small coffee shop and a hardware store. Jungkook hadn’t bothered to book another room when he met up with you this morning, so the two of you head inside together and make your way to the room. You unlock the door carefully, making sure not to disturb the line of salt you placed there before you left. More salt lines the window, and Jungkook whistles softly under his breath as he follows you inside.

“What, just salt this time? I’m surprised you didn’t bother with any of the sigils and hex bags.”

You gesture at the heavy curtains hanging on either side of the window. “There’s a hex bag under there. The protection sigils are on the back of the door.”

Jungkook chortles and shuts the door, his dark gaze flitting across the symbols you’ve painted there. “Of course. I should have known.”

You just smile wanly at him. Now that the adrenaline from the fight has worn off, exhaustion is quickly settling into your bones. Plopping down onto the bed, you stretch your arms overhead before flumping back against the pillows. Jungkook joins you after a moment, sprawling across the other side of the bed, and you instinctively scoot closer to his warmth like a flower seeking out the sun.

“You leaving tomorrow?” His voice is soft.

“Yeah,” you murmur back. “You?”

“Mm. Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jungkook speaks again, turning onto his side so he can face you and propping his cheek in his palm. “You’re always looking for this Hoseok guy,” he murmurs. “But according to you, he also holds the contract to your life. So shouldn’t you be running from him?”

“I was running from him,” you murmur back, staring up at a water stain shaped vaguely like Saturn on the ceiling. “And now I’m not.”

“What changed?”

Sighing, you tear your gaze away from the stain and look over at Jungkook instead. His black hair is a mess and there’s a bit of dirt smudged along his neck, but his expression is open and tender in a way that makes your heart hurt. “My parents,” you reply, swallowing down the feeling. “I told you they died, but I never told you how. It was a demon attack. They were on the road, driving home from a weekend getaway… or maybe it was a hunting trip. I never found out, because they never made it back.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “{Name},” he breathes, and he doesn’t seem to know what else to say after that, so you continue on as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“I heard it happen. My mom called me, and I heard the car crash and the demon throw my dad into a tree. The autopsy said that nearly every bone in his body was broken. And my mom… it took her tongue. They never did recover it.”

“{Name}...”

“But Hoseok—he might know something. He might know the demon that killed my parents.” You pause to take a breath, and fleetingly wonder when it became so easy to dictate the events of that fateful night. “There’s a chance that he knows, at least, and if he does, I’ll make him tell me. I have to know, even if it puts me in danger or shortens my lifespan again, or—”

You’re cut off by the heat of Jungkook’s body, engulfing you all at once in a swift, sudden motion. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he whispers, his breath warm against your neck. “Why didn’t you mention it sooner? I could’ve helped you. We could’ve already pinned down this Hoseok bastard.”

“I-I only found out recently,” you admit, a little stunned by the unexpected embrace. “And he might not know. The chances are slim, but even if there’s a one percent chance that he knows…”

Jungkook nods, his arms still wound tightly around your frame. “It’s worth it,” he says. “And I’ll help, okay? I’ll hit every crossroads I come across, and I’ll give you a call if I find him.”

“Thank you,” you mumble. Tentatively, you wrap your arm around his waist, smiling when he immediately shifts so that he can hold you more comfortably against his chest.

“No need to thank me,” he whispers into your hair. “I’ve got your back, {Name}. Always.”

THEN - [Two Years Ago]

It’s on a wholly unremarkable Tuesday that you stumble across a small, sleepy town—one that almost reminds you of the one you grew up in so many years ago. Heading to the roadside motel at the edge of the town limits, you listen as the bored woman behind the front desk chats on her cellphone while checking you in. There’s a clipping from today’s newspaper pinned to the wall behind her, and you scan the short article about the missing man until she finally hangs up.

“Do you get a lot of missing people around here?” you inquire casually as she hands over your room keys.

“Nah,” she says, popping her chewing gum. “No more than anywhere else, at least. People come and people go. It’s what they do.”

You nod, taking one last look at the paper clipping before turning toward the door. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

It takes less than a minute to locate your room. It’s situated at the far end of the ramshackle little building, and you wince at the way the hinges groan as you unlock and open the door. Dropping your bag onto the bed, you take a cursory look around, gauging the best spots to place your usual protective wards and hex bags. Once they’re all in place, you head back out again, taking comfort in the familiar weight of your gun and the press of the switchblade in your boot as you hop back into your car.

The crossroads is on the opposite end of town, in a deserted area that’s filled mostly with factories and warehouses. The railroad tracks here are overgrown with weeds, a few old inoperable train cars looming against the darkening sky like silent sentinels. Only the occasional hoot of an unseen owl disturbs the otherwise quiet night, and you glance around warily as you search for a good hiding spot. After some consideration, you settle for ducking between two abandoned train cars, taking care to stick to the shadows as you settle in to wait.

Most nights like this are uneventful. Most nights, you return back to your motel room in the early hours of the morning and fall into bed, exhausted. But tonight, something feels different. You can’t explain what it is—whether it’s a certain smell in the air or a shift in the wind—but you know that it’s there. Peering out from your hiding spot, you watch as a young woman approaches the crossroads with a box clutched in her pale hands. Her face is streaked with tears that have turned black from her mascara, and your heart splinters a bit at the edges when she drops to her knees and begins to claw at the dirt with her fingers.

After a few painstaking minutes, the box is buried. The woman remains on her hands and knees with her head bowed, shaking, and though you can’t be sure, you suspect that she’s crying again. Seconds tick by, and you glance down at your phone for the time.

8:49pm.

And not three seconds later, Hoseok appears.

You can’t quite describe the emotion that fills you when you see his face—just as infuriatingly handsome as you remember. He’s wearing a billowy shirt similar to the one you first saw him in, but this one is white instead of black and brings out the warmth in his skin. He looks almost like an angel, and you wonder what thoughts must be going through the woman’s head when she looks up and spots him at last.

“I-I can’t believe it worked.” Her voice is shaky, and Hoseok—playing the perfect gentleman—offers her an arm as she clambers weakly to her feet. “I need… I need to make a deal. I want to be with my ex again. Can you do that?”

Hoseok tilts his head to the side, a curious little smirk playing about his lips. “I can. But is that truly what you want?”

The woman doesn’t even hesitate, already nodding before he’s even finished asking the question. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Please, I have to be back with him. I need him.”

Hoseok’s smirk doesn’t fade as he steps closer, one hand coming up to brush across her cheek. “You know how we demons seal our deals, don’t you?” he asks, his smirk widening when she nods. “Yes? Good.”

And then he’s kissing her.

A host of dizzying emotions wells up in your stomach when he crushes his mouth to hers. It swells like a wave and engulfs you all at once, simultaneously hot as the sun and as cold as the Arctic. White noise fills your ears and it sounds like the beating of a thousand pairs of wings. Suddenly, you taste metal, and realize you’ve bitten your bottom lip hard enough to break the skin.

When the two finally break apart, the woman is visibly breathless. Her hand flutters to her heart, and Hoseok smiles crookedly at her as he caresses her cheek again. “You’ll be back with him soon,” he murmurs. Slowly, his fingers drift down to her throat, brushing along the skin of her collarbone exposed by her thin blouse. He lingers for a moment, his touch as gentle as the warm, balmy breeze that wafts past, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke.

And then he strikes, wrapping both hands around the woman’s neck and snapping it to the side with a crack that startles you out of your daze and sends ice down your spine. Springing out from your hiding spot, you whip your gun out and pull the trigger—once, twice, and then again just for good measure. Two bullets find their mark, and you grimly walk over to where your target is now stuck in the center of the crossroads, the woman’s lifeless body crumpled atop his polished black shoes.

“You killed her.” You don’t bother with preambles. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Hoseok doesn’t look at all fazed by your appearance—or the bullet wounds in his chest, for that matter. “Perhaps not from your vantage point,” he replies, a smirk tugging his lips upward. “But she did ask to be reunited with her ex-boyfriend, and last I checked, he’s in Hell reliving the worst day of his life on repeat.”

His words sink in like molasses, and you frown. “Are you… are you saying he’s dead?”

“As a doornail,” Hoseok answers with a chuckle. “Overdosed this morning—methamphetamines, I believe. Those things really are a killer. You’d do well to stay away from them.”

“I’ve never done meth, and I don’t have a drug problem,” you snap. “But what I do have a problem with is you. Why the fuck didn’t you tell her that her ex was dead?”

“She didn’t ask,” he replies simply. “I’m a demon, not a paper boy.”

You scowl. “Actually, you’re a dick.”

Hoseok merely smiles and cocks his head to the side, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “What’s it to you, darling?”

Sucking in a deep breath, you level your gun at him once more. “You murdered a woman. And apparently, you did it because you didn’t feel like telling her that her ex was dead. So what other pieces of information are you withholding?”

Still smiling, Hoseok nudges the dead woman with the toe of his shoe. “She was no saint, you know. Drug abuse, dealing to minors—she’s got a rap sheet as long as I am tall. But we’re not talking about her anymore, are we.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re looking for information. About what, exactly?”

“You know what,” you spit, your scowl deepening. “My parents. What happened to them that night? Who killed them?”

Hoseok’s smile widens, his teeth flashing in the dimness. “Even if I knew, what makes you think I’d tell?”

“Because you’re stuck here, and I have a gun loaded with plenty more of these Devil’s Trap bullets,” you reply coolly. “So do you feel like talking now?”

“No, I don’t believe I do.” Hoseok tilts his head to the other side and slowly—painstakingly—lifts a hand. He flexes his fingers one by one, each movement deliberate, and you nervously begin to back away. Beneath your feet, the ground begins to tremble, and you whip your head around when the wind picks up and nearly sends you stumbling.

A quick glance back at Hoseok reveals that he’s staring down at the two bullet wounds on his chest, his brow furrowed and his expression laced with strain. You think you see the silver gleam of a bullet retracting out of his skin, but you don’t stick around to get a better look. Holstering your gun, you whirl on your heel.

And you run, shielding your face from the wind and doing your best to ignore the shrieking laughter that echoes from behind you.

NOW -

The deep blue of evening is just beginning to settle when you pull up to the bar. It’s a little hole-in-the wall just off of the town’s main street, and even with your windows rolled up, you can hear the hoots and hollers coming from within. Killing the engine, you climb out of the car and make your way to the entrance. You’re assailed by cigarette smoke as soon as you step past the threshold, and the reason behind all the shouting makes itself known just a moment later.

Jungkook is standing at the very back of the bar, armed with what looks like a long stick in one hand and surrounded by a large crowd of people. His face is cast in shadow by his shaggy black hair and he’s long since ditched his signature leather jacket, leaving him clad in a plain white t-shirt and his usual distressed jeans. The jacket you spot draped over a nearby chair, and as you inch closer, you realize that he’s playing a game of pool. His opponent doesn’t seem to be faring very well, and you hide a smile as Jungkook pockets another ball with ease. He’s flawlessly set up his next shot as well, and you watch on as he lands it and goes to pocket the eight ball. Concentration etches across his forehead, his eyes narrowing from beneath his fringe, and you can’t help but admire the veins running along his exposed forearms as he leans over the table to line up his final shot. Around him, his audience has fallen silent, waiting with bated breath.

“Fuck!”

“Game,” Jungkook declares smugly. The bar breaks into equal parts cheering and booing, but you don’t pay them any mind as you weave past them and make your way to the dark-haired hunter. He’s slipping back into his jacket and collecting his winnings now—and it’s a substantial amount by the looks of it. You watch as he pockets the money and places his cue stick back into its stand on the wall, and clear your throat pointedly as you sidle up beside him.

“Fancy seeing you here, stranger.”

Jungkook turns, grinning a grin so wide you fear his mouth may fall off. “Hey, gorgeous. What’s a girl like you doing out in these parts?”

“Buy me a drink first, and maybe I’ll give you an answer,” you tease. Jungkook’s grin widens, his eyes creasing into crescents and crinkling at the corners, and you follow after him happily as he heads for the bar.

“You’re still alive, I see,” Jungkook remarks as he takes a seat. “Your ten years was up a few days ago, wasn’t it? Glad to see you didn’t let Hoseok collect.”

You nod, plopping down into the stool beside him. “He wasn’t very happy about it, believe me. But for now, I’m still here. I’m here, and I’m tired, and I’m in very, very desperate need of a drink.”

“Good thing I can help with that,” Jungkook replies with a laugh. And a strong cocktail and two shots of whiskey later, you find yourself locked in the dimly lit bathroom at the very back of the bar, your shirt flung over the door of the nearest stall and Jungkook’s leather jacket abandoned on the floor as you work on ridding him of his shirt as well. His mouth is crushed against yours, his tongue probing past your lips to explore, and you eagerly let him in as his hands slide down your sides to anchor at your hips.

Jungkook’s touch is warm. Familiar. Comforting, even. The two of you have done this dance many times over the years you’ve known each other, and Jungkook knows just where and when to touch you to elicit a reaction. He mouths along your neck down to the dip of your collarbones, sucking lightly, and you gasp when he nips at the sensitive spot there. Instinct has your hands flying into his hair, delving into the soft strands at his nape, and he lets loose a hoarse groan and pulls you closer.

It isn’t long before Jungkook has hoisted you up onto the counter of the sink, wrapping your legs around his waist. You help him free his cock from the confines of his jeans, and let out a shuddery breath as he thumbs across your clit before pushing forward, breaching your walls with a tenderness that belies your current location. His mouth finds yours again, and you lean into the kiss hungrily, digging your heels into the backs of his thighs to encourage him deeper.

Half an hour later, when the two of you are sated and dressed again, you exit the bathroom to find the bar oddly quiet. The bartender is shuffling around, serving a small group of people at the counter, but your attention is immediately drawn to the two men seated at a table in the corner. One is slouched back in his seat with his face tilted skyward, his mouth hanging open, while the other has his grizzled cheek pressed against the table. At first glance, you could almost believe that they’d simply had too much to drink and passed out, but the faint scent underlying the smell of alcohol and smoke raises the hair on the back of your neck and sets off alarm bells in your head.

“Blood,” you whisper to Jungkook, who nods.

“They don’t look like they’re breathing. You armed?”

“Always am.”

“Good.”

Without another word, you turn, putting your back to Jungkook’s and glancing around the rest of the dimly lit room. There are about a dozen people in total, lounging at the tables scattered around the interior or sitting at the bar. Surreptitiously, you begin meandering through the room, treading carefully and taking in every detail as you pass people by.

“Anything?” you mutter to your companion as you settle into a small, isolated booth right next to the bar counter, keeping your backs to the wall.

“Nothing,” Jungkook breathes back. “Something’s wrong, though. I can feel it.”

“Me too.” Carefully, you glance around once more, focusing a little more on people’s faces this time. The trio of women at the bar are giggling amongst themselves, and you can detect nothing amiss. There’s a couple sequestered away in the booth opposite yours, lost in conversation. Another group is drinking merrily near the pool table, just seconds away from starting a new game. “Everyone looks normal,” you whisper. “Maybe someone just cut themselves on a broken gla—”

You trail off, eyes trained on the bartender who has just returned from the back room with an unopened bottle of whiskey in his hands. He’s far too pale—his skin almost translucent—and when he turns in your direction, it’s all you can do to suppress a gasp. “Jungkook,” you hiss, batting at his arm. “The bartender’s eyes. They’re wrong.”

And it’s the truth. His irises are too large, leaving only the tiniest sliver of sclera, and his pupils are narrowed into mere pinpricks. When you make eye contact, a chill runs down your spine, and you swear he—it—smiles.

Across the table, Jungkook speaks again, keeping his voice soft. “Shapeshifter,” he murmurs. “Never seen one quite like this, but silver bullets should still do the trick.”

“Aim for the heart,” you reply, nodding. “And be quick. Shifters are fast.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

Before you can even blink, Jungkook has pulled his gun from its concealed pocket in his jacket, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The blast rings loud in the small bar, but his aim is true as the bartender crumples to the ground. Around you, several of the bar’s occupants let out alarmed shrieks, but you pay them no mind. Leaping out of the booth, you duck behind the counter to where the creature’s body lies, watching as its skin begins to peel.

“Where do you think the real bartender is?” you ask Jungkook, who has crept up beside you.

“Dunno. He’s long gone, though. These things can only shift into someone who’s dea—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. A blur of motion cuts him off, slamming him back into the shelves behind the bar and sending liquor bottles raining down onto the tiled ground. “Jungkook!” you shout, whipping out your own gun, but it’s impossible to aim properly in the crammed space behind the counter and you fear you may accidentally hit Jungkook instead. Cursing under your breath, you pull the switchblade from your boot instead, rising carefully to your feet and searching for an opening to attack. Jungkook is locked in a vicious tussle with his opponent, rolling around in the shattered glass and puddles of liquor, and you curse again when you spot the creature’s eyes.

“There’s probably more!” Jungkook yells, heaving the shapeshifter off of him and slamming a fist into its nose. “Be careful!”

Now that the shapeshifter is no longer wrestling with Jungkook, you have an open shot. Quickly, you take advantage, pulling out your gun again and letting loose two bullets into its chest. The creature collapses into a pile of limbs, and you take in its form. It’s an elderly man wearing a brightly colored flannel shirt, and you flinch when you recognize him as one of the bystanders watching Jungkook’s pool victory when you initially came in.

From his spot on the floor, Jungkook groans, and you immediately extend a hand to help him up. Brushing the broken glass from his jacket, he gives you a quick once over before nodding slowly and glancing around the room again. Some people have fled during the commotion, leaving only seven people still remaining inside. The group in the back is cowering behind the pool table, armed with cue sticks and glancing around warily. But the trio of women at the bar—they’re smiling.

It happens before you can even shout a word of warning—before you can even draw in a breath to speak. One woman slinks off to the left while the other darts to the right. The third and final woman dives straight for you, and you don’t get a chance to fire off a shot before she knocks the gun out of your hand and sends it skittering across the wooden floor. On your right, you hear a gunshot, and know that Jungkook is embroiled in a fight of his own.

A shard of glass pierces your shoulder as you land, hard, on your back. The woman is on top of you, her pinprick pupils alight with manic glee as her hands wrap around your throat, and you choke out a curse as you scrabble for a weapon. Your fingers finally land on a particularly large piece of glass—the neck of a whiskey bottle with the cork still intact—and you swing it up and into your opponent’s side with all the strength you can muster. The shapeshifter lets out a wail and releases your neck, and you gratefully suck in lungful after lungful of air before clambering to your feet, dropping the bottleneck and reaching for your switchblade instead.

The woman is backing up now, clutching at the wound in her side with a bloodied hand. You follow after her, leaving behind the cramped space behind the bar counter. A few paces behind her, you spot your gun, but she notices where your gaze is and quickly kicks it off to the side where it ricochets against the opposite wall and slides beneath a booth. With that out of the way, her face contorts into a predatory snarl, and you adjust your grip on your knife as you drop into a defensive crouch. She may be stronger and faster than you are, but she’s unarmed and there’s only so much that teeth and nails can do against a blade—especially when it’s coated in silver. Sidestepping her first attack, you manage to drive your weapon into her shoulder, and she lets out an enraged shriek as the silver burns through her papery skin.

You can’t afford to hesitate, so you don’t. The woman leaps back, clutching her shoulder, and you follow. Your opening comes when she stumbles into an overturned chair, and the way her pinprick pupils blow out into nothingness when you drive your blade into her heart is a sight you’ll never forget. No other shapeshifter you’ve ever encountered has had such strange eyes, and you painstakingly try to recall the chapters of Infernale that detail shifters as you turn and begin searching for Jungkook. The bar has fallen oddly silent again, with only the occasional whimper coming from the four people hiding behind the pool table. “Jungkook?” you call, not daring to raise your voice too much. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Here.”

Jungkook materializes from behind the bar, dusting shards of glass from his leather jacket and running a hand through his mess of shaggy black hair. Relief floods through you at the sight of him unharmed, but a niggling feeling in the back of your brain roots you in place. Jungkook is still picking glass out of his sleeve, but his knuckles look a little too pale. You can almost see the outline of his bones through the skin, and when you call his name again and catch a glimpse of his eyes, your breath catches in your throat.

The man standing before you—it isn’t Jungkook. And shapeshifters—they can only morph into someone who’s already dead.

There isn’t much time for mourning in your life. You’ve learned to suppress your emotions—the anger and the grief and the unfairness of it all—bottling them away until they eventually fade into something dull and hollow. Your gun is still beneath the booth a few paces away, and you wonder whether you can dive for it in time. Casually, you begin edging toward it, keeping an eye on the Jungkook imposter while maintaining a safe distance. “Are you okay?” you ask as you near the booth. “What happened to the shifters?”

“It was a little too close for comfort,” the imposter replies, huffing out a dry chuckle. “They nearly got me, but I pulled through in the end.”

You nod and pretend to glance down at the array of red cuts littering your hands. They sting, but you’ve had worse over the years. Out of your peripheral vision, you can see the dull glint of your gun, lying just an arm’s length away beneath the table. “Do you think there are any more shifters lurking around?” you ask, feigning a casual tone.

“Hard to say,” Not-Jungkook replies with a shrug, stepping out from behind the bar at last. “I like to think we got them all, though,” he says as he begins walking toward you, his pace even and measured in a way that reminds you of a feline stalking its prey.

“I hope so.” Subtly, you adjust your grip on your knife, readying yourself for an attack as Not-Jungkook stops just a few steps away and cocks his head to the side, an eerie smirk quirking the edges of his lips.

“{Name}, duck!”

The shout rings loud in the quiet, and instinct has you immediately dropping down to your belly. A flash of silver whizzes through the air, and your eyes widen as it hits the Jungkook imposter and sends it stumbling into a nearby table. Quickly, you scramble for your gun, crawling until your fingers wrap around the cool metal. Rolling over into a crouching position, you aim at the wounded shifter, frowning when you see the knife embedded at the base of its spine.

“Hurry, finish it off!”

The voice is deep and familiar, resurfacing memories of a long time ago, but you don’t have time to dwell on it as you pull the trigger. Your aim is true, and the creature goes down, its skin peeling up from its bones and melting into a morass of hair and viscera. Turning toward the owner of the voice to thank them for the help, your heart nearly stops when you come face to face with a pair of achingly familiar brown eyes and a lazy little half smile.

“Wha—” you start, trailing off before you can even utter a full word. “How did you… what are you…?”

A chuckle. “Would you like me to take those questions one at a time?”

You let out a choked sob, the emotion that’s been steadily building in your chest finally finding a release. “Yoongi? Is that really you?”

“In the flesh,” Yoongi quips, flashing you a playful grin, and though it’s been nine years since you last saw him you feel immediately and completely at ease in his presence. He’s a little taller now—a little broader, too—but his sardonic sense of humor and quick wit haven’t changed one bit.

“Your hair’s silver,” you say after a few moments, reaching out dumbly to smooth down a stray strand atop his head.

“Glad to see you’re not colorblind,” is his sarcastic reply, and you let out a strangled sound that is half-laugh, half-cry before launching yourself into his arms.

“What are you doing here?” you ask once you’ve pulled back from the embrace, ignoring Yoongi’s grumbled protests at the continued presence of your arms around his neck. “Are you… hunting?”

Yoongi glances around the bar, which has cleared out completely since you took down the shapeshifter posing as Jungkook. “Mimics,” he says shortly. “A particularly nasty breed of shapeshifter. I’ve been tracking these five for ages.”

“Five?” You look around, nose crinkling at the foul odor that’s now beginning to emanate from the puddle of goo on the floor. “Where’s the last one? Jungkook was fighting two of them, but…”

“Oh, is that his name?” Yoongi chuckles. “He’s a scrappy one. I came in during the back half of the fight, but he had already taken one of them down. The other one snuck up and knocked him out cold—that’s the one you just shot. But yeah, the kid’s probably still sleeping behind the counter. He’s got a lump on his head the size of a damn baseball—he’s gonna be feeling it for days.”

But you’re no longer listening. Releasing Yoongi, you dart behind the bar counter to find Jungkook sprawled on the ground, his eyes shut. He stirs slightly when you crouch down beside him, and blinks blearily when you give his shoulder a hard poke.

“Ow,” he complains, his voice raspy. “Why are you poking me?”

“That’s what you get for napping on the job,” you retort, trying and failing to hide your relieved smile when you see that his eyes are as warm and as brown as ever. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Wearily, he maneuvers himself into a sitting position, wincing and rubbing at the back of his head. “What happened to the other shifter?”

“Mimic,” Yoongi corrects, materializing beside you and extending a hand to help Jungkook to his feet. “We got it. {Name} here took it out with a shot to the heart.”

Jungkook frowns and dusts himself off, patting down his pockets to make sure he hasn’t lost any of his weapons. “Mimics? Never heard of ‘em.”

“We get them pretty often in these parts,” Yoongi replies. “Name’s Yoongi, by the way. {Name} and I go way back.”

You grin at him. “And clearly, you’ve been busy these last few years.”

“I could say the same to you,” Yoongi retorts, grinning back. “Seems like we have a lot to catch up on. You guys wanna come back to my place?”

“You have a place?” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. “Do you live here?”

“A ways outside of town, yeah,” Yoongi confirms. “This area’s kinda a hotbed for weird activity, so I figured it was as good a spot to settle as any. My car’s parked out back. Anyone need a ride?”

“I think we all came here separately,” you answer, exchanging glances with Jungkook. “But we’ll follow you, if you want to lead the way.”

“Sounds good,” the silver-haired man remarks. “You two look pretty fucking terrible, and I’ve got plenty of medical supplies back home. We’ll get you patched up, and then we can talk.”

Right at that moment, Jungkook’s stomach lets out a loud growl. His eyes widen at the volume, but Yoongi just offers him a crooked grin.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of food, too.”

You smile. “Eat first, then talk?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

///

“Wow. You look like shit.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you reply, not even batting an eye. Yoongi snorts and returns to the thick leather-bound tome spread open in his lap, and you wearily shut the front door and lock it. Two days of tracking a rogue werewolf has taken its toll, especially when your trip started and ended with a close call and a near run-in with Hoseok. After another three days of near constant driving to throw him off your trail, you’re in desperate need of a shower and a first aid kit. Suppressing a yawn, you head for the hall closet and pull out a wad of bandages and a nearly empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “Running kinda low,” you remark to Yoongi, who grunts in acknowledgment. “You want me to run out and get some tomorrow?”

“I can do it,” he replies, not even bothering to look up from his book. “You should get some rest, and I’m gonna grab some groceries tomorrow anyway so I may as well restock while I’m at it.”

“I’ll add it to the list so you don’t forget,” you tell him, referring to the notepad that’s been a permanent fixture on the refrigerator since you and Jungkook moved in. The three of you use it not only for grocery lists, but for chore divisions and memos as well. Settling into a routine took some time, and even to this day Yoongi still has to remind Jungkook not to leave his socks lying around, but you can’t deny how nice it is to have some semblance of stability. Over the past year, Yoongi’s house has become home, and though you would never dare voice your thoughts aloud, you’re beyond grateful that he’s welcomed you in with open arms.

Wandering into the bathroom, you grab your towel and turn on the shower. The spray takes a few minutes to heat up, and you use the time to wash your hands and splash some water onto your face, watching dirt and flecks of dried blood spiral down the drain. Luckily, most of the blood isn’t your own this time, and you pat your face dry before checking the water temperature in the shower again.

It takes nearly twenty minutes of furiously scrubbing at your skin in the shower before you feel clean again. Stepping out, you wrap yourself in your towel and sit down on the rim of the tub, dampening a cottonball with hydrogen peroxide and wincing when you press it to the row of gashes marring your arm. The werewolf hadn’t gone quietly, and certainly not without a fight. Silently, you make a mental note to restock your supply of silver bullets before tearing off a strip of bandage and wrapping your wounds.

When you exit the bathroom, you see that your third housemate has returned as well. Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, his chest bare and his black hair in disarray. Several nasty lacerations crisscross his skin, and your eyes widen when you spot the bite mark on the left side of his throat. “Jungkook?” you whisper, closing the distance between you and leaning in for a closer look. “Jungkook?”

“‘M’okay.” Jungkook’s eyes blink open blearily, the edge of his mouth curling into a tiny smile. “Not a vamp. Stupid Waste demon caught me off guard and bit me, can you believe it?” He coughs, then grins up at you again. “I got him in the end, though. Cut off his stupid head.”

“You’re an idiot,” you tell him, trying and failing not to smile back. Plopping down beside him, you wrench open the hydrogen peroxide again and dab some onto the gashes along his chest. Bandaging his wounds takes another few minutes, and you’re just taping the last end in place when Yoongi enters with two boxes of pizza. A glance at the labels reveals that he must have just gone and picked them up from the place at the edge of town, and your stomach lets out a timely growl at the sight.

“Too lazy to cook tonight,” Yoongi says shortly by way of explanation, dropping the boxes on the coffee table.

“You won’t catch me complaining,” Jungkook replies, sitting up with some effort and reaching for the nearest slice. “Did you get pepperoni?”

“Just pineapple and anchovy,” Yoongi answers with a completely straight face. Jungkook frowns, and you roll your eyes as you flip open the lids.

“Still a bad liar, Min.”

“No one asked, {Last Name}.”

And with that, the three of you settle down for dinner. You curl up in an armchair and Jungkook splays out across one of the couches, while Yoongi puts on a movie before sitting down on the couch opposite. He’s chosen a horror flick tonight, and you take a bite of pizza as you watch the opening credits and point out how fake the blood dripping down the wall looks.

The movie continues—spinning a tale of haunted manors and possessed children. It’s a hackneyed storyline that’s been done time and time again, and you and your companions don’t miss any opportunity to poke fun at all the clichés and rip into the flaws. But despite the jokes and jabs, you still flinch at the first jump scare, twenty-three minutes in. You still wince when you watch how the family’s mounting distress impedes their judgment, causing them to make mistake after mistake.

After all, you’ve seen it all before. You’ve made some of those same mistakes over the years, and you’ve learned that you can never be too careful when it comes to sudden movements and sounds. Better safe than sorry is your mantra, and it’s one you abide by no matter what the situation. Both your body and your brain are trained to react, and reacting is what’s gotten you out of every close call you’ve encountered over the years. Most people learn to dismiss their more primal instincts—the instincts that raise the hairs on the backs of their necks and drive them up the basement stairs as soon as the lights go out. Most people rationalize those bumps in the night, but you?

You know better.

///

“So. Vampires, huh?”

From his seat beside you, Yoongi nods. You’re sitting around the kitchen table, enjoying a late breakfast in the bright morning sun streaming through the windows, and for once you actually have extra company. Your own reluctance to call yourself a hunter doesn’t stop you from befriending and working with other hunters, and over the years you’ve encountered the same people on more than one occasion. Jimin and Taehyung, especially, are a duo that you’ve fought alongside many times in the past, and now that you’ve settled in one spot they drop by at least three or four times a year.

“Man, it feels like it’s always vamps these days.” Jimin speaks again, sighing heavily and sending a loose tendril of blond hair out of his face as he leans back in his chair. “They’re popping up like weeds. It’s insane.”

“It’s the nest,” Jungkook says, shaking his head. “A bunch of them have settled into the old movie theater downtown. The place was abandoned a few months ago when they finally finished work on the new one next to the supermarket. It’s the perfect hideout.”

“It’s also the perfect day for a hunt.” Taehyung speaks this time, his voice still hoarse from sleep. “The sun will have driven them all inside. With all five of us, we’ll be able to pick them off easily enough.”

“We’ll head out after we eat, then,” Yoongi decides. “Speaking of which, does anyone want more eggs?”

Jungkook, predictably, raises his hand. Yoongi sighs good-naturedly and stands up, returning to the stove, and you get up as well to help yourself to more coffee. Half an hour and a good bit of food later, you find yourself seated in the passenger seat of Yoongi’s Jeep as you head out of the woods, weaving down the gravelly path that leads from your home into the valley that houses the town.

The abandoned movie theater is a stout brick building, situated beside a smaller tributary of the river that winds through town. A little paved path follows along the edge of the waterway, stopping at the sewer entrance, and you exchange glances with your companions when you see that the bars of the metal grate have been twisted apart just enough to let something the size of an adult human pass through. Taehyung whistles under his breath, and Jungkook curses. “I guess that’s one way to move around town during the day,” Jimin remarks, and Yoongi nods solemnly.

“I’ve seen vamps pull the same trick in bigger cities. They’re not stupid; I’ll give them that.”

“So, what’s the game plan?” Taehyung asks, tying his thick mop of wavy brown hair back into a little ponytail. He—just like the rest of you—is dressed casually, with all of his weapons hidden away beneath his clothing and tucked into his boots. All of you have sharpened wooden stakes in addition to your usual gear, and you are acutely aware of the stiff, heavy weight of the weapon strapped to your belt.

Yoongi glances at the movie theater, tapping his chin as he considers the question. “There are two individual theaters in the building itself, so unfortunately, we can’t really predict where they’ll be. The sun’s on this side of the building though, so we should definitely smash those boarded up windows. Then, I’m thinking we split into groups and each take an entrance.”

“According to the blueprints we pulled from the city website, there’s a back hallway that connects both theaters, and side exits that lead into each one,” you chime in. “We don’t have an exact count of how many vamps could be in there, though. Could be a dozen, could be twice that. We can’t be reckless.”

Nods all around. “Let’s pair off, then,” Jimin says, laying a hand on the stake at his hip. “Been a minute since we worked together, hasn’t it, Kook?”

Jungkook catches the hammer that Yoongi tosses him and begins pulling the nails from the wooden planks covering the windows. “Sure has.”

“If you guys take the back, I’ll take the front,” Yoongi decides. “Tae, {Name}, are you two okay to take the side entrance?”

You exchange a look with Taehyung and nod. With that settled, you head for the side of the theater closest to the creek to keep an eye on the door there. Taehyung wanders over to the back corner to watch the rear entrance, while Jimin picks up a few rocks from the riverbed and tosses them up into the air to test their weight. Then he turns and hurls one at windows lining the front of the building, shattering the glass with a crash. Glittering shards rain onto the overgrown sidewalk, and the other windows soon meet the same fate.

There’s no doubt in your mind that the residents of the movie theater have caught wind of your arrival. Jungkook and Jimin don’t seem bothered by that fact, though, as they head for the back door and wrench it open with a rusty, metallic screech. Yoongi goes in alone at the front, backed by the glare of the sun, and you know that he’s least likely to be attacked right away so you gesture for Taehyung to proceed with extra caution as you cut through the padlock on the side entrance. The two of you are already shadowed by the building, and your surroundings only grow darker as you pull open the creaky door and step inside.

It takes several seconds for your eyes to adjust to the dimness, but once they do, you find yourself in a wide corridor with brick walls and a dusty patterned carpet. On the right are two sets of double doors that lead to the theaters, split by a narrow hallway. On the left is the concessions counter, still stocked with paper cups and unused popcorn boxes.

Carefully, the two of you make your way further down the corridor, past the concessions and restrooms. Another hallway branches off here, and you can tell from the daylight that it leads to the front entrance. Peering around the corner, you spot a silhouetted Yoongi heading your way, his silvery hair backlit by the sun’s rays. “Anything yet?” you ask as he comes to a stop beside you, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing but a few rats and a dead bird behind the ticket counter. I’m thinking they must all be asleep, or—”

He’s cut off by a shriek and the sound of a body hitting concrete, and you offer him a humorless smile as you whip out your stake. “Think you spoke too soon,” you tell him before following Taehyung back down the hall and into the dark theater that the sound came from. Yoongi props open the doors, allowing for some light to shine inside, and with the added illumination you can just barely make out the figures of Jungkook and Jimin. They’re surrounded by roughly half a dozen vampires at the very front of the theater, and you’re about to dart forward to help when a hard push sends you stumbling to the side. After a brief fight to regain your balance, you whirl and find yourself face to face with a female vampire, her face contorted and her sharp teeth glistening.

You don’t even have the opportunity to lift your stake. The vampire bursts into a cloud of ashy dust, and you glance over at Taehyung who is standing there with a satisfied little smile. “That’s one for me,” he remarks, and you narrow your eyes at him before bounding down the steps to start your own count. Stakes may not be your weapon of choice, but you’ve dusted many a vampire during your years on the road and you fully intend to continue doing so. Over time, fighting has become as natural as breathing, and although you aren’t as strong as Jungkook or as tactical as Yoongi, you’re good at what you do.

Still, that doesn’t mean that you don’t occasionally run into trouble. Vampires, having once been human, aren’t bound by as many rules as some of the other creatures you’ve encountered. They’re wily, conniving creatures with an unquenchable thirst for blood, and the vampires you’re faced with now are particularly crafty. Already, the male vampire you’re fighting has managed to disarm you twice, and though you’ve managed to pull your switchblade from your boot, it does little damage against a creature that can only be killed by decapitation, direct exposure to sunlight, or a wooden stake through the heart. All around you, your companions are fighting their own battles, and even if you did call for help, you aren’t sure any of them could make it to you in time. Backed into a corner, you slash at the vampire again, but he easily sidesteps to avoid any major damage and you only catch him in the forearm.

“Is that all you can do, hunter?” he asks, his gaze flickering down to the shallow red gash. “I expected more, to be honest.”

Behind him, his companion—a red-haired female—snickers. “She’s pretty, at least. We could make her our little plaything—wouldn’t that be fun?”

Scowling, you swipe at the male vampire again and catch him in the chest. The wound is deeper this time, oozing red, but his footsteps don’t even falter as he stalks closer and knocks the blade from your hand. “What do you think, hmm?” he asks, leaning in close until he’s nosing at the delicate skin of your throat. “After we pick off your little friends one by one, we’ll keep you for a bit. Bet you taste even better than you smell, hunter.”

“Don’t call me that,” you grit out, even as you feel his fangs pierce your skin. A warm droplet of blood runs down your neck, and you struggle uselessly as he pins you in place with an ironclad grip. “Go to hell, you bastard.”

“Trust me—we don’t want him,” a new voice says. And then the vampire collapses into dust, and you’re left to stare, slackjawed, at the newcomer standing there in his place.

“H-Hoseok.” You fumble for the gun on your belt, but your fingers are clumsy from blood loss. “What… what…?”

Hoseok just smiles. He looks completely out of place in the darkness of the dilapidated movie theater, dressed as he is in a fitted black jacket and matching slacks, and you can’t help but stare dumbly at him as he twirls your stake in his hand and offers it to you, blunt end first.

“Um. Thank you?”

“My pleasure.”

Hoseok glances around then, and you realize for the first time that it’s fallen oddly silent. The sounds of fighting have quieted, and you follow the trajectory of his gaze to see that all of your companions have surrounded you—scraped up and bruised, but with suspicion swimming in their eyes and weapons at the ready.

“{Name}.” Jungkook speaks, his voice low and urgent. “You okay?”

Gingerly, you touch your neck, wincing when your fingers come away damp and warm. “I lost a little bit of blood, I think. But, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Who’s this guy?” Jimin asks, frowning at Hoseok. “Friend of yours?”

You look back at the demon, who looks thoroughly unbothered by Jimin’s scrutiny. “I’m Hoseok,” he says, with a disarmingly bright grin that doesn’t falter even when there’s a collective sharp intake of breath. Jungkook trains his gun at Hoseok’s chest, his finger twitching on the trigger, and Yoongi pulls a flask of holy water from one of his many pockets.

“You aren’t taking her,” he says coldly, and Jungkook nods his agreement, his gaze as hard as steel.

Hoseok laughs, and for a split second, you swear his eyes flash gold. “If I really came here to take her, what makes you think you could stop me?” Calmly, he examines his fingernails before looking back at you, his eyes now warm, molten brown once more. “Luckily for you, though, I’m here as a friend. Don’t you want to know the name of the demon who killed your parents, darling?”

At once, your heart leaps into your throat and tries to escape out of your mouth. Words fail you, leaving you spluttering helplessly, and Hoseok’s face crinkles into an amused grin as he continues through your silence.

“I’ll admit—I wasn’t sure who it was at first. Berith was a likely contender—so was Aeshma—and Toguro’s always had a bit of a nasty proclivity for violence. But then, someone started infringing on my contracts.” Hoseok lets out a doleful sigh and shakes his head. “He’s been busy, I’ll give him that. Turns out he’s killed hundreds of humans, your parents included. Compared to him, I’m practically a saint.”

Your voice, when you find it, is a tremulous whisper. “Compared to who?”

Hoseok’s face crumples in distaste. “Moloch,” he replies, practically spitting the syllables, and you turn them over in your head for a few moments before speaking again.

“Moloch,” you repeat, and the name feels strange on your tongue now that you’ve said it aloud. “What do you mean, he’s infringing on your contracts? Where can I find him? How do I kill him? Is he strong?”

“One thing at a time,” Hoseok says with a chuckle. “For starters, we should probably go somewhere a bit more comfortable to discuss our plans. This—” he gestures around the dusty old theater, “—is hardly ideal, and I know that you humans don’t see very well in the dark.”

“Hang on.” Yoongi takes a step forward, his gun still trained squarely on the center of Hoseok’s chest. “How do we know we can trust anything you’re saying? You might turn on us the instant we let down our guard.”

“True,” Hoseok admits. “But I could’ve killed all of you ten times over by this point, and the fact that I haven’t should be a testament to my good will.”

“Very reassuring,” Yoongi says dryly. Nonetheless, he tucks his gun away into an inner pocket of his jacket, reemerging instead with a pair of silvery handcuffs. “How about you put these on, then, as another testament?”

Hoseok arches a dark eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for the type,” he remarks as he proffers his hands. “Do be gentle with me, won’t you?”

Yoongi pulls a disgusted face and tosses the cuffs in your direction instead, and your quick reflexes kick into gear as you move to catch them. There’s only a short length of chain between the loops of steel, allowing for minimal movement, and every inch of the metal is carved with a myriad of symbols and glyphs. You only recognize some of them, and make a mental note to ask Yoongi about the unfamiliar ones later. For now, you beckon Hoseok closer, and he remains surprisingly docile as he offers you his wrists and allows you to snap the cuffs into place.

“Come on,” Yoongi says once you’ve secured Hoseok’s hands, grabbing the chain and giving it a harsh tug. “The wards back at the house are stronger than these will ever be. We should hurry back.”

“We’re taking him home?” Jungkook asks, still eyeing Hoseok warily. “Is that a good idea?”

“Honestly? Probably not,” Yoongi answers wearily. “But it’s also the only option we have.”

///

The long, winding path that leads up to the home you share with Yoongi and Jungkook has never seemed longer. Loose pieces of gravel ping off the sides of the Jeep as you ascend the hill, and you tear your gaze from the window to catch a glimpse of Jungkook in the rearview mirror. The dark-haired man is sitting beside a cuffed and blindfolded Hoseok in the backseat, his gun loaded with Devil’s Trap bullets and pressed firmly against the demon’s temple. His shoulders are tense and his jaw is set in a stiff line, but when he sees you looking, he blinks and softens ever so slightly.

You okay? he mouths, and you nod.

Yeah. Thanks.

Another minute passes before Yoongi pulls the Jeep to a gradual stop and cuts the engine. “We’re here,” he says, and you quickly hop out of the car to help Jungkook wrangle the blindfolded Hoseok out of the backseat. Behind you, Jimin and Taehyung pull up in their own car, parking a short ways away. The woods are sparse here, and the house is situated straight ahead in a clearing that allows for a clear view of the stars. Jungkook grabs Hoseok’s elbow, forcing him to spin around in a few rough circles. Then he drags him forward, reluctantly heading for the front door as you follow along after him.

Three paces from the door, Hoseok suddenly stops. Jungkook scowls darkly and tries to tug him forward, but the polished tips of Hoseok’s black leather oxfords remain stubbornly planted in place. “I can go no further,” he says, and you frown.

“Do we have to invite you in? I thought the laws of hospitality didn’t apply to… your kind.”

Hoseok’s lips twist up into a crooked smirk beneath the raggedy strip of black fabric that’s currently serving as a makeshift blindfold. “They don’t. And even if they did, you invited me in a long time ago. Or have you forgotten about our little deal, hmm?”

You hope he can’t hear the nerves in your voice when you answer. “How could I?”

On your left, Yoongi comes to a stop, flanked on either side by a perplexed looking Jimin and Taehyung. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you going inside?”

“This fucker won’t move,” Jungkook replies, jabbing Hoseok none-too-gently in the ribs. The demon only stumbles slightly before recovering his balance, and Jungkook immediately gives him another shove for good measure.

“Unfortunately, I can’t move, even if I wanted to,” Hoseok says, his smile finally dropping off his face as he gestures about vaguely with his cuffed hands. “This place is closed off to me. The work of your wards, I believe.”

Yoongi blanches. Reluctantly, he glances between you and Jungkook before letting out a weary sigh and pulling out his pocketknife. “Right,” he mutters, approaching the front door. Ivy surrounds the frame, climbing up the brick exterior of the house, and he pulls aside a bunch of leaves to expose a painted sigil. Sighing, he scrapes at it until the paint starts falling away in flakes, and no sooner has one of the lines been broken than Hoseok is stepping forward once more.

The house is eerily quiet when you enter. Yoongi flicks on the kitchen lights as Jungkook deposits Hoseok into one of the wooden chairs in the dining table, and you settle into the chair opposite as Jungkook rips the blindfold free and levels his gun at Hoseok again.

“No funny business, got it? I will shoot you if you try anything.”

“No tricks,” Hoseok promises, his dark hair wild across his forehead and hanging in his eyes. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You don’t have a heart,” Jungkook snorts, keeping Hoseok in his line of sight even as he tosses the blindfold into the trash and leans against the wall beside the bin. Jimin and Taehyung join you in the kitchen, taking the two remaining chairs at the table, and Yoongi enters a moment later with a large bag of rock salt in his hands. “Strictly precautionary,” he explains as he begins pouring a circle around Hoseok’s chair. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Perfectly,” Hoseok replies with a genial smile. “But between the salt and the wards and your attack dog over there, don’t you think that these handcuffs are overkill? They’re terribly uncomfortable.”

“Better safe than sorry,” is Yoongi’s curt response. Finishing off the salt circle, he straightens back up and plunks the empty bag onto the counter. “Now, talk. You were telling us about some bastard named Moloch?”

Hoseok hums and leans back in his chair, the chain between his bound wrists clinking gently as he settles his hands in his lap. “Moloch—where do I start? He hasn’t always been such a thorn in my side, but ever since he clawed his way out of the Waste, he’s been getting bolder. Hungrier.”

“You said something about your contracts,” you remind him, glancing across the table to peer into his face. “Is he… stealing them? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t fully understand it myself,” Hoseok admits. “Lower level demons are usually just that—lower. They’re less powerful, less known—but Moloch made himself the exception. He fought his way through the inner circles of Hell, all the way up to the innermost Ninth, and made a name for himself along the way. And now, to further his renown, it seems he’s settled on challenging me. It’s laughable, really.”

You frown. “If it’s so laughable, then why are you here? Why do you need our help?”

“Precautionary measures, mostly,” Hoseok replies. “Moloch is growing stronger by the day, and I’d like to eliminate him before he becomes more of a problem. Our goals are aligned, darling. I see no reason why we shouldn’t work together to achieve them.”

You meet his gaze then, taking in every fleck of warm amber and molten gold swimming in his irises. “We’re allies, then. For the time being.”

“Allies,” Hoseok agrees, inclining his head. “Agreed?”

You hesitate, glancing toward Jimin and Taehyung. Then you look beyond them to where Yoongi and Jungkook are slouched against the wall, raptly watching your exchange with the demon that you’ve been running from for so long.

“Agreed,” you finally say, lifting your chin and looking Hoseok straight in the eye. “It’s a deal.”

///

Dusky purple twilight fades into the deep blue stillness of nighttime. Yoongi has driven into town with Jimin and Taehyung to grab some supplies, and Jungkook has disappeared into the garage to tinker with his car, if the classic rock playing distantly in the background is any indication. You’ve retired to your room to read up on demon-killing spells, perusing the various tomes and grimoires you’ve accumulated over time. Though you are relatively adept at magic, you still haven’t attempted much beyond a few simple charms and hexes. Killing a demon with magic will take far more power than you currently possess, but with some practice and perhaps a smidge of help from your unexpected ally, you just might be able to pull it off.

Hoseok, much to Jungkook’s chagrin, has been given free reign of the house. The enchantments carved into his handcuffs sap him of his power and the wards on the house prevent his escape, and you and Yoongi see little reason to confine—and potentially anger—your demonic ally. As much as you hate to admit it, you need Hoseok. The plan you’ve concocted is as much his as it is yours, and in order to succeed, you need all the help you can get.

You’ve just flipped to a new page, scanning the sprawling text and reading through the notes scribbled in the margins, when there’s a soft tap on your door. “Come in,” you call mindlessly, and it slowly creaks open to reveal Hoseok standing there.

“Evening,” he murmurs, his gaze dark as obsidian in the dim light from your desk lamp. “Mind if I come in for a bit?”

You hesitate for only a second, glancing down at his handcuffed hands before flitting back up to his face and shaking your head. “I don’t mind,” you say, matching his quiet tone. “Come on in, Hoseok.”

Hoseok smiles. His footsteps are silent as he enters your room and takes a curious look around—from the wall of mismatched bookshelves opposite your bed to the heavy wooden desk you’re seated at. The window above you is heavily fortified with thick glass and a heavy line of salt, and the carved glyphs at every corner and the protective amulets hanging from the sill render it impossible for anything inhuman to get in or out.

“I feel it, you know,” Hoseok says, as casually as if remarking on the weather. “The protections on this house—they’re incredibly well done. Is it your handiwork?”

“A bit of it, yeah,” you admit. “Yoongi had a lot of it in place already when we moved in, but I added some things here and there.”

Hoseok hums in understanding and glances down at the well-worn rug beneath his feet, tapping the edge where the floorboards are exposed with a polished shoetip. “And the Devil’s Trap beneath the house, was that your doing? I imagine it’s in the basement. Or perhaps the cellar?”

“The basement,” you confirm quietly. “I’m surprised you know about it.”

“I felt the energy shift as soon as I stepped inside,” he replies simply, glancing around once more with a faint smile playing about his lips before taking a seat on the edge of your bed.

It’s strange, seeing Hoseok lounge so casually in your bedroom. Hoseok—who holds your life and your soul in contract, and has been chasing after you for the better part of almost two years in order to collect on what’s owed. Never once could you have imagined that you would be here. Never once could you have imagined yourself forming an alliance with your death.

And yet, here you are.

There’s a beat of silence, one that falls over you like a shroud. Hoseok breaks it again after a moment, the cuffs around his wrists jingling lightly as he shifts his weight on your mattress. “I must say, I’m quite impressed with you,” he remarks softly. “No one has ever dared to run from me, much less evade my grasp for so long. But what happens when you get tired of running? You’re only mortal, darling.”

Slowly, you spin in your chair to face him. “I’m not running now. You have a chance, so why don’t you take it?”

Hoseok chuckles at that. “Have you forgotten? We’re on the same side. Besides, I have to admit that I’m rather invested now. You deserve to have your revenge, and I’d like to be there when it happens. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all. And you, darling, are a hell of a woman.”

His gaze drops, then, and you don’t miss the way he trails down your figure, lingering on the skin exposed by the dip of your shirt collar and your bare legs. You’ve grown accustomed to wearing fleecy sweatshorts around the house for comfort, and never once have you felt uncomfortable or overly exposed. Now, though, Hoseok’s dark gaze is trained unwaveringly on you, and you swallow harshly under his stare. He looks nothing short of ravenous, and you’re suddenly reminded of every time you’ve driven an inhuman creature into a corner just before putting a blade or a bullet into its heart.

You aren’t sure what possesses you, but you’re on your feet before your brain can caution you to stop and think. Hoseok’s mouth is quirked into an infuriating little half smile, crooked and indolent, and you reach up to cup his jaw as you settle into his lap with one leg on either side of his thighs. Already, you can feel the growing hardness of his bulge pressing against your core, and a sharp rock of your hips has him hissing from between his teeth. “This would be much more pleasurable if you were to release me,” he rasps, raising his cuffed hands, and you smirk at him before pressing him down into the mattress and anchoring his bound wrists above his head with a single hand.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Hoseok huffs out a sound that’s half-chuckle, half-growl. It rumbles deep within his chest, cavernous in a way that makes you ache, and you barely have time to yelp in surprise before he’s flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with his arms on either side of your head and a predatory smirk dancing on his sharp features.

“You,” he begins, the single syllable soft and deliberate, “have no idea what you’ve just done.” Ever so slowly, he lowers his head until the loose strand of dark hair that flops free over his forehead is brushing your cheek. His lips meet the delicate spot where your jaw meets your neck, dragging from just beneath your ear down to the line of your throat. You gasp at the scrape of his teeth that blossoms equal pain and pleasure along your skin, and your back arches as your body instinctively seeks out more contact. Your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting in a gasp that vaguely resembles his name.

And then he’s gone.

At once, your eyes snap open—irritation blooming in your belly when you immediately spot him in the desk chair that you’d just abandoned. “What the hell—?” you begin, but the words die on your tongue when Hoseok raises his cuffed hands and beckons you over with a single finger. Your legs move of their own accord, as if pulled by marionette strings, and Hoseok doesn’t even need to speak as you come to a stop before him. It’s as if your hands have a life of their own, smoothing along the silky material of his shirt that flows along the lines and contours of his body like water. You would be lying if you said that you haven’t been curious about what it would feel like for a while now, and you can’t deny the thrill of pleasure along your spine as you trace down the clothed planes of his chest. Teasingly, you stop short just shy of his silvery belt buckle, and Hoseok tilts his head and raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.

It’s a challenge that you’re all too willing to accept. Dropping to your knees, you unfasten his belt and free him from the confines of his black pants. His cock is hot and heavy in your palm, the tip swollen and beaded with pearlescent precum, and your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip at the sight. Deliberately, you lean forward and wrap your mouth around the head, sucking at it gently before swiping your tongue along the slit. Hoseok hisses sharply at the motion, and you smirk around him, pleased.

There’s no denying that Hoseok is big. Already, your fingers just barely meet around his girth, and his cock is still growing. Slowly, you take a little more of him into your mouth, tracing the tip of your tongue along the vein running along the underside of his cock. You tease at the flared head and glide your palm along the length, and remind yourself to relax your jaw as Hoseok’s cuffed hands settle lightly at the base of your neck.

“Look at you,” he rasps darkly. “Such a good little slut for me.” Then he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I can smell him on you, you know. The human—Jungkook, was it? What would he say if he knew how readily you fell to your knees for me, hmm?”

His words shouldn’t have any effect on you, and yet they do. Your underwear is sticking uncomfortably to your folds by this point, and Hoseok seems to sense it because he inhales deeply and chuckles again.

“What would he say, darling? I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. How would he react if he saw you here with me? If he saw you with your pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock?”

You can only hum around him, and Hoseok smirks. His cuffed hands weigh heavily on the back of your neck, and you splutter a little when he forces you to take him deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

“So pretty,” he murmurs indulgently, relenting just a bit to allow you to suck in a breath of air through your nose. But it isn’t long before he’s pressing forward again. Your jaw aches, stretching to accommodate his girth, and though you do your best to relax your throat he proves too big. Instead, you wrap your hand around what you cannot reach with your mouth, slicking the unholy combination of precum and saliva down the length of his cock. Hoseok’s hips jump when you give him a harsh, sudden suck, and you cannot hide your grin.

You know he’s close when his thighs begin to tense beneath your fingertips. His muscles flex, his hands holding you in place as he begins to rut his hips up in search of his high, and you fall limp in his grasp as he releases a shuddery breath. Mere seconds later, Hoseok spills into your mouth, a deep groan escaping him. You swallow down everything he has to offer, licking your lips to catch any remnants, and his gaze darkens to obsidian when you stick out your tongue to show him that your mouth is empty.

“Up,” he says shortly, and you hasten to obey. In your eagerness, you stumble, and he grins when you steady yourself again by splaying your hands against his chest. “Can’t keep your hands off me, hmm?”

“I could say the same to you,” you retort, and he laughs as he allows you to undo his shirt, the silk slipping between your fingers as you slide the buttons free. With his jacket open and his shirt unbuttoned, you are free to explore the golden expanse of his toned chest, and you do so with relish. You stop only when he grabs the hem of your t-shirt, helping him slide it up and over your head to reveal that you aren’t wearing a bra underneath. Your shorts and underwear soon follow, and Hoseok doesn’t hesitate to slide a finger through the slick gathering along your pussy, circling your clit a few times before bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth and licking them clean.

Somehow, he is already hard again. You gasp when he rises to his feet, pressing you backward until your knees buckle against the edge of your bed. Landing hard on your back, you gaze up, entranced, as Hoseok stands over you. His unbuttoned shirt hangs loose off his frame and his pants have long since been discarded, and when your eyes drop down to his cock he lets out a delighted laugh.

“You’re an insatiable little thing.” Reaching out, he trails a lazy fingertip along the soft skin of your thigh, igniting gooseflesh in his wake. “On your hands and knees, then. I want you to watch me ruin you.”

Your eyes go wide. You’d forgotten all about the mirror that hangs over your closet door, but as you heed his order and roll over onto all fours, you see your reflection come into view. Your lips are swollen and your hair is a mess, and when Hoseok’s hand comes down harshly onto your ass, you let out a surprised little yelp.

Hoseok merely chuckles—you can see the amused twist of his lips in his reflection. Slowly—deliberately—he slots himself into the space between your ankles, his hands settling firmly onto your hips. The length of chain between his cuffs is cool against your skin, and you aren’t sure if the shudder that wracks your spine is due to the chill or the anticipation.

And then Hoseok presses forward, the tip of his cock nestling against your entrance before pushing past and parting your walls inch by tortuous inch. The stretch has your mouth falling open, a string of silent moans on the cusp of escaping, and Hoseok soothes your torment with a kiss to your shoulders. His palms smooth along your sides until he is seated fully inside you, and you gasp at the feeling of being so completely filled.

There’s a heat growing within you—one that licks at your insides and burns bright in your core. You meet Hoseok’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror, and he seems to understand because he pulls back until only the tip of his cock remains nestled inside your body. The force with which he slams forward again has the mattress creaking beneath your joined bodies, and you gasp out something that sounds vaguely like his name as he rolls his hips again and settles into a steady rhythm.

Hoseok fucks you with abandon, his hands gripping at your hips and pulling you against him with every thrust. You feel him everywhere—stretching your walls, against your nerve endings, deep enough that you can practically feel him in the back of your throat. There’s something building in the pit of your belly, winding tight like a coiled spring, and you can’t contain the garbled nonsense that falls from your tongue as Hoseok picks up his pace.

Your knees are beginning to shake, but Hoseok doesn’t relent. The weight of his chained hands disappears from your lower back and settles instead around your neck, and you weakly allow him to raise you up, his chest pressing against your back as he nips at the soft junction of your neck and shoulder and whispers filth into your ear.

“I always knew you needed more than that human could give you,” he whispers, his breath hot against your cheek. “You need a demon to satisfy you, darling. Not a man.”

You can only whimper. Reaching back, you wind your arms around his neck while he sets to work sucking a bruise into your clavicle. Your fingers delve into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, tangling in the silky strands and tugging at the roots, and Hoseok grits out a string of curses as he rolls up into you. The coil in your belly winds tighter, until you’re at the very brink. Your lips part.

And then your orgasm crashes over you, overwhelming you completely with its intensity. Your eyes flutter shut as you ride out the waves of pleasure, and Hoseok draws out every last bit as he fucks you through it, his rhythm unwavering. By the time you finally come down from your high, your limbs feel like soup. You sag in Hoseok’s grip, exhaustion overtaking you, and he chuckles into your shoulder as he finally finds his own high and fills you with creamy warmth.

Several long moments pass. Hoseok untangles himself from you, letting your tired body collapse down onto the mussed sheets, and you lay there for a few seconds before rolling over, blinking one tired eye open to regard him. His lips tilt up when he catches you staring, and you quickly bury your face back into the mattress, much to his amusement.

“You told me once that you expected me to be hornier,” he remarks, his weight settling onto the bed beside you and dipping the mattress. “Was that horny enough for you?”

Both of your eyes blink open at that, your mouth falling open as you gape at him. “You—I said what?”

Hoseok grins and raises his fingers to his temples, miming horns in the same way you did all those years ago. “This is what you meant, of course,” he says. “But I must admit, I do prefer this over that.”

The memory of your first meeting rushes back to the forefront of your mind. Laughing, you shake your head, staring up at the corner of the ceiling where a few paint specks have dried. “Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about doing this since the first time we kissed.”

“Not at all,” Hoseok replies. “You were but a child then, and we were simply making a deal. See, kissing is a bit different for my kind. It’s an act of power—not one of intimacy. There’s an exchange that comes with every one, and it’s that exchange that truly seals our contracts.”

Thoughtfully, you hum. “I did always wonder about that. None of the books I’ve read have really explained it, and it’s not like I can just ask.”

“There’s only so much that books can tell you,” Hoseok replies. “And honestly, most of the authors of your precious books are painfully uninformed when it comes to the details of my kind.”

You sigh. “I know. I went through six different grimoires before I found a single demon-killing spell. I’m not even sure that I’m strong enough to cast it properly without killing myself by accident.”

“I’ll aid you, then,” Hoseok says. “Between the two of us, we should be able to deliver a fatal blow.”

No matter how many times your companion has promised his help, you still can’t help but blink in surprise. “Really? I was going to ask you to help me practice, but… you’ll really help me cast it?”

“Of course,” Hoseok answers, reaching down to brush away a bit of hair that’s sticking to your cheek. “I told you already, didn’t I? I want to see you have your revenge, just as much as I want mine.”

///

Morning dawns brisk and cool, a layer of white mist shrouding the valley where the town is just beginning to awaken from her slumber. The sun is just beginning to peer over the horizon, rearing his golden head, but the rays remain hidden behind the wispy gray clouds scattered across the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bird begins to sing.

You’ve been awake for some time now. Yoongi has already brewed three pots of coffee, and you are sipping on your second mug as you watch the world wake up through the open kitchen window. In the entryway, mere steps from where you’re standing, Jimin and Taehyung are packing up their sparse belongings and checking their weapons one last time.

“I really wish we could stay,” Jimin says apologetically, offering you a wan smile. “But Jin broke his arm, and Namjoon can’t take on a full pack of werewolves by himself. We’ve got to get over there as soon as we can.”

You wave off his apology. Namjoon and Jin are two other hunters you’ve worked with many times over the years, and had the circumstances been different, you would’ve happily dropped everything to help them out with their plight. “Don’t even worry about it,” you assure. “We’ll be fine here. Let us know if you end up needing help with the pack, yeah?”

“Same goes to you,” Taehyung says. “We’ll drive back up as soon as we’re done down south, just in case we need to do a rescue mission.”

You laugh and pat him on the shoulder. “With any luck, it won’t come to that.”

He grins. “Fingers crossed. See you around, {Name}.”

“Bye, Tae. Drive safe.”

Bidding Jimin goodbye as well, you turn toward the sink to start cleaning up the dishes from breakfast. Jungkook and Yoongi are saying their own farewells, and you watch through the window as they help load Taehyung’s car. Yoongi appears to be giving Taehyung some last minute tips on wielding a stake, and Jungkook and Jimin are play wrestling on the stretch of lawn just outside the house. Shaking your head, you grab a sponge to start washing the plates, and by the time Jungkook and Yoongi return inside, you are drying off the last pieces of silverware.

“Thanks for doing the dishes,” Yoongi says, brushing past you to pour himself a fresh mug of coffee. “Where’s our guest? Have you checked on him yet this morning?”

At the mention of Hoseok, you feel your cheeks warm. He hadn’t lingered long after your tryst last night, and you’d been quick to show him to the spare bedroom where he could get a little more comfortable and rest up. “He must still be in the guest room,” you reply, gesturing vaguely down the hall and making to stand up. “I can check and see.”

“Nah, I can do it,” Yoongi replies, waving a hand and walking off. “You should probably start getting ready for tonight, anyway.”

You nod, sitting back down and wrapping your hands around your coffee mug to relish in the warmth. “Right. Thanks, Yoongi.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Yoongi disappears down the hallway, his footsteps fading, and you lean back in your seat and take a long sip of your drink. Pale steam rises from your mug in whorls, and you watch it spiral up toward the ceiling as your mind wanders back to the night prior. It doesn’t take much to recall the plans you’d discussed with your companions—plans to avenge your parents once and for all. It doesn’t take much to recall what happened later, either—the visit Hoseok paid to your room, and what transpired afterward. Your body remembers, and reminds you with every thrum and ache. Here and now, in the clear light of morning, you can’t forget the way he made you feel.

And even if you could forget, would you want to?

Groaning, you shove aside your straying thoughts and refocus on your plans for tonight. According to Hoseok, luring Moloch out is a simple feat, and should be easily achieved through an orchestrated car accident. You’ve already picked out the perfect stretch of road, too—a sharp unmarked bend that’s all too easy to miss in the dark, just one town over from yours. An abandoned chapel sits in the woods just off the side of the road, and you’ve heard many a local whisper about the shadowy grims that protect the cemetery and surrounding church grounds. Later in the afternoon, Jungkook is heading over to scope the area out and get a lay of the land. And just after dark, you and Yoongi will make your move.

You spend the rest of the day preparing. Hours fly by as you review your research, flipping through the marked pages of your various books of spells. You jot notes down as you read—details and incantations that you might need—and it isn’t until Yoongi shakes your shoulder gently that you rouse yourself from your trance. “Huh?”

“It’s dinnertime,” he says, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I roasted a chicken. Come eat.”

Obligingly, you follow him to the dining table where Hoseok is already seated. “I’m not eating,” he says in response to your inquiring brow raise. “Just under strict supervision by Yoongi here.”

“No shit,” Yoongi grunts, grabbing a knife and beginning the process of carving the chicken. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for any longer than I need to.”

Dinner is a quick, quiet affair. Yoongi flips on the evening news a few minutes in, and the three of you watch as the local meteorologist gives the weather report. Much to your relief, she forecasts clear skies and a zero percent chance of precipitation, and you exchange looks with Yoongi as the channel transitions into missing persons reports.

…Richard Guerrera, 42, has gone missing from his riverside home. Local police report no signs of foul play. Friends and neighbors are praying for his safe return…

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Hoseok says, raising his cuffed hands innocently when both you and Yoongi turn to look at him. “I had nothing to do with that. I’ve been here the whole time.”

Yoongi harrumphs and stands up, gathering up his plate and silverware. Finishing your last bite of food, you gather up your own dishes as well and follow him over to the sink. “I’ll clean up here if you want to pack the car,” you say, and he nods.

“I just have a couple more things I want to grab. Meet outside in ten?”

“Sounds like a plan,” you confirm. Squirting some soap onto the sponge, you begin washing the dishes, sighing happily when the water finally begins to run warm across your fingers. The suds spiral down the drain, disappearing into the depths of the plumbing, and you rinse everything clean before turning back toward the table to grab the leftover food.

To your surprise, Hoseok has already gathered the remaining chicken into a plastic container and is standing beside the refrigerator with it in hand. He’s staring intently at the door, you realize—his focus zeroed in on the photograph that you put up there just a few months ago. It’s held up by a magnet shaped like a little ghost, and depicts you squeezed between your two housemates, the three of you grinning wildly with snow-capped mountains and deep evergreen forests in the background. You’d had it developed after a rather nasty wendigo hunt, and as the only existing photograph of the three of you together, it’s been on the refrigerator ever since. You wonder what Hoseok is thinking as he looks down at it, his brows furrowed. But before you can open your mouth to ask, his expression relaxes. Grabbing the handle of the refrigerator, he opens up the door and carefully deposits the container of leftovers inside, the chain linking his wrists jingling.

“It’s nearly time,” Hoseok says once he’s closed the refrigerator again. “You’ll have to break that trap in the basement to let me out, darling.”

Your gaze drops down to the tiled floor beneath your feet, beyond which the Devil’s Trap lies. “Right.”

“The cuffs, too. I trust you have the keys?”

You hesitate, and then nod. Gesturing for him to follow, you head for the door at the very end of the hallway, pulling it open to reveal a narrow staircase stretching down into the darkness. “After you,” you murmur, and Hoseok obligingly begins the descent with you trailing after him, flicking on the lightswitch as you pass by.

The basement is a single, large room at the end of the stairs, lit at odd intervals by bare lightbulbs and ensconced by gray concrete walls. Odds and ends litter the space—tucked away on metal shelves or shoved into unobtrusive corners. The corner nearest the stairs houses a makeshift wine cellar, with several dozen dusty bottles stowed away on a rack that nearly reaches the ceiling. Hoseok flashes you an amused smirk as he passes by, and you can only shrug and smile back.

The Devil’s Trap is carved into the concrete floor, etched deep and reinforced with black paint on a monthly basis. Hoseok comes to a stop just shy of the outer edge of the sigil, and you take another few steps beyond it before pulling your knife from your boot and looking up at him once more. “We’re allies,” you murmur. “Right?”

“Right,” Hoseok confirms just as softly. And you nod, flicking open your blade and chipping away at the painted concrete until the lines of the trap are broken.

A loaded silence falls over you when Hoseok steps out of the Devil’s Trap, his polished black oxfords toeing the broken line before stepping over it. You release a long breath as you straighten up to face him, your heart stuttering a little in your chest when you find his face mere inches from your own.

“The cuffs now, darling,” he breathes, unintentionally mesmerizing you with the way his dark lashes flutter as he blinks a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “I can’t help you if they remain on.”

“Right,” you breathe back, fishing the little silver key out of the pocket of your jeans. Gingerly, you take Hoseok’s bound wrists, inserting it first into one lock and then the other. The cuffs fall to the concrete with a metallic clatter, and Hoseok beams as he heaves a relieved sigh and stretches his arms overhead, rubbing his wrists.

“Perfect,” he rasps, and you swear that you see the outline of his tattered black wings on the wall behind him for a split second before you blink. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then you blink again, and he’s gone.

You take the time to fix the Devil’s Trap before heading back upstairs. It’s a simple matter—a bit of quick dry cement and a generous dab of paint—and you double check your handiwork with satisfaction before heading back upstairs. Yoongi is already waiting by the car when you arrive, and you wave as you join him at the trunk of his old station wagon.

“He gone?” he asks as you survey the array of weapons and equipment loaded inside, and you nod.

“Yeah. And before you ask, I fixed the trap too. Everything’s back to the way it should be.”

Yoongi shuts his mouth with an audible click and turns toward the driver’s side door instead. “Let’s go, then. Jungkook texted a few minutes ago, and we’re all set.”

“Okay,” you reply, taking one last look at the trunk before slamming it shut and striding over to the passenger side of the station wagon. “Let’s go.”

///

The drive to the next town is a short one—only about twenty minutes from the time you pull away from the house. Traffic is light, and Yoongi turns on the radio and flips through the stations until he lands on some soothing jazz. The spire of the chapel soon comes into view over the treetops, the peeling white paint pale against the deep blue sky. “Here we go,” Yoongi mutters over the music and the hum of the engine, chancing a glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer, resisting the urge to squeeze your eyes shut as Yoongi wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the right and sends the station wagon veering into the grass, narrowly missing the ditch on the side of the road. The car bounces over a few bumps, slowing slightly before ramming into a young sapling at the edge of the woods, and despite the fact that you’ve braced yourself for the impact, it still sends all the breath whooshing out of your lungs.

The airbags deploy, but just barely. Yoongi has modified them to fill up enough to soften the blow but not smother you in the process, and you’re grateful for that as you wrench yourself free of your seatbelt and reach for the door handle. There’s no need to feign the way your hands shake as you stumble out of the car and into the grassy clearing where the chapel looms, the headstones around it jutting out of the ground like stony teeth. From behind one of them—a tall granite one with a carved angel sitting atop it—you spot a shadowy figure on all fours watching you with alert eyes and pricked ears.

“Yoongi?” You peer around to the other side of the vehicle where Yoongi has extricated himself and is limping over to join you. “Are you… are you okay? What happened to your leg?”

“Think it’s a sprain,” he replies, coughing. “What about you? Are you all right?”

“I think so.” Gingerly, you touch your forehead and wince. “I might’ve hit my head, though—it hurts really bad and I think it’s swelling up. And the car, fuck. What are we supposed to do now?”

Yoongi pulls his phone from his pocket, waking the screen before hissing out an expletive. “Shit, it looks like I don’t have any bars. We can try to flag someone down on the side of the road, I guess. Or maybe we can walk to the next town. I think the map said it was only another fifteen minutes awa—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. A harsh, strident sound rends the night air—rumbling like falling stones in an avalanche—and your heart plummets into your stomach despite all the preparations you’ve taken to ready yourself for this moment. The wind begins to whistle through the trees, whipping through the branches. A flurry of leaves tear free from their limbs to slash across your cheeks, and when you reach up to touch your face, your fingers come away red.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice rings out, thunderous and deep with malevolent intent. “What do we have here?”

For a split second, you think that your eyes must be playing tricks on you. The shadows beneath the treetops seem to be moving, merging into a nebulous mass of impenetrable darkness that begins siphoning gravel and dirt and leaves up from the ground. The debris coats the solidifying darkness like armor and the leaves halo it like a crown, and two horns grow up out of the vaguely humanoid creature’s head until you’re certain they could pierce the sky itself. Two icy blue eyes stare down at you from the massive shadowy figure, cold and calculating and filled with malice. You feel like you’ve been run through with twin daggers, the blood freezing in your veins as you bite your lip hard enough to taste metal.

Moloch. The name escapes you in a whisper that’s immediately carried off by the wind that’s beginning to gust. It buffets against you and sends you stumbling back against the station wagon, and you spot Yoongi standing just a few paces away with his arm raised to shield his face. His mouth is moving, but you cannot make out the words.

It’s a good thing, then, that you reviewed your plan in the car just moments before Yoongi crashed it into the undergrowth.

Pulling your gun from your belt, you level it at the behemoth demon and shoot until the last chamber clicks. Then you throw yourself toward the trunk of the car, wrenching it open and grabbing the topmost items. The flask of holy water, you fling at the demon, dark satisfaction blooming in your chest when he bellows in pain.

A cry of your name draws your attention, and you whirl to see Jungkook dashing toward you from where he’s been lying concealed behind the dilapidated stone wall lining the cemetery. He’s got a gun in each hand, and quickly empties the first into the demon’s exposed back. The bullets are Devil’s Trap bullets—just as yours were—and you can only hope that Moloch remains incapacitated as you begin the next step of your plan.

Yoongi, thankfully, is already on the move. He’s heaved the bag of rock salt from the trunk and is dragging it through the grass, letting salt flow out of the hole he’s cut into the corner. Once the circle is complete, he tosses it aside and pulls out a white pillar candle, slamming it down at the northernmost point of the circle. Across the way, Jungkook plants two more candles into the earth—one due south and the other due west. “{Name},” he calls urgently, his eyes flickering in the flame of his lighter, “you have to start the spell. Now!”

Dread begins to pool in your stomach as you look around the clearing, searching for any sign of Hoseok. The breeze has settled and the treetops are beginning to still, but you know that the salt and bullets are only temporary solutions. Your foe is a formidable one, and even now you can feel a slight tremor beneath your feet. If Moloch breaks the salt circle, you aren’t sure you have the time to create another. You can only hope that the Devil’s Trap bullets hold, restricting his movements until you can finish your spell.

Yoongi lights his candle, and you steel yourself as you take the candle you pulled from the trunk and place it on the last of the cardinal directions. Falling to your knees, you hold your lighter up to the wick with shaky fingers, but the flame catches despite the gust of wind that threatens to put it out. “Abscede creaturam malam et non reverteris in terram viventium,” you recite, your voice quivering on the last word. Clearing your throat, you try again, shakily pulling a drawstring pouch from your coat pocket and scattering a pinch of the contents into the flame. It burns bright blue for a moment before reverting back to orange, and you frown as the flame begins to wane. “Abscede creaturam malam—” you begin again, but a low laugh stops you in your tracks.

“Starting without me, darling?”

And then Hoseok is stepping up beside you, dropping down to his knees and taking your free hand in his own. “Abscede creaturam malam et non reverteris in terram viventium,” he begins, and you quickly join in, your voices melding.

Moloch snarls out a curse, and it sounds like the blast of cannonfire. “Surely my eyes deceive me,” he growls, and you swallow when you see a flash of red within the icy blue of his eyes. “The King of the Crossroads himself is helping the little bitch?”

Your voice falters slightly. The title—King of the Crossroads—echoes in your brain, but you don’t have the time to dwell on it. Hoseok hasn’t stopped chanting, and you continue alongside him as the heat of the flames grows. “Exaudi me et non revertis huc. Flamma infernalis te absorbeat totum ut humanitatem non tentes. Discede, creaturam malam pro damnamus te. Discede stamus contra te. Discedo!”

The words fade into silence, and you feel a tingle in your fingertips where your hand is captured firmly in Hoseok’s own. Like wildfire, it flares, rushing through your veins and burning bright warmth from your toes to your crown. It overtakes and overwhelms you—both body and soul—and you gasp for breath as a sudden rush of pure power surges through your chest. The candle flames begin to grow, stretching and expanding to encircle the demon trapped within, and Hoseok reaches into your drawstring bag to scatter the contents. Once again, the flames turn blue, and this time they remain that way.

Pale blue and white sparks dance in the air, coalescing around Moloch until he is glowing as bright as the midday sun. He’s snarling and cursing—you can see the gaping maw of his mouth moving—but you can’t hear a single word over the sound of the crackling fire. You can’t even look directly at him anymore, forced to shield your eyes behind your hand with your fingers splayed ever so slightly. Beside you, Hoseok seems wholly unaffected, a smug smile playing on his lips as he watches the flames burn higher.

After what feels like an eternity, the fire fades back into orange and slowly begins to die down. You blink away the sunbursts and rub at your eyes, and when you look at the center of the circle where Moloch was, all you see is a pile of charred ash. “Is—?” you ask, and you can’t quite finish the question. Hoseok seems to understand you nonetheless, and you start when he glances over and gives your hand a soft squeeze, having completely forgotten that he was holding it.

“He’s gone,” he affirms, his gaze returning to the ashes scattered amidst the salt. “You did well, darling. Truly.”

“I—” You clear your throat and try again. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Hoseok grins. The dying flames cast him in warm golden light, burnishing his honeyed skin, and you can’t help the way your gaze dips down to the dip of his unbuttoned collar and the sliver of toned chest it reveals. His fingers are still curled loosely around yours, and you hesitate before pulling away and settling both your hands back into your lap. “Thanks,” you murmur. “Really.”

“It was my pleasure,” Hoseok replies. “Really.”

You smile at him. The fire flickers—sputters—and finally dies out, and in the absence of its light, you nearly stumble over your own two feet as you rise back up to a standing position. “I… I guess we’re done here, then,” you say. From somewhere behind you, Yoongi clears his throat, and Hoseok raises an eyebrow as he rises smoothly to his feet, his gaze darkening.

“I suppose this does mark the end of our alliance, doesn’t it?”

You don’t respond. You don’t have a chance to, because Jungkook shouts now! and you’re suddenly wrenched backward by a strong hand on your arm. A jet of water soaks Hoseok’s chest, sizzling upon impact, and you only catch a glimpse of the way his features twist into a pained snarl before Yoongi is pulling you back toward the crashed station wagon. On the other side of the clearing, you spot Jungkook with what can only be described as a Super Soaker filled to the brim with holy water. There’s a glyph carved into the tree he’s standing beside, and you know that if all has gone according to plan, it’s the last one he needed to carve in order to trap Hoseok within a pentagram drawn round the clearing.

“Get in the car, now,” Yoongi says forcefully, leaving no room to argue. When you hesitate, he wrenches open the car door himself and unceremoniously pushes you in, grunting when you try to keep him from closing it again.

Then he’s darting off, his silvery gun in hand as he plants his feet and fires. Three bullets rip through Hoseok’s fitted black jacket, tearing the fabric just enough to expose his toned chest, and you suppress a gasp when the ground promptly begins to shake.

“Jungkook, we have to go!” Yoongi growls at the younger man, who is still firing jet after jet of holy water at the trapped demon. Stubbornly, Jungkook fires off another shot before turning toward him, and Yoongi curses loudly when a heavy branch crashes to the ground between them.

The wind is beginning to pick up again, and this time it’s gusting even harder than before. If you ever had any doubts about Hoseok’s power, they’ve surely been alleviated now as the trees begin to sway and creak dangerously. Overhead, turbulent clouds blot out the stars and dim the waning crescent moon.

King of the Crossroads, Moloch had called him, and something in the very darkest recesses of your mind stirs again at the words. But Yoongi leaps into the driver’s seat before you can latch on to the thoughts that are trying to formulate, and Jungkook dives bodily into the back. You nearly get whiplash from the speed at which Yoongi throws the vehicle into reverse, and return your attention outside where you can clearly see Hoseok’s shadow silhouetted against the exterior wall of the chapel, his tattered wings thrown into stark relief against the peeling white paint.

Hoseok’s mouth is moving, but you don’t hear the words over the gusting wind. Beyond him, you watch as one of the shadowy four-legged creatures you spotted earlier comes darting out of the cemetery. It’s quickly joined by two more, and your eyes widen at the sight.

Church grims—tasked with protecting the hallowed grounds they were buried on. They take the shape of big black dogs, and you press a hand against the window as they stalk closer to the demon that you and your companions have trapped and betrayed.

Hoseok is looking directly at you now, and you flinch as you meet his blazing golden gaze. His handsome features are twisted and his eyes are slanting into something dangerously inhuman, and you swear that you hear the baying of hellhounds off in the distance.

“Are those—?” Jungkook asks shakily from his sprawled position in the backseat, and Yoongi nods grimly.

“Hellhounds,” he mutters. “I hear them too. They only come out when—”

“—they’re collecting a soul,” you finish.

There’s no more need for words. Yoongi throws the car into gear and pulls onto the main road in a fit of screeching tires, and none of you chance another look back.

///

“You know, I really thought that our life on the road was behind us.” Jungkook glances at you from where he’s sprawled across the bed he’s sharing with Yoongi, idly tossing a ball in the air before catching it again. “I didn’t miss these shitty motels, that’s for sure. This whole place smells like sweat and mothballs.”

“I’m pretty sure your socks are responsible for the sweat smell,” you quip, not even bothering to look up from the open grimoire in your lap. An array of ingredients are spread out on the table before you, and you carefully begin dividing them up as you scan through the next few lines of instructions.

“Leave me and my socks alone,” Jungkook grumbles. Sighing, he lets the ball drop to the ground and pushes himself up and off the bed, joining you at the table. He plops down into the chair opposite yours, and you glance up briefly at him before returning to your spellwork.

In the adjoining bathroom, you hear the toilet flush. The faucet turns on, the handle squeaking, and the sound of running water fades into white noise until Yoongi steps out of the bathroom and accidentally bangs the door against the wall. “Fuck, sorry,” he says, grimacing. “I forgot how light that thing is. I barely pushed it, I swear.”

“The draft from the window doesn’t help,” you reply. “We should really move to a different motel soon.”

“Tomorrow,” Yoongi promises. “As soon as the sun rises, we can pack up and head out. We’ve been in one place for too long, anyway.”

You and Jungkook hum in quiet agreement. None of you are blind to the fact that Hoseok is now hunting for all three of you, and will stop at nothing until he finds you. You’ve been on the run for just over two months now, flitting from seedy motel to seedy motel and keeping as low a profile as you can. Hunting is completely out of the question, since creatures talk and word has a tendency to spread like hellfire. You can’t possibly risk it.

“Being on a demon’s shit list sucks,” Jungkook groans, flopping back into his chair and tilting his face toward the water-stained ceiling. “I miss hunting. The last town we passed through had that woman in white situation, and we didn’t do a damn thing.”

“I called Jin and Namjoon,” Yoongi replies tersely. “They’re out east right now, but they said they’ll drive in the day after tomorrow to take care of it. It’s the most we can do.”

“No, it’s not,” Jungkook grumbles under his breath. Still, he falls silent after that, and you and Yoongi exchange glances before he meanders off to grab a well-worn leather book from his duffel bag, returning to the table with it in hand.

“I found something else,” he says, flipping it open to a page he’s marked with a torn scrap of paper and handing it over. “It might be a way out of this mess, if we can pull it off.”

You scan across the page, reading the words slowly until their meaning finally sinks in. “Burning bones?” you ask in a hushed whisper. “We can kill a demon if we find and burn its original human bones?”

“That’s what the lore says,” Yoongi confirms. “I have no idea if it’s true, but this book has yet to steer me wrong. Besides, it kinda makes sense, doesn’t it? Fire is cleansing. It kills most things, so why wouldn’t it kill a demon like Hoseok, too?”

“That’s a good point,” you murmur, a strange feeling taking root in your chest and winding its way up and around the slats of your ribcage. “And you’re right. It does make sense.”

“In that case, what are we waiting for?” Jungkook has straightened up in his seat, his eyes alight with excitement. “Let’s find those bones and roast this fucker.”

“I’ve already put the word out to everyone we know,” Yoongi says, glancing at Jungkook before returning his attention to you. “Unfortunately, we don’t know much about him, so figuring out where he’s buried is going to take some trial and error. But, hey. The word’s out and everyone wants to help, so all we can do now is wait.”

“Wait,” you echo hollowly, as the odd feeling in your chest tightens its hold and nearly chokes up your voice. “Right. We just have to wait.”

///

Days turn into weeks, and ever so slowly, you adjust to your new routine. Together, the three of you come to an agreement to ease back into hunting, and it isn’t long before you find yourself facing off against a clan of lower level demons with goat horns and pale green skin. They’ve taken over several dilapidated blocks of your current city’s warehouse district, and you can’t deny the rush of adrenaline that spikes your veins as you smash a fist into the fleshy part of one demon’s cheek and follow it up with a knee to its groin.

The deep blue of evening is rapidly settling over the city, enveloping your surroundings in growing darkness. Every shadow looks like a new enemy, and you keep a watchful eye on your surroundings even as you refocus your attention on your current opponent. Ducking underneath the demon’s swinging fist, you grab your switchblade from your boot and straighten back up, using the momentum to drive the blade into your opponent’s stomach. Distantly, you can hear Yoongi and Jungkook embroiled in fights of their own, wincing a bit when several gunshots ring out.

Groaning, the demon you stabbed falls to the ground. You pull the knife from its torso with a disgusted frown, eyeing the viscous purple blood that coats it, and bend back down to wipe it off on the creature’s shirt. As you straighten up again, you catch a flurry of movement out of the corner of your eye, just out of sight in the shadows. Carefully, you raise your knife and tread a little closer, watching and listening for anything unusual or dangerous.

Just as you near the spot where you thought you saw movement, something else catches your eye. The shadows near the warehouse entrance seem to be moving, pulsating like a beating heart. Bemused, you blink a few times, and that seems to dispel the movement. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn away and begin picking your way back toward your companions, keeping a wary eye on the darkest shadows and holding your knife close at your side.

Perhaps it’s your imagination, or simply your eyes playing tricks, but you swear you caught a glimpse of Hoseok in the deepest shadows. You saw him standing there in the darkness, his eyes flashing gold and his silky shirt billowing in an invisible breeze. But then you blinked, and he was gone, and you aren’t sure if he was in fact a figment of your imagination or not. Maybe I’m going crazy, you muse, suppressing a humorless laugh at the thought. Or maybe I’ve been crazy right from the start.

Later that night, as you lie in bed, you think of Hoseok. You think of his golden eyes and his slitted pupils, and his tattered wings silhouetted against the chapel walls. You think about his fingers and his lips, and when you eventually fall into a fitful sleep, you think of his cock too.

You’ve never been a lucid dreamer, but when you suddenly find yourself standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking a tumultuous blue-gray sea, you know that you are no longer awake. Down below, white-capped waves crash against the rocks, and you can just barely make out a precipitous path down the cliffside to the sandy beach. In the distance, you hear the mournful cries of seagulls circling overhead, backed by the sound of the sea.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Hoseok’s voice. Somehow, you aren’t even surprised as you turn to face him, taking in the sharp angles of his side profile silhouetted against the cloudy gray sky. He’s wearing a simple white shirt that’s been tucked into brown pants, and his black hair is loose across his forehead instead of parted to the side. Like this, he looks much younger than you’re accustomed to, and your heart does a funny little flip in your chest when he tears his attention away from the sky and meets your gaze at last.

“Where… where are we?” you ask. “I’ve never seen this place before.”

Hoseok shrugs and glances away again, toward the edge of the horizon where the ocean kisses the sky. “It’s the beach,” he answers simply. “Your favorite place.”

Perturbed, you glance down at where the waves continuously break against the craggy rocks, churning up seafoam and eddying waters. “Isn’t this your favorite place?”

“Maybe it was, a long time ago,” Hoseok answers after a brief pause. “I was human once, after all. Many demons were. That’s all we really are at the end of the day—corrupted, hungry souls who were tempted by evil and damned for eternity.” He looks over at you, his brown eyes glimmering. “But you already knew that.”

And then the scene shifts. Instead of stormy gray skies when you look up, you’re greeted by the bold oranges and burnished golds of sunrise—color streaking across the heavens like a watercolor painting and leaking down into the watery waves below.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Hoseok asks again, and you can only nod.

“It is,” you breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

And in the light of the rising sun, Hoseok smiles—bright and brilliant.

///

Life, you’ve found, sometimes has a funny way of circling back. Maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s destiny, or maybe it’s a simple case of déjà vu. In any case, you find yourself standing at the center of a crossroads at dusk—right when the borders between worlds are weakest. In your hand, you hold a box carved out of wood from an elder tree, and inside it lies a mound of dirt and a single bone.

Wood. Earth. Bone.

Blood.

You barely even feel the sting as you prick open the pad of your finger with your knife, squeezing the skin until a droplet of red wells up. Tilting your hand, you allow it to fall into the box, watching as it absorbs into the dark soil before shutting it and clasping it tight.

It takes only a few short minutes to bury the box, placing it into the shallow hole you’ve dug and tamping down the earth. Once it’s done, you look down each of the four roads that make up the crossroads in turn, tilting your head back as a cool breeze blows by.

“Hoseok.” There’s no need to raise your voice. “I know you can hear me.”

A beat. Then you hear the sound of rustling wings from behind you, mere steps from where you’re standing. “Evening, darling.” His voice is a dark, dangerous lilt. “Did you miss me?”

You swallow, taking a moment to steel yourself before turning to face him. “I have a proposition for you,” you say, and watch as amusement settles across his handsome face. Already, his eyes are aglow—slanted into that distinctly inhuman gold—and you quell the quaver in your voice that threatens to escape when you realize you can see the shadow of his tattered wings on the ground, cast in the glow from your car’s headlights.

“Oh?” Amusement, flecked with a hint of derision. “And what would that be?”

You exhale hard through your nose and raise your chin, meeting his golden gaze directly. “Our deal. I want out.”

As expected, Hoseok bursts into laughter. “That’s not how this works, darling. A deal is a deal. You agreed to my terms, and there’s no backing out.”

“Really?” Deliberately, you reach into the satchel at your side—the satchel that Namjoon had dropped off just yesterday with a grim nod and a warning. Careful, he’d said. You never know how he might react to this. Your fingers scrabble against a hard surface, hollow and round, and you grab hold and raise it up so that Hoseok can see what is in your hand. “How about now?”

Shock flits across Hoseok’s face, but he quickly schools his expression back into neutrality. “Is that a threat?” he asks coldly, and you pull out a matchbook and strike one until it catches, holding it up to the human skull in your hand until the pale bone begins to blacken.

“What do you think?”

Hoseok’s hair is beginning to singe—the burnt smell carrying on the breeze and prickling at your nostrils. Pointedly, you drop the match and stomp it out, and when you look back up, Hoseok is much closer than he was before. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, and you very nearly reach for another match when—much to your surprise—he starts to laugh. Deliberately, he reaches out and tilts your chin up.

And he kisses you—his lips warm and firm and deceptively gentle.

“You,” he breathes softly once he’s pulled back, “are something else.”

And then he turns and disappears, leaving you breathless and alone in the center of the crossroads once more.

#bangtanarmynet #hoseok #hoseok x reader #hoseok smut #bts smut #jung hoseok #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #hoseok scenarios #bts scenarios #bts #hobi #jhope #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #hoseok x you #bts angst #demon au #demon!au #lia writes

[rina-writes]

tell me to stop at anytime bc imma just keep sending requests LOL but i just remembered jack saying he wants a girl that will yell at him and straighten him the fuck out but i know for a fact he would just get turned on by it 😭

Hiii :D I love when you send requests (esp. when you come off anon hehe). I think so too!! I feel like he would see it as a challenge, hence my little blurb. Also, thanks for being my first beta reader hehe

Deep Breathing

Warnings: GN!reader, AngerIssues!reader lol, suggestive towards the end, fluffy?

Breathe in for four seconds.

Hold it for four seconds.

Let it out for four to seven seconds.

That was the advice your therapist gave you on how to bring your heart rate down from an “arousal” state back to a state to think rationally. It was all part of the process to controlling your anger. Most applicably, reducing your tendency to snap at people. For as long as you could remember, you were known for having a fire tongue. Your words dripped with sarcasm and what you didn’t say out loud, your face said in volumes. Your death stare and cold voice when you were upset struck fear into everyone who knew you. It was really the switch between “Oh Y/n is so funny” to “Oh Y/n is not joking,” that seemed to jar people the most.

When you started dating the sweet and charming Kentucky boy a few months ago, everyone warned you about tapering your sarcasm. More often than not the advice summed up to being “nice.” And it really was everyone telling you this: friends, family, co-workers, neighbors. Even though people didn’t know it was Jack Harlow, the moment they heard you were dating a country boy, they worried your temper would break him into pieces. 

You were a bit blindsided by the warnings. No one ever called you mean. After all, you never said things to hurt people’s feelings. You didn’t go out of your way to ruin someone’s day or tell them something they didn’t need to hear. At the same time, you didn’t sugar coat stuff. You said things directly to avoid confusion and if the way that you said things came with an annoyed tone, that was just your fee for being a good person.

You liked Jack, a lot. He made you laugh, showered you with affection, and helped you to let your guard down. But, not so far down that you let him see hear the infamous “Dragon Throat.” You did your breathing exercises, you went for walks, and you sent long rants to your friends in group chats all to protect him from blowing up at the wrong time.

However, there were times like these where you didn’t have the chance to give him a buffer. You were so fuming mad that you had to unleash it at that very moment. There was a part of you tucked deep inside that seemed to be watching in third person, shaking their head and covering their eyes as you stormed over to Jack, laundry in hand. That part of you felt bad for Jack who looked like a defenseless puppy with his big blue eyes staring up at you with confusion as he enjoyed watching Entourage on his day off.

“Babe what’s wron--”

“What the hell is this, Harlow?” You asked him, as you tossed the soiled boxers into his lap.

Jack’s eyes widened at the bite in your voice. “Uhm, my underwear?”

“No, apparently it’s a f-cking dish rag because I found it on the countertop instead of in the hamper where I asked you to put it three hours ago.” You gestured around to the apartment. “Look at this place! You haven’t been on tour in a month and it still looks like Old Macdonald’s Farm and probably smells worse. How can you live like this? Animals can’t even live like this!”

“Uh…” Jack’s mouth opened wide, but no other sound came out. He was sitting frozen on the couch, his palms pressed into the cushions, the tossed underwear still hanging off his bare shoulder.

“I know it’s your day off, but it’s mine too.” You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms. “Yet, while you watch television adding more to the mess…” You gestured to the empty takeout containers on the dining table. “...I’m scrubbing, doing laundry, vacuuming wondering why ‘no one helps me in this house’ and then having an existential crisis because I sound like my mother.”

“Ok--”

“And I’m not complaining…” You paused a bit. “...okay, I am complaining. But I asked you to do one thing which was to pick up your dirty laundry and put it in the washing machine. And you can’t even do that. Like--”

Jack stood up, grabbing your face and kissing you hard. Your eyes widened as you pushed at his chest. Jack moved backward, mostly because he released you and less because you actually pushed him that hard.

“Damn, you are so fine…” Jack muttered, his blue irises dark with desire. He swallowed, his eyes studying your lips again as if planning an attack.

“I’m serious right now, Jack!” You yelled.

“Me too, baby.” Jack said, wrapping arms around you, your nose coming into contact with his white tank top. Brushing against the top of your thigh, you felt a hardness straining against the fabric of his dark sweat pants.

“Jack, you can’t be--” Jack bent down and tossed you over his shoulder, walking you to the bedroom.

You gasped, your fists pounding on his back as you protested to no avail. You watched as the living room disappeared behind him; the mess that you would no doubt have to clean up later mocking you as well.

“Been awhile since I seen that attitude of yours.” Jack chuckled. “And I’m going to f-ck it right out of you, baby.”

Jack tossed you on to the bed, standing at the foot of it, grinning at you. You sat up, frowning.

“We were in the middle of a conversation, Jack! We don’t have time for this. I just want you to do your share today.”

Breathe in for 4 seconds.

Jack sunk down to his knees. He grabbed you by your hips to pull you closer to him. A soft moan left your lips despite trying to hold it in.

Hold it for 4 seconds.

He pressed his shoulders into the back of your thighs to allow your legs to dangle behind him. He looked up at you.

“I promise, I’ll do the laundry once I’m done…” Jack mulled over the word for a moment before adding in a husky voice, “...repenting.”

Let it out for 4 to 7 seconds.

As you felt Jack moving your clothing to get to work, your breath got caught in your throat. Suddenly, everything you were mad about seemed a little less important. This was an unexpected reaction to your “Dragon Throat.” Perhaps everyone was wrong and you should snap at him more. You gripped his hair earning an appreciative grunt from Jack as you tossed your head back in pleasure.

You would have to let your therapist know that the breathing exercises weren’t working out too well. However this new technique that you used to get out your anger was taking your breath away.

Jack.

#jack harlow #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow imagine #r-writes-fic

[simonsrosebud]

what if kevin & dalton had been set up instead of meeting on their own?

(pls accept this as apology for not posting any kalton for MONTHS)

kevin doesn’t have a date to the banquet.

normally, it’s fine.  he’s taken allison or renee to the last few, as friends.  but this year, renee has something going on with gwen, their freshman dealer who is somehow only a year younger than himself.  and allison got scooped up by ricky, the other freshman dealer. 

“what happened to us being dates?  i thought it was unspoken?”

allison shrugs and pushes her hair behind her shoulder.  she has her arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe to kevin’s bedroom.  “sure, but ricky has a crush on me and it’s fun playing around with it.”

kevin sends her a look.  “ew, don’t look at me like that.  as if, he’s like a baby to me.”  kevin opens his mouth, but gets cut off.  “you could get a date easily, it’s fine, we’ll help.”

and she’s right.  later that afternoon she shoots a text to the team groupchat.

allison:  kevin needs a date, any and all genders welcome.  must be hot, good at socializing, and able to withstand his complete lack of care for them esp once he starts talking exy. 

allison:  i expect a nominee from each of you.  good luck soldiers.

and kevin’s going to kill that girl.

the freshmen don’t answer, of course.  all of their friends are freshmen, and they’re also just too scared to respond to the foxes sometimes.

aaron responds first, suggesting he just take one of the vixens.  neil chimes in by saying that marissa girl is fucking social alright.

kevin doesn’t get why allison can’t just set him up with one of her friends.  she has a strict rule against any of the foxes dating her non-exy friends, but it’s just an banquet. 

matt comes in last, but instead of the groupchat it’s just to kevin.

matt:  i have a friend named dalton.  he’s in his masters to become a professor but he’s chill. he’s nice and fun too, the best guy i know

kevin knows he shouldn’t be shallow, but...

kevin:  picture?

matt responds almost instantly.  a picture of his friend sitting across from him at starbucks on his laptop.  he looks caught off guard, like matt took the picture without warning.

is he with him right now?

kevin:  maybe.

he drops his head back and rubs his eyes.

an hour later, the door opens.  neil comes in first.  matt is on his heels, and someone else trails in behind him.  kevin sits up.

neil looks at him.  in french, he says, “i wasn’t a part of this.”

kevin stands, and responds back in french.  “you let him in.”  neil shrugs at that, and continues down to the bedroom.

matt nods at him with a smug smile.  “do you still have your psych 101 workbook?  i have to take it next semester and i don’t wanna buy it.”

kevin frowns.  is he not going to introduce his friend?  “uh, yeah.”  he turns to his desk and rummages through the drawers to pull it out.

“oh, this is dalton, by the way.  he’s a friend from sophomore year.”

there it is.  kevin turns back, book in hand, and nods at dalton.

dalton smiles, calm and charming, and tilts his head a bit.  “he’s lying.  i was his TA.”

kevin gives a smile.  it’s small and faint, and mostly fake.  he can’t help it.  he doesn’t care for small talk like this.  how old does that make dalton?

also, how did matt befriend his TA?  kevin’s never spoken a word to the majority of his own.

“can’t imagine having to deal with him in class,” he says, jokingly.

matt doesn’t defend it, just shrugs and moves on.  “hey, did you find a date to the banquet yet?”  he wiggles his eyebrows.  

kevin’s gonna kill him.  he stuffs his hands into his hoodie pocket so he can ball his fists.  “not yet, no.”

he nods, nudges dalton.  “kevin’s on the exy team, too.  he’s the only one without a date to the winter banquet this year,” he says.  “allison, remember allison?  she’s on a manhunt to find someone she approves of for him.”

dalton considers it.  “that sounds like allison.”

kevin refrains from frowning.  “have you met her?”

dalton has, just one time when he and matt went to a football game this fall and made a pit stop to matt’s room.  it’s also when he met neil, albeit very briefly.  neil had too much going on to give him the time of day.

“once, a month or so ago.”

when matt and dalton get into the car, dalton turns halfway in his seat to fully face matt.  “he doesn’t have a date?”  matt shakes his head.  “is he into guys at all?”

matt glances at him.  “yeah, he’s bisexual.”

dalton raises his eyebrows.  “um, hello?!  why didn’t you set him up with me?!”

matt frowns and shoots his friend a look.  “why do you think we just went over?!  i took psychology freshman year!”

dalton’s gonna kill him.  “but you didn’t say anything about me to him.”  matt rolls his eyes and waves him off, and dalton sits back in his seat.

“i know kevin, i know what i’m doing.”

he crosses his arms.  “you’re the worst wingman i’ve ever met.”

but low and behold, kevin texts matt a few hours after his visit.

kevin:  how do u know dalton would want to be my date to the banquet?

matt:  bc he literally told me so

kevin:  fine, ask him if he wants to go and i’ll take him.

when dalton climbs on the bus behind matt, it takes him only a moment to spot kevin and make his way over.

the banquet is five hours away, so the foxes and their dates are changing into their formalwear once they arrive.

dalton has joggers on, and a long sleeve henley that’s a size too big.  his collarbone hangs out as the collar hangs low.  he wears a soft smile, and pushes a hand back through his hair. 

he looks hot.

dalton looks even more hot dressed up in his suit.  he keeps at kevin’s side at first, and talks to both matt and dan from time to time.  allison even pops up once to inquire about him, since he wasn’t one of her picks.

dalton and matt seem to joke around like they’re best friends.  but he doesn’t ever remember matt mentioning him.

then again, if kevin had friends outside of exy, he may not introduce them to the foxes, either.

he finds his way back to kevin’s side at their table, where he’s talking to a trojan player.  after a while, kevin turns to him.  “you don’t have to stick by my side, if you don’t want.”  he almost feels bad.

dalton shrugs and smiles.  “what if i want to stick by your side?”  the way that kevin reacts shows that he wasn’t expecting that, and dalton’s smile turns shy.  “um, i don’t mind, really.  i’d feel bad leaving you alone.  i’m your date.”  he takes a sip of his drink.

“okay.”  it barely leaves kevin’s lips, but it’s enough to make dalton happy.

“you can even talk exy to me, if you want.  i can pretend i know how it works.”

kevin’s heart seizes.  “you don’t know exy?”

dalton grins.  “i’ve never even seen a game.”  he leans closer.  “teach me?”

so he does.  for the next half hour, they sit and kevin blabbers on, and dalton listens and asks questions.  and then they sidetrack somehow to talking about marvel movies and what they suspect will happen in the next spiderman movie.

dalton swears to die on the grave that peter parker is a bisexual icon.

“you can take that title, instead, though.”  his grin is cheeky.  kevin lightly kicks his ankle and rolls his eyes, but he’s heavily amused.

“what about you?  what are you?”

“gay,” he shrugs.  “not much to it.”

“did you… when you told people, how did they react?”

dalton’s head tilts just a bit, and his smile starts to fade.  “some people don’t like it, but it was fine for the most part.”  and after a moment.  “why, are you okay?”

kevin nods.  

dalton doesn’t believe it.  and he supposes he doesn’t know kevin enough to say that, but there’s something about the way kevin doesn’t verbally respond to it that sits weird in his head.

he props his chin in his hand.  “i told my roommates i was gay the first week of freshman year.  my roommate knew, but we had two suitemates, and one of them kinda stopped talking to me after that if he could help it.”  he flicks his eyes up to meet kevin’s.  “my uncle asks me at every family function if i’ve got a girl yet.  he’s known for seven years, now,” he says.  “and thanksgiving is now hosted at my house because my grandmother told my mother that i was unwelcome in hers.”

harsh.  

“i’m sorry.”

he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say, really.  he barely has family as it is, but he can’t imagine losing them now because of something so small.

but dalton just shrugs a shoulder.  “it’s okay.  think about it this way, if i was still in the closet i wouldn’t be your date right now.”  he cracks a smile.  always smiling.

that’s when kevin notices just how close their faces are.  and how he keeps glancing at dalton’s mouth.  he sits back.  not here.

dalton goes to the bathroom, and matt takes his seat.  “how’s it going with dalton?”

kevin frowns.  “fine, why?  did he say something?”

matt’s face is indescribable.  “no, but i see you guys getting all close and stuff.  just flirt with him, dude!  he obviously likes you.”

yeah right.  “i-i don’t think so.  he’s just here because i didn’t have a date.”

matt drops his head for a second.  “kevin, after you first met him he scolded me for not setting you two up.  he doesn’t watch exy, and he’s not here for the famous kevin day, just give him a chance.”  kevin looks to the side, where dalton’s on his way back talking with dan at his side.  they’re getting closer, so he talks fast and quiet.  he stands.  “don’t fuck this up, he’s hot and nice,” he whispers, and grins when dan slides into his side.

“we wanna dance.  boys?”  she looks expectantly at both kevin and matt.  matt doesn’t have a choice, but he’d never say no anyway.

dan pulls kevin up and shoves him lightly into dalton, who catches a hand on his waist.  kevin wants to squirm out of it, but not because he doesn’t like dalton, or dalton’s touch.  just because the idea of liking dalton scares him a bit.

but dalton lets go when he finds his balance.

“i don’t- i can’t dance.”

“yeah right, i’ve seen you at eden’s before.”

when he was belligerently drunk.

“you don’t have to.” dalton’s voice is soft behind him.

matt slides his gaze to kevin.  don’t fuck this up.

he turns.  how has his life come to this?  “no.  i will, if you want to.”

dalton grins, lopsided and happy.  “yeah?”

he hopes he doesn’t regret it.  “yeah.” 

so dalton takes him by the hand and leads him after matt and dan.  the majority of the foxes are in the midst of the crowd as well, but they don’t pay them any mind.  there’s enough people that kevin can pretend he’s at eden’s.

kevin is a terrible dancer.  dalton notices it right away and laughs.  when kevin gives him a look he says, “follow my lead.  just sway a little.  nod your head to the music,” kevin looks up at him while he dances, but catches dalton’s eyes instead.

he looks away and falls out of rhythm.  “sorry,” he mumbles.

“it’s okay.”  dalton gently takes kevin’s hands and puts them on his waist.  it feels illegal.  his hands feel like dead weights, he doesn’t know what to do.

is he blacking out right now?

but then dalton’s moving his hips and dancing, and laughing.  he’s having fun and kevin wants to have fun too.

he moves his hands from dalton’s waist to around his neck, and dalton hesitates with his hands near kevin’s hips until kevin nods.

dalton’s fingers dip into his hips.  his one finger taps along the beat of whatever song is playing, while he lightly sings along and bounces back and forth.

it’s dark on this side of the court with the exception of some colored lights darting around.  the designated dancing spot.

kenna is kissing jack in the crowd.

kevin looks back to dalton, singing with a smile plastered on his face.

no one would notice.

kevin’s fingers twitch against dalton’s neck.  but someone could.

he’s already out, but that doesn’t mean he’s kissed a boy in public yet.

he drops his arms.  “i need some air.”

dalton let’s go, “are you okay?”  but he just nods and takes off, off of the court and down the hall to the locker rooms.  the foxes have their things in the away men’s locker room.

kevin sinks down on the bench.  he plays with the bracelet around his wrist, courtesy of betsy in case he needs something to fidget with.  opposed to panicking, that is.

that woman is never wrong.

kevin likes dalton, that’s not in question nor is it really the problem.  the problem is that he doesn’t know what his problem is.  if it’s what people will say when they see that he truly is into men.

being told something versus seeing proof that it’s real are two different things.  he’s learned that, dealt with it more than once.  the last time it was the proof of the raven’s bullying and abuse.  being told that kevin and riko’s relationship isn’t what the fans fantasize it is versus then seeing proof that it isn’t anything that they thought, for example.

kevin had to deal with backlash like that for months after the raven’s investigation post championship game.  him being bi isn’t the same, of course, but he doesn’t know how to predict the behaviors of his fans.  he doesn’t know what they’ll support or not.

but he likes dalton.

“hey.”

one of the freshmen, eva, stands in the doorway.  “stop running 

you don’t have to be scared of people seeing you dance, you know.”

kevin frowns.  “i don’t care about dancing.”

“yeah, but you care about dancing with your date.”  they cross their arms and lean against the doorframe.  “no one cares.  half this team is a little gay, anyway.”

once they’ve changed for the night in the hotel room, dalton hesitates from where he stands by the bed.  “are you okay?  you seemed a little jittery all night, i just... i wanna make sure everything’s fine, i guess.”

kevin looks up, but doesn’t answer. 

stop being so afraid of everything.

he opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t know what he can say.

he sighs.

dalton’s standing there, arms crossed, concerned.  kevin swallows his fears as he makes his way across the room until he’s standing right in front of dalton, and slides a hand behind his neck to kiss him.

dalton hums, surprised.  after a moment he brings a hand to kevin’s chest, and there’s a second where kevin thinks hes going to be pushed away.  instead his fingers dig into his hoodie and he pulls kevin closer.

dalton’s smiling as kevin pulls away.  “about time,” he mumbles, and kisses him again.

the back of dalton’s knees hit the bed by accident, but he drops down to sit and gently pulls kevin by the strings of his hoodie.

kevin isn’t new to sex, so to speak.  he’s not the most experienced, but he’s had his fun.  it’s the only reason he’s confident enough to scoot dalton further back and kiss him into the mattress.

dalton wraps an ankle around the back of kevin’s knee.  he curls his fingers into his hair and leans his head back when kevin kisses down his neck.

they wake up to kevin’s phone blaring.  matt’s calling.

kevin only acknowledges the fact that he has his arm around dalton for a second before he checks the time.

they’re late.

wymack’s gonna kill him.

kevin sits up and shakes dalton as he answers his phone.  “hey you guys are awake right?  coach is pulling the bus around then we’re loading up.”

kevin’s out of the bed and throwing his shirt on, tossing dalton’s hoodie to him.  “yeah, we’re coming.”  dalton’s eyes go wide and that kicks him into gear as he realizes the situation.

they look a mess as they run around.  they’ve really only got one pair of clothes and their suits to frantically shove into their bags.  kevin pulls his sneakers on without socks and dalton’s got his on with the laces all undone as they jog down the hall.

at least they brushed their teeth.

dalton drops down to tie his shoes in the elevator, and when he stands kevin takes the liberty of carding his fingers through his hair.

he shrugs.  “bed head.”

dalton can’t help but smile.  “might wanna pull this up a little,” he mumbles, and that’s when kevin realizes that he’d accidentally put on dalton’s long sleeve henley.  the shirt he’d been wearing last night before it got dropped to the floor.

dalton pushes the shirt up so it’s not hanging lower on kevin’s collarbone.  he’s got a nice hickey that needs hiding.

“they’re never going to let this go,” kevin says.

dalton leans back against the elevator wall.  “i’ve got some juice on matt if you ever need.”

kevin smiles, just a little.  despite him worrying all during the banquet, last night was so good.  he doesn’t want it to end as soon as they step off of the bus.  he doesn’t want dalton to be a one night stand, he doesn’t think.

he takes a step forward and kisses dalton against the wall once more.  he pulls away when the elevator dings.

matt smiles to himself as he watches them come around the corner.  he tries to tame it, at least.

kevin and dalton are the last on the bus.  kevin’s spot in the back is open, so they go back there.  dalton toes off his shoes as soon as he sits down.

kevin is on the aisle side.  his chest skips when dalton’s hand lands gently on his thigh.  he doesn’t hate it.

it’s dinner time when they get back to a rainy palmetto.  dalton had fallen asleep on kevin’s shoulder a half hour ago, and jolts awake when matt whoops and shouts to get out of his way so he can run off the bus for the bathroom.

“sorry,” dalton says quietly, scratching his head and yawning into the back of his hand.

“i didn’t mind.” kevin stretches his legs and pulls his shoes on.

dalton’s car is in the gated stadium parking lot.  kevin walks him to it, head ducked because all he’s got on is dalton’s henley.  no one anticipated rain.

dalton turns after unlocking his car, and sticks a ripped off folded note into kevin’s palm.  kevin puts it right into his pocket for safe keeping.  “so are you gonna call me after this?”  dalton’s hair is falling wet over his  forehead.

he nods, mouths the word yeah but nothing comes out.  and dalton can’t help himself, so he takes a step forward and kisses kevin one last time, gentle as he hesitates with his fingers hovering over his cheek.

kevin’s  got nothing to lose at this point, so he curls his hand alone dalton’s neck and steps closer.

he only pulls away because the team is most likely watching, and someone whistles.  “i’ll call you,” he nods.  he shoves his hands into his pockets and ignores the rain as he watches dalton drive out of the parking lot.

he turns towards the maserati and sees andrew shakes his head.  kevin looks down at himself.  he’s halfway to soaked.  not ideal for such an expensive car. which leaves one option.

kevin slides into the front seat of his father’s car.

wymack can’t wipe the smug look from his face.  “so-“

“no.”

#kevin day #bisexual kevin day #the one where someone doesn’t know who kevin day is #dalton miller #OC: dalton miller #kevin day x dalton miller #palmetto state university #Palmetto State Foxes #the foxes #the foxhole court #exy #matt boyd #dan wilds #Allison Reynolds #renee walker #neil josten #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #nicky hemmick #david wymack #abby winfield #kalton

[tennessoui]

i genuinely love like all of your takes on obikin they're all so sweet and in love with each other!!! i also really appreciate how you're into switch!obikin cause i feel like obikin is just a ship which fits into a bunch of dynamics, esp sexually. that being said, what's your opinion on like a/b/o obikin where they're both the same dynamic? maybe like they're both alphas/both omegas and drawn to each other even tho biology says they shouldn't be (i really like o/o obikin but a/a's good too haha)

oooo i haven't read a lot of fics where they're the same dynamic!! usually when i do read a/b/o they're complementary ones, but i think it would be interesting if that was something they also had to overcome!!

meanwhile my brain just goes 'lmao what if they were both betas?' so like little alpha ahsoka is whining about how omega barriss smells so good and perfect and she can't stop thinking about it, and omega padme has not shut up about alpha sabe protecting her that one time by snarling at a courtier seven years ago

and beta obi-wan and beta anakin are just like eating breakfast at their table, very calm nothing special. obi-wan is like 'oh you smell nice today' and anakin is like 'thank you i just changed my cologne' and obi-wan is like 'you should keep it, it almost makes me want to rip your clothes off and savage you on this table over our toasts' and anakin is like 'haha good thing we're not ruled by our instincts or sense of smell i would hate for breakfast to be disturbed when any ravaging can happen in bed in fifteen minutes.' and obi wan is like, 'yes of course. i'll meet you in bed in fifteen minutes, darling, prepare to be ravaged.'

anyway theres something so funny to me about both of them being betas and theyre surrounded by hormonal alphas and omegas trying to court and bite each other and give each other gifts that smell like each other and heats and ruts etc etc and theyre just. sipping tea in the middle of it all, holding hands and playing with each other's wedding rings.

#beta obi-wan would for sure find alpha omega heats and ruts completely uncvilized #anakin would have tried to help an alpha through rut and omega through heat and like. never again. that was awful #but also i can see a/a or o/o being cool twists #i do like a good a/o fic that subverts some of the tropes common to a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o #(just in case yall have squick tags for it) #asks

[goodguydotmp3]

two questions: why don’t you like harry and do you really think harry villanized the weed video or do you think that was the people attempting to court him (azoffs)

Whew, this is a long one folx!

Why don’t you like Harry [Styles]?

Let me preface this response by saying that I’m a pretty new “fan” if one can still call me that. I got into the One Direction fandom in the summer of last year, and much of my opinions of the boys where shaped by fan reactions. After gathering more and more information however, I realized that the fandom and I were wrong about some things, and over hyping others. 

Still, it wasn’t until this year that I actually broke out of the Harry-centric bubble to realize that the shady goings on where much worse than I originally thought. Add to this my realization that Harry’s music really doesn’t withstand the test of time, and that his persona is pretty Stagnant, and I’ve come to feel rather bamboozled.

Of course I know that the entire point of his PR team is to sway public opinion of him one way, and if I ate it up that was part of the plan. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. It also doesn’t mean I feel any less hurt about it. It also doesn’t mean that I like when other people fawn over him, as quite a lot of what I’m going to say has been public knowledge, and some of it before I was even a fan.

A. Music

 Actually getting to a big part of the problem here, his music isn’t good. Well, not long term like I said in the preface. He doesn’t really have much of a vocal range despite being a singer for more than ten years. He does not care and acts like he does, often leading to him sounding like he’s screaming instead of singing. He’s lyrics are boring and flat, and his melodies are fine, they just don’t make up for his unmemorable lyrics. I personally think that the cause is him more heavily relying on song writers to fill in more in more, but that’s mostly because I don’t want to believe that the same person who wrote Happily and Olivia also wrote At the Dining Table and Treat People With Kindness, because that would just mean he’s getting worse or putting forth less effort. 

Of course one could argue that I’m not a professional, I don’t have the necessary Jargon to correctly critique, and I’m no longer a singer so I can’t even do what he does. But to that I say fuck off. I know what sounds good! I know what I like! 

Even more than that though, If you bought a product (non food), and you could only use that product for the first two weeks you bought it, you’d say it was a shit product! You’d scream from the rooftops that no one should ever buy this product because it’s crap! Well guess what? I pre-ordered Fine Line just to listen for two weeks and never pick it up again except for golden, she’s a funky tune every couple months. 

Besides the test of time, there is still the subject of actual talent/listenability if you will. I feel there’s four main categories when I listen to music that makes it worth listening to

1.Amazing voice

2.Awesome lyrics

3.Funky/ cool ass melody/Beat

4.Catchy as hell

Now, a song doesn’t need to be all four, however the more they have the more likely I am to like the song. Also, I’ve said “main categories” because I’ve definitely had songs were I just through the beat drop was cool, or maybe the bridge was sick as hell, or maybe I just liked the pacing or the way the singer/singers stressed a note. Alternatively there is a sweet spot for me of super depressing lyrics but a melody/ that makes you want to dance. See: most of After Laughter by Paramore, Lola By Mika. But in general, those four usually make me love a song long term.

If it’s an album, it usually Just has to sound like it belongs on the same album/ tell a story. Like I really don’t like albums that sound like it’s just a playlist of songs personally. I should be able to listen to a song and go “oh yeah, that’s off --- album” or I didn’t like the album as a whole. An album is a bit like an outfit to me. It’s not going to be all tops, nor does it need to be monochromatic, but it does need to go together

For Example, I love Four as an album. I thought it was amazing. I still hate Spaces and Illusion. I hate both of their melodies, I don’t like the Illusion intro, I’m not to keen on those lyrics, and they’re definitely not catchy, I skip every time. 

So taking that logic to Harry’s music, I think HS1 works very well as an album, almost all of the songs sound like they’re supposed to be there. And I hate every song but Kiwi. The lyrics are boring/don’t make a ton of sense, the melodies definitely don’t make up for that, he doesn’t have the range, and none of them are catchy! And then you get to Kiwi and she’s got that vibe you know? She’s a pop punk bop and I cannot fucking believe that Harry has one pop punk bop among unmemorable pop rock album.

Going to Fine line, It’s not as great as an album. There are some songs that don’t really feel like they fit? Like just going through the album, cherry doesn’t have any business being there? Like the lyrics fit sure, but what is that weird intro and outro? It probably would have been fine If the song didn’t have those two, but having them there upset the pace a bit I felt. And then there was Treat People With Kindness, which was really Jarring and doesn’t feel like it belongs on the album at all? It  actually feels like it’s trying to be Kiwi - it’s loud and garish, and the lyrics are trying to be carefree, but! It just doesn’t work! TPWK sounds like Hippie music! Kiwi sounds like Brendon Urie could sing it and people would be like “good ol Panic!”. And then the album goes back down into Fine line the song, which again is Jarring because you’ve had this TPWK monstrosity right before it.

Then, looking at the overarching theme of his music, It’s whiny piss baby music He hates to take responsibility for his actions! It’s all in his lyrics! And don’t get me wrong, I love Honest lyrics, but not if the person is an asshole! LIke I fucking hate confessions by Usher specifically becasue he’s talking about how much he’s a piece of shit in the most whiny and piss baby way, making it all about him and no the people he hurt. I also really hate that one song that Zayn did with Usher and Chris Brown, because you have these awful men completely misunderstanding what it means to write a love song, and then you have Zayn at the very end all like “actually I really am in love tho…” Esp Chris browns verse! It boils down to “Hey I know I was a asshole seven billion times but I miss you tho :(“ GIRL BYE! 

Harry sounds the exact same though, Except he can’t even blame himself for his own mistakes, and just wades through self pity about how the object of his affection won’t love him even though he didn’t even do anything except it wasn’t his fault and why are you still mad it wasn’t even his fault and he was young and reckless and drunk and horny. Like??? WRITE A NEW SONG TAYLOR SWIFT 2.0! There’s only so much you can repackage the same narrative before it becomes stale no Cinderella does not count keep that shit coming. And It really jumps out in his writing, even through 1d, although I will say there were some catchy beats, and awesome lines to keep him afloat back then. Although wtf was Walking in the Wind??? Choke!

Then there are the melodies I’m talking post wondee here which often give this 70’s pop rock vibe. Which fine I guess, it’s his brand, but that doesn’t make it interesting. Or new. Or fresh. Or an interesting take. 

Now I completely understand relying on nostalgia to boost people’s opinion, but you could at leas have the decency to actually have good music. For Example, Miss you by Louis Tomlinson has a very distinctive pop rock feel, but it’s also an amazing song. Great lyrics, amazing voice, catchy liddle diddy that happens to be reminiscent of that 2005- 2010 punk pop/emo pop feel. Sour diesel has that like,,,basey 90s pop feel, and it fucking works with the lyrics, and of course his voice is beautiful. When Walls dropped and Lou put out that playlist of songs that were an inspiration, you can hear the influences when you listen to the album, but they’re also really good songs in their own right, with amazing lyrics, and Louis’ distinctive voice. Comparing that to Harry, it seems like he’s mostly relying on people’s nostalgia rather than actually good music.

Okay so this last point I’m making on music is a little petty but it’s been like a week and I’m still pissed about it so I’m saying it now. Someone said that Harry Styles is the best pop rock artist right now???? Just admit that you don’t listen to pop rock tf. Louis Tomlinson is right there. Brendon Urie is right there. Mika is right there. Haley Williams is right there. Janell Monae is right there. I don’t listen to a lot of pop rock lol but i feel my point has been made

B. Public Persona

He get’s so much clout! SO MUCH CLOUT! For doing the bare minimum (this is not specifically about the fandom, that’s for later)! People will write all these glowing reviews of him for him??? Being polite??? Like okay and? Just because a person is polite doesn’t mean they’re fucking Jesus??? There’s a million and one stories so i’m not fucking looking them up but there’s the pizza story and the fish story and the plane story and the snl story and the Stormzy story and the WS story on and on and on! Stop giving this man brownie points for basic human decency. “I didn’t expect him to be like that!” okay is that because of their perception of what a rock star is supposed to be like? Because in that case we need to start holding people accountable for being assholes. Or is it because he seems like an asshole. Cause valid.

I also don’t like him leaning so heavily on the queer image thing. Like! If that’s how he likes to express himself, Fine, But so much of it is just...so manufactured! And I Know I’ve heard people say oh well he wore the one rainbow on his lapel that one time or he wore the shirt or he wore the Keith Harring.

1. That Rainbow pin is sus as hell I don’t care what ya’ll say It absolutely screams set up, if he wanted to not be seen he would have not been seen 

2. That goes for literally every other time. I can’t believe it’s not a set up to push a queer image. (that he profits from!)

3. If he actually did his homework on Keith Harring he’d know that the man was a predator, and he wouldn’t have worn those shirts. It seems so performative! To add to that, does he know now? If so, why isn’t he using his platform to correct his mistake? Why didn’t he come out and let people know not to buy Harring’s stuff??? He knows the pull he has! He absolutely could have been like “I’ve made a mistake, if you are looking for queer artists to support, here’s some” But he fucking doesn’t

4. To add on to that last part, It is actually sus that he gets to profit off of this queer image, and yet the only queer voices that he’s propping up are white gays. And then not even directly? Not a “queer artists, esp queer artists of color are important and need their voices boosted because they are the back bone of society” but this wink nod type of deal, where again, he mainly boosts white gays.like??? One queer black woman that doesn’t work for the Azoffs, and then a bunch of white gays. Like?? That’s not racist to anyone else???????Just me? okay.

Now from a professional point of view, it’s even worse. I’m not saying that artists can’t be campy or blurr gender lines, or imply that they ‘re queer subtly. But I think it’s fucking disrespectful to play both ends. Like, he profits off of using the queer image, all while Dancing around the subject, but then on the back end he never says that Homophobes/Transphobes aren’t allowed in his fandom. He gives this empty ass tpwk and then washes his hands of it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am always upset when people who have lots of queerphobes in their fandom bullying and harassing the actual queer people never say anything to let queerphobes know they’re unwelcome (clearly money is better than morals) but for me it’s an extra kick to the gut for it to literally profit Harry to seem queer. Look at that time that  gay company sold out shirts in less than an hour,because harry was wearing it and tell me people aren’t throwing money at him because they feel he’s queer. 

C. Fashion

This one is a really rough one for me because this is partially what drew me into Harry in the first place. But he’s really not all that in terms of fashion. He’s expensive certainly, but sometimes, the things that are more expensive are worse. Even When He’s not looking like a grandparent out on the town, his style is very dated, and yet he gets paraded around like he’s the freshest new thing?? Like who is his team paying of for him to get that many articles about how he’s fashion’s biggest star. And the thing is, his style is even dated for the mainstream. There’s already a post about how he copies prominent pop/pop rock stars of the 70s, which means that his style is 50 years old for the mainstream. Now don’t get me wrong, I think it’s totally fine if you’re addicted to seventies wear. I don’t think he should be heralded as this huge fashion star if his wardrobe is this dated

Even more than that. Gucci???? The Gucci with a history of Racism?? The Gucci with the child labor??? The Gucci with the 14 hour days Gucci??? Ugly ass Gucci????? Soulja Boy don’t even fuck with Gucci no more and he fuck with Gucci since like 2007. (although that was because of the racism, not cause it’s ugly)

I think that bothers me the most though. Like it’s not enough to exploit people, you also have to be tacky ugly and expensive???? For what??? @Gucci cease to exist please.

If Harry wants to be tacky ugly and expensive, that’s of course his rights to do so! But don’t act like he’s at the very pinnacle of fashion every time he does. 

I’m actually always very conflicted about that. I personally prefer a style that’s very loud and campy and avant garde but like,,,,that ain’t it. Maybe it’s something you got it or ya don’t??? Like for example Billy Porter could wear a trashbag and make it work. The expensive sweaters and the slacks? The suits? Not a good look on one Harry Styles. Maybe it’s because they’re expensive sweaters and slacks and expensive suits. What are you, Ted from accounting??? Grow up.

D. Treat People With Kindness

Ugh this is the thing that pisses me off like the second to most. This phrase is so fucking empty. You could not have made up a more corporate mandated phrase if you fucking tried. It stands for nothing! Just like him!

Let’s break it down. “Treat people with kindness” is, at face value, a call to action. It’s asking you to do something. But it doesn’t actually tell you what to do!! So it’s pretty inoffensive! You don’t actually have to change your behavior in anyway for two main reasons:

1. What the hell is Kindness??? This phrase never actually says what it is??? It’s just this short little punchy thing that assumes you know what kindness is! What if you didn’t actually know? What if you have differing ideals of what is considered kindness? I mean to my mother, Misgendering me is kindness, but I don’t think that’s kindness. To my father, not letting his children have autonomy is kindness, but I don’t find that kind. And yet they could both use that phrase and feel confident that they go around treating people with kindness. After all they cooked dinner didn’t they? They smiled at Janice from public relations didn’t they? That’s kindness right?

2. It also assumes you know what “people” are. Queer people are people. Queerphobes don’t consider queer people, people. Racists aren’t going to consider some people, people. So they can continue their harassment and dehumanization of them and still be treating people with kindness, because they never harmed actual people (to them)

E. Harry bots

Bitch?? Corporate spies?? Tf ??? That’s not weird to ya’ll ?? I think the thing that shocked me more than someone from Colombia records admitting that he manufactures the hype around people signed to Colombia, is the fact that the Fandom been knew!!!! Ya’ll been knew and ya’ll wasn’t gon tell me???????? I just found out last week wtf????????

Another thing I don’t like about them Harry bots, is it’s one thing to hype up Harry, but why tf do they need to shit on the other boys??? Is it because they’re more talented, good looking, and charming??? How about you get good!!!! I esp hate that it’s usually Louis. What is Corporate’s obsession with putting Louis down like? What a bunch of fucking weirdos?? It’s not enough to be a Harry fan and live up his ass, I gotta hate Louis too?? You lost yo damn mind. If you reading this and you a spy? Die.

F. Capitalism

Honestly that should be the end of it but here the fuck we go I guess. Now I get that there is going to be some capitalism involved when you get music, especially mainstream music, there are tones of articles out there with people who used to be in the industry telling you about how fucking awful it is, all in the pursuit of money. (Which isn’t fucking real by the way! We made it up! People out here getting traumatized! Belittled! Bullied! Married off! So some corporation can make all the money! The Imaginary Credits! That we made up! I hate it here!) 

But it’s another fucking thing to participate in a capitalist system? He invested into that one sleep app, even going to do one of the voice sessions (So you could have Harry Styles themed sleep paralysis) and you pay for that! He makes money off that! It’s not enough that you buy his mediocre music or his ugly ass merch, you also have to give him money through the sleep paralysis app. 

Then there was that Google Camp for Rich People Only! I don’t even want to fucking hear that it was on Climate Change oh wow all the rich people took helicopters and Yachts to a resort with manicured lawns??? To talk about how they treat the environment? That’s not at all Counter intuitive! Not at all for show! Fucking disgusting.

Oh and the Covid Shirt! Really bitch??? You need to Profit off a deadly pandemic? Are you profiting off of AIDS next you fucking bastard. And he can of course get a tax write of for his “ charitable donation” fuck off.

G. Racism

This! This is the thing that gets me the most! YA’LL CAN EXCUSE RACISM???

No, I’m not talking about the Native American Headdress thing, that was plenty despicable on it’s own, No I’m talking about the on going racism. The whole, using black people for clout and then dropping them and never returning the favor when they sing his praises thing. Specifically I’m thinking of Sis the activist, Stormzy, and Lizzo. 

The Lizzo thing pisses me off the most actually. I think it’s very fucking convenient that Harry started taking interest in Lizzo after there was uproar from black fans noting his hypocrisy of performing for Pepsi (Notoriously racist) and Having BLM sticker on his guitar. So he shows up at one of her concerts dressed like a senior citizen that got lost on the way to the retirement home bathroom. She looked fucking amazing and he couldn’t put forth the effort to at least not look senile. Then there was the covering of her songs, and then there was the cuddling up with her at the awards show. Funny how I haven’t seen any interaction after the fact! And Of course everyone forgot about the Pepsi concert! Fuck all the way off!!

Also! Are we just never going to talk about the fact that he didn’t comment on the blm protests earlier this year until his team could gauge whether or not it would be profitable to do so by DATA MINING HIS FAN BASE???? And then when he actually did he got the most praise for it, truly fucking hate it here. Also when he marched with those protesters he made sure we knew it was him. There were posts flouting around everywhere on how to best cover up to make yourself completely unrecognizable should you wind up on camera or fucking worse, get attacked by the police. Funny how Close Sprouse could follow the advice and not Harry? Also supper funny how he got the hell out of dodge before things got super bad and I have not heard anything on the matter since. Guess what Harry??? We’re still out here fighting for the rights to exist! Still wanna have a photo op while our own government tries to squash us with force????? This is like that Jenner Pepsi ad but with sunglasses and a pandemic.

H. Fandom

I think I would hate him less if I didn’t have to hear about him every hour of everyday. Stop Hyping this man so much. Even after unfollowing and blocking a bunch of Harries and Larries he’s all across my dash. And twitter. And insta. KURTIS CONNER FUCKING LIKES HIM I JUST WANTED CRACK CONTENT AND NOW LOOK. 

I. Conclusion.

After writing all this I think the running theme is that Harry Styles isn’t even a person, he’s a brand. I do not like or trust brands! And I definitely don’t like being advertised to! Just like It’s fake as fuck when Absolut is all about queer rights, it’s fake as fuck when Harry does it too. Just like I know Target doesn’t actually care about Black lives, I know Harry doesn’t either. People are always like “oh he’s so nice!” no! He’s polite! There’s a difference. Zayn Is a truly kind person. Liam is a truly kind person. Louis is a truly kind person. It shines though so brightly all the time, and yet people are really out here worshiping the Brand Harry Styles. 

Do I think It was Harry or The Azoffs throwing Zouis under the bus. 

Truly doesn’t matter! Whichever one did it, Harry was totally fine with it! Which tells me that he doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He’ll go along with anything as long as it gets him to the top, and that’s fucked up on one million and one levels

#hazza curly mchazzerson #This is like 4 thousand words #Have fun #Harry Styles

[bibbykins]

So are the seven princes the same level of crazy or are they are different levels? I feel like their on the same level some just hide it in a different way. I was trying to think about which one I would prefer (although I prefer no craziness lol) and I guess it would be Jin cause he’s at least up front about being crazy 😂

I totally agree! They all are on that same level but they express it differently! Although, the most honest ones are Jin and Yoongi, so I think I would prefer them too lmaoo! Here are some lil headcanons:

Jin:

Very proud of the lengths he'll go to for his Leopard (a lil too proud) and lives for your praise

Has the most honest relationship with you than he ever has with anyone bc you're both kinda crazy for each other

Will tell you what exactly what he plans to do to people who upset you, will maybe even ask your opinion if he’s stuck between what to do

Like that is casual dinner convo if it comes up, makes y’all one of the most intimidating couples tbh

Sometimes you even make requests such as when a professor gets too handsy or if you get jealous

He’ll poke fun at your jealousy but he’s way worse lmao

Doesn’t prefer killing, but nothing is off the table for you

Respects you a lot so lying to you isn’t even an option 

Yoongi:

He has the power to ruin lives at the drop of a hat 

You have the power to make him drop said metaphorically hat at your whim, sugar baby energy

You both control each other so easily and it’s very equal and mutual relationship 

He is also very protective

Not above hiring to kill, but will only do it if you ask bc he thinks death is too easy

Usually blackmails and puts anyone who bothers you in prison or far away in a miserable state of living 

You don't bore yourself with the details how he got rid of someone unless you really want to know

He lets you know if he’s gonna do something and for what reason before he does anything, giving you a chance to be like, “nah, don’t” but there is one exception...

If he sees you cry he basically sees red and hunts down whoever made you cry. You're his Sunshine, if you cry, someone is paying the price

Hoseok:

Sometimes, he wishes he could lie to you, but not only is he incapable, he cannot bring himself to do it

So he is just like “alright, do you want me to tell you or do you want me to only tell you if you ask?” 

After much deliberation, you’re like, “Just let me ask first.” bc same as in the fic, you’re just like some shit is above my pay grade, literally or metaphorically

Doesn’t like hiring to kill, he prefers ruining lives to make them suffer through it

V short temper when it comes to people even looking at you wrong so he doesn’t tell you when he’s gonna do anything

However, if you sense he might and tell him not to, he’ll respect your wishes or negotiate

Thinks it’s hot when you loose your temper and tell him to do whatever he wants, knowing he will definitely do something

You tell no one about the gratification you get feigning shock when a coworker tells you “so-and-so got fired and was barely able to get a job in the countryside, and he hates rural towns.” and you just say, “oh my, what a shame” with an internal smirk

Namjoon:

First things first, you both know that you know, but you also silently agreed not to talk about it most of the time

If you think about it too hard, then you feel bad(sometimes), so you just... don’t think about it

Altough, you are his alibi with no questions asked at any given time

He will do whatever he feels like he should, even gets advice from some of the other girls, mostly Leopard and Sunshine

The girls will tell you if he asked and you’ll just be like, “you guys are so silly and overprotective lmao”

Times will come when you’ll just thank him if you hear about what he “may or may not have” done and he’ll act casual but be rlly giddy internally

The closest to a regular relationship is you guys, but that’s mostly by default bc in reality y’all are codependent AT BEST

But similar to Sunshine, you also have sugar baby energy when it comes to his craziness

Jimin:

Enjoys threatening people in the name of love and is not above murder, but would never do it himself, would rather pay someone else to

Always says he hates when you question him or talk back but secretly enjoys it so he makes 0 attempt to hide his sinister tendencies from you

He just... never rlly tells you? If you ask he will, though and you’re just kinda *shrug* about it and sometimes use it to your advantage

Extremely supportive of your dreams- especially since it consists of mostly staying home and doing work there and is still trying to make you his manager

You're the only person that can tell him what to do and he'll listen most of the time

Although, he seldom respects your wishes or gives you permission to do stuff- not that it ever stops you/not that you ever ask

He has the “yes honey” yandere vibes rlly

Taehyung:

Not afraid to ruin lives for his lover and has no remorse for anyone who threatens you or what you both have

Strives to keep his darker tendencies hidden bc he wants to keep you pure, whatever that means

Supports your dreams- and is thankful they involve things he can employ you for/ things you can work from home for (although the embroidery needles make him SWEAT esp when you prick your fingers)

He would hate to think of what he would have to do if you wanted to go in a field he had no connections in, although there barely is any field of the sort with his job

Tries, usually in vain, to keep his stalker tendencies at bay, but who can blame him when you look so cute sleeping

Does his absolute best to respect your wishes.. although is not above lying to you about tampering with the situation

It's for your own good, you're too pure to understand the things a person like him has to do for your love

Jungkook:

Kind of almost a nut case, but he's your nut case since he tries to be subtle about his darker tendencies 

Is not great at it, but he doesn't go too far (in your mind) so you let it slide

Plus you're not exactly sane yourself, so it works out when you want him to put someone in their place

You're not a violent person, but he is when you need him to be, so you’ll just be like “ugh, this person tried to short me on a alter for a dress” and he’s out the door or making a phone call

Hates to lie, so never really does, just like Jimin he just doesn’t say anything unless you ask, except he tries to sugar coat it. (If you press further, he’ll crack under the pressure and be flat out) bc even when he does lie, you can tell and he knows

Not great at putting his emotions into words and is kind of a mess but is figuring out how to boyfriend and not stalker

Kind of endearing but a little frustrating at times

Seven Princes of Campus Masterlist

#yandere bts #seven princes of campus #ask #anon ask

[affectionatehannibal]

Bill Denbrough is a story-teller.

Need somebody to tell you what happened on last night’s showing of Saturday Night Live? Richie Tozier’ll do the job just fine, sure, but if you find him chances are good you’ll find Denbrough too, and he’ll make you feel as though you’re in the audience, staring right at the actors and actresses themselves. Didn’t feel like reading a book, but have to turn in an essay about it in an hour? Bill won’t write the essay for you, but he’ll tell the story as though he lived it himself and make it come alive clearer than any movie or SparkNotes article ever could. Words are both his home and weapon of choice- they are where he goes to rest and what he uses to look the world squarely in the eye, accept it for the shit-show it is, and continue on. It is because of all this, and because of their love and reverence for him, that Richie and Stan so easily believe his story about Georgie’s reappearance. And it is because of this that Bill manages to convince both of them to spend their Saturday locked inside the Derry City Library, scouring book after book for an explanation to their situation.

The table they’ve occupied for the better part of two hours now is completely filled with books. There are some on psychology and mental health, others on poltergeists and demons, ESP and clairvoyance, ley-lines, mediums, spirits, psychics, religions of all kinds, and all other things paranormal or strange. Every now and then, Stan looks up from his notes and glares at the mess before him, as though willing it to disappear. His side of the table is neatly arranged, with a hefty stack of books on his left and pages of notes on his right. Periodically, Richie stands up quietly and takes a stroll through the shelves, shaking excess energy out through his hands and making idle chatter with disgruntled library-goers who would much rather be left alone. His side of the table is busy but not particularly messy, with a few books open at once and a page filled with messy handwriting and scribbled doodles sitting off to the side. Every few minutes, Bill glances to his right to see how Georgie is fairing in their new surroundings and his stomach drops, like he’s seeing his dead brother’s figure for the first time. His side of the table is empty save for one book, opened to one of the earlier pages, his chair angled as far to the left as possible.

All three (living) boys jump as a large pile of books are dropped on the table. Mr. Cunningham, Derry’s only librarian, dusts his hands off and sighs. He stares daggers at the dozens of books already scattered across the table, imagining all the shelving he’ll be doing once the boys leave. Stan coughs to grab his attention and offers a slow, easy smile. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Cunningham. We really appreciate your help.”

Mr. Cunningham smiles back, previous displeasure forgotten. Bill and Richie share a glance, and Bill doesn’t try to hide his grin when Richie sticks a finger down his throat. If Bill’s talent is storying telling, Stan’s is kiss-assery. “My pleasure, Mr. Uris. Let me know if you need anything else,” he turns to Bill and Richie. Richie opens his mouth to say something, but Bill gives his foot a good warning kick before anything can come out. “You boys make sure to clean up after yourselves.”

Richie, lounging in the chair on Bill’s other side, pretends to shoot the librarian with double finger guns as he walks away. “God,” he groans. “Why do adults always look at you like they want you to suck their dicks?”

Stan smirks as he sorts through the new books, distributing an even amount to each of them. “Someone should warn them they’ll have to get in line.”

“Wowza wowza,” Richie grins. “Who gets to go first, me or Billy boy here?”

Stan absentmindedly flips through the pages of a book. “Who said you would be taking turns?”

Richie considers that for a moment. He leans forward in his seat, his eyes following Stan’s long, graceful fingers as they turn page after page. His face turns a splotchy, excited red, like he wishes Stan’s fingers were busy doing something else. He coughs. “Is it weird to get a hard-on in a library?”

Stanley doesn’t look up as he neatly writes something onto a sheet of paper. “No. I’m sure Mr. Cunningham will be very flattered to know you think so much of him.”

Bill clears his throat.

“Sorry,” Stan offers Bill a small, guilty smile. He shoots a glare in Richie’s direction. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Wuh-wuh-well,” Bill starts, looking down at the single book in front of him. He’d picked it from the pile on a whim, its plain, weathered cover certainly not making it the most interesting book of the bunch. Nonetheless, the first page had caught his attention and managed to hold it for a good two hours. He places it in the middle of the table, and Richie and Stan lean forward to get a better look at it. “I duh-duh-duh-oh-oh-n’t think w-w-we n-need to luh-luh-ook a-anymore.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “This is a book about ghosts, Bill.”

“Har de har har,” Richie mimes a laugh, but his face is pale. “That’s real funny, Denbrough. You know, I’m pretty sure I saw the ghost of Stan’s virginity in the back of my mom’s Honda Accord. Should we be worrying about that, too, ‘cause I think the warranty is about to-”

“Wuh-wuh-why,” Bill interrupts.“d-did we even geh-geh-get b-books about th-th-this sah-sah-stuff if you guh-guys th-think it’s suh-suh-something eh-eh-else?”

Stan looks at Bill, eyes full of pity and exhaustion. “Come on. You can’t really think George-, a ghost is following you around.”

“Wuh-wuh-ood y-you rather him b-be here b-b-because of Pah-Pah-Pah-Pah-”

“Uh,” now it’s Richie’s turn to interrupt. “I’d like to take a minute to remind the audience that we killed that son of a bitch, like, a long time ago.

Stan slowly sits back in his seat, staring off into the distance, past Richie’s head. He shudders, like he sees something there that has no resemblance to the quiet rows of books that surround them. “We don’t know for sure he’s dead.”

Richie lets out a strangled laugh. His face is a sickly white, like he’s going to need to know the quickest way to the bathroom in a minute or two. “Do you remember what he looked like before he fell down that stinkin’ hole in the earth? If that motherfucker’s alive, I’m-”

“S-s-so you th-think it’s a guh-guh-ghost, t-too?”

Richie frowns. “Now, listen, I never said that.”

“Th-th-then wuh-wuh- what ?”

“I mean,” Richie shifts anxiously in his seat. He places two of his books in the middle of the table, on top of Bill’s and flips through them for a moment, looking for specific pages. “take a look at this. It could be somethin’ like high levels of mold in your house or, hell, I don’t know, stress-induced hallucinations or some shit. But it’s not ghosts and it’s not the fucking clown.”

“I’m nuh-nuh-nuh-not kuh-kuh-razy.”

“That’s not what he’s saying, Bill.” Stan takes one of Richie’s books, eyes scanning it hopefully.

“Of course not,” Richie worriedly runs a hand through his hair. It falls over his eyes and, for a moment, he looks just like he did five years ago. Scared and small and not at all ready to face the ugly truth that lives under Derry. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and the resemblance is gone.“I just- if it is a ghost, and I’m not saying I think it is, what next? We get a cool van and a talking dog, buy Bev a purple dress and call ourselves the Mystery Gang?”

Bill sits up straight in his chair and puts on the face he used to get them all to follow him into Neibolt all those years ago. “Wuh-wuh-we’re nah-nah-not t-telling th-the uh-uh-others about Juh-Juh-Georgie.”

Stan and Richie stare at Bill for a moment, eyes wide with shock (in Richie’s case) and frustration (in Stan’s). Stan closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

Richie’s shock quickly simmers into hurt and quiet indignation. Bill might be the leader of this operation, but they were a team of seven members, no matter what. “Now, wait just a minute-”

A small, quiet cough from the end of the table reminds the three of them that they are not alone. They aren’t in the clubhouse or the Barrens, or even crammed together, knees overlapping, on Bill’s bed. They’re just three boys with voices that are filled with too much fear and unspoken anger for a library, speaking too loudly about things better discussed in private.

They looked up to see a girl, about their age, glancing uncomfortably at each of their faces. For a moment, Bill thinks she stares right past him, right at Georgie, but then her eyes reach Stan’s and her face visibly brightens, like she’s found a lifeboat amongst a storm of angsty teenagers and sad, invisible, dead boys. “Stan! Sorry. For interrupting, I mean. I just, uh. Do you guys have,” she holds out a tiny slip of paper to Stan. “that?”

Stan takes a deep breath, pushing down the stress and worry their conversation had created enough to force his mouth into a tight smile. “I don’t think so,” he stands, eager to leave. “I can help you look for it though, if you want.”

Relief floods her face. “Would you really?”

“Of course,” Stan turns to face Richie and Bill. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again. He shoots them both a frustrated glare. “I’ll be back.”

Richie slumps in his chair and watches Stan and the girl walk away. He can tell by the tightness in Stan’s shoulders that he hasn’t forgotten what they’ve been talking about, but his face is light and he says something that makes the girl laugh. A few steps later they’re out of sight and Richie slumps even further down into his chair, so that Bill can only see the top of his head. “Who was that?”

Bill crosses his arms on the table and puts his head down on top of them. Georgie watches him do so. “S-s-some new guh-guh-irl in one of S-s-stan’s c-c-classes. Puh-puh-atty, I th-think.”

Richie glares moodily at his corner of the table. Fucking ghosts, messing everything up. Fucking clowns. Fucking Derry. He waits for his stomach to calm down before speaking again. “This fucking sucks, man.”

Bill glances at Georgie and fights the urge to cry. “T-t-tell muh-muh-me a-about it.”

#u know what to do :') #stozier #bichie #stenbrough #stenbrozier #stanpat #richie tozier #bill denbrough #stan uris #patricia blum #georgie denbrough #it #poly losers #mine

[kewltie]

Bc this is me we’re talking about, here are some infos about my non-existent hpverse bakudeku fic:

Mitsuki and inko are bffs (some even say soulmate), having met at Hogwarts and getting sorted into gryffindor in their first year they soon became fast friend bc mitsuki despite being terrifyingly beautiful (bc of her veela heritage) and powerful she wasn’t super popular due to mostly her temperament and force of personality but she does get her rapid fanclub. Inko was much adore by the student body and teachers bc how humble and kind she was despite being from a pureblood family, easily making her the head girl in her 7th year. Together the both of them were a force to reckon with, they were the talk of the school when they attend there and so much stories about their antics become legend bc mitsuki ‘the bad girl’ and inko the ‘good girl’ was such a weird combo nobody know how they remain the bestest of friends.

inko was from powerful magic family but she broke rank when she fell in love with a muggleborn (A SLYTHERIN MUGGLEBORN AT THAT). She like mitsuki is also a legacy Gryffindor so she was disowned for choosing her muggleborn boyfriend instead of a hundred of years of tradition. Mitsuki was the only one who support and stuck by her through it all and it’s kinda ironic to everyone that mitsuki is notorius as the rulebreaker in school but it is inko who turned back against everything to follow her heart. At least mitsuki married another Gryffindor pureblood but lol she didn’t chose her husband bc of that only bc her husband was the only one who was immune to her veela charm bc he was her soulmate.

ANYWAY, now on to the bakudeku who grew up side by side bc of their mothers and katsuki even as young as he was was extremely powerful. Maybe it’s bc of his blood line or maybe it’s his veela side but he always been blessed with powerful that seem bottomless while izuku for the first ten year of his life developed no magic at all. Everyone thought he was a squib bc of that and they whispered maliciously that is what you get for polluting the pure magic bloodline with dirty muggle blood :(((.

Katsuki knew at a v v v young age that izuku is his soulmate but bc izuku shown no sign of magic and katsuki as the spoiled much love son of an ancient pureblood family (WELL BOTH since his parents are both pureblood), he was arrogant and elitist thinking he was superior to izuku in everyway. He didn’t want izuku, THIS FAILURE, as his mate at all but no matter how much he fought it to his very core he can’t help being drawn to izuku by some greater force then he know how. Izuku never realize or find out that he and katsuki are mate. He just think he’s one of the few people who is immune to veela’s charm just like his mother.

Izuku finally get his magic power from all might later around the time Hogwarts start for them. All might was kinda curse/bless (???) with a spell that make his core magic to be able to pass down from one person to another. It has to do with AFO bc he’s the immortal dark lord who to helped his squib brother get magic power he STOLE it from others (AFO creating a spell that steal magic cores) and that’s how OFA was born. Izuku is the newest heir in the long line of people destine to face the dark lord who is v much ALIVE AND THRIVING in secret.

By the time bakudeku get to Hogwarts izuku and katsuki had a very tenuous relationship bc katsuki hated the fact that his mate is pathetic squib but then he suddenly developed magic and KATSUKI doesn’t know what to feel about it. On one hand that level the playing field b/t them a little bc izuku isn’t a pureblood and he got this idea in his head that muggle and wizards/witches are all equal despite their lack of magic bc he’d learned it from from his dad side when he got exposed to muggles and knows they aren’t all evil/weak. Bc katsuki came from a traditional house with thousands of years of magic and history at their back, katsuki grew up thinking he was superior to everyone else so izuku and katsuki often clash with their world/social views.

This make their relationship even more strain when katsuki (like the sorting hat barely touch HIS HEAD before it declare him a Gryffindor) saw izuku was sorted into hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor like him. It actually took the sorting hat one of the longest time to declare izuku’s house bc izuku share many strong traits from various houses (bravery, loyalty, smart, kind) houses that he could easily fall into any of them but in the end the sorting hat gave izuku a choice and he’d chosen hufflepuff bc that’s the house that often get overlook by others. AND IT’S ALSO THE HOUSE THAT KATSUKI HATES AND LOOKS DOWN UPON THE MOST. izuku admires katsuki deeply and would follow him anywhere but he realizes it’s time he carve out his own path and hufflepuffs are strong and noble just like the rest of the other houses and izuku will spent seven years proving to the rest of the school :DD.

With being from two diff houses, katsuki and izuku sorta STARTED an intense house rivaly b/t the two houses even though hufflepuffs lit get along with nearly everyone and never really get into interhouse fighting b.s. that other houses get. Katsuki immediately become one of the star of his house being that his family got a lot weight to throw around and that he’s also 1/8th veela. So many rumors and interest swirl around katsuki and he thrives on them, showing exactly how katsuki deserves to be one of the top students of the year. He’s particularly best at dueling & potion and placing in his house quidditch team the first year. Izuku, on the other hand, nobody really expected anything out of him but he consistent surprises everyone with being esp good at charm and transfiguration that outdo older students.

Izuku absolutely flourish in Hogwarts and is literally friends with many people in diff houses that izuku’s table is fill with other ppl from various houses bc izuku doesn’t really have strict view on house rivalry and who should hang with whom (his bestfriend ochako is from gryff and iieda is from ravenclaw; making the three of them the ‘golden trio’). People even whisper it’s like inko is back in school again and EVERYONE LOVES INKO. Katsuki is almost equal in term of popularity to izuku mainly bc he consistent outperform many people of his age group and even ABOVE in spellworks, power, and dueling. he’s also exceedingly attractive bc of his veela heritage so he always got a flock of fans wherever he go…. It’s just his prickly personality that keep him from being uh too popular lol.

Katsuki, SLOWLY and surely, spent the years watching izuku really grew into his own through many trials thrown at him bc izuku despite being a hufflepuff (a house that isn’t known for any notoriety) is a trouble magnet and get into ALL SORT OF HIGHJINKS. Followers of the dark lord attempting to kill/sabatoge/kidnap izuku bc of OFA and katsuki get pisser with every attempt bc HOW FUCKING DARE THEY TOUCH HIS MATE????!!!!!! It’s not like katsuki suddenly get over his bigot and elitist mentality but with exposure from his housemates and the rest of the school, he slowly understand how warped his world views was but it doesn’t make it easier for him to accept that izuku IS HIS MATE only bc katsuki hate the idea of anything being force upon him and that he can’t chose who he can be with and also THAT IZUKU can’t choose him either. The thought of alone keep him up some nights when he is plague with doubt that izuku would never choose him if they weren’t bonded with each other…

Izuku still doesn’t realize they’re mate bc katsuki never told him and izuku is… uh very oblivious but around their fifth/sixth year katsuki’s attitude slowly change around him. He becomes more attentive and careful with izuku which suprises him at first but he just thought katsuki wants to become friends again lmao. In katsuki’s case though, IZUKU nearly died in one run in way the dark lord and katsuki lost it when he thought izuku was dead and he never ever want to feel that helpless and utter despair again know that he know what it mean to him to lose izuku bc he had been in love with izuku all along. So yea IT’S TIME FOR VEELA’S COURTING BULLSHIT :DDD.

Veela despite their frail beauty is actually a magical creature that v v v much like a bird of prey; they’re fighters and volatile. Katsuki to show izuku that HE IS A GOOD THE BEST MATE, constantly show off in class and dueling (beaTing izuku in the process lmao) that he can provide and strong enough to protect izuku. HE gives izuku one of his feathers as a gift knowing how much izuku loves his wings ever since they were children even though GIVING FEATHERS pretty much mean I WANNA MARRY YOU AND MATE FOR LIFE but izuku didn’t know that.

The slow seduction/courtship of izuku was the most agonizing and difficult thing ever for katsuki. Taking on four dark lords would be easier than courting izuku bc katsuki does It in the most roundabout way possible; HE’S BASICALLY COURTING IZUKU W/O EVERY REVEALING THAT HE’S COURTING IZUKU and everyone to their friends and parents just sigh v v v v v deeply bc WHY YOU GOT TO MAKE IT THIS HARD. But katsuki wants to win izuku over through brute force of affection, gifts, and interest in him instead of some bullshit destiny thing like mate.

izuku loves katsuki since they were children but he ISNT’ IN LOVE WITH HIM until much later in their sixth year when katsuki risk it all to save him in the triwizard tourntament. IZUKu actually was selected as one of the champion (which pisses KATSUKI OFF SO MUCH but he’s older now and mature enough not to hate izuku for it) and in one of the trail izuku nearly lost his life once more and katsuki was the one who jumped in to save him WHICH IS HILARIOUS BC THAT’S THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN BC KATSUKI IS THE ONE WHO GOT KIDNAPPED AS HIS ‘MOST TREASURE PERSON’ which izuku had no clue about but once he realize how true that was.... it was game over for izuku bc he’s finally opened his eyes to what katsuki been LITERALLY COURTING HIM SINCE THEIR FIFTH YEAR lol.

#series: truly madly deeply #bakudeku #not!fic

[kcirs]

these gifs took ... roughly seventeen and a half years to load but ... i am here finally !! i’m nine, not to be confused with the number who’s stealing all my spotlight :( i’m from cst & i use she/her but you can also just call me ... idk ... dumb if u want ! my muse is named keir and u can learn a little bit about him under the cut !! (tw: death, abandonment ?? idk if that’s a potential trigger but just to be safe!)

full name: keir yejoon kwon born: may 9, 1997 birthplace: san francisco, ca traits: boisterous, restless, curious, easily bored, deceitful, gentle, idealistic, determined, persistent, opinionated, strong-willed, charming, stoic, intellectual, indecisive, possessive

history

keir was born to two pretty young parents.. they were both kinda ... reckless and rebellious so parenting wasn’t like ............ their strong suit you know ajsdkfjs. keir spent a LOT of his time growing up at his grandparents and that always felt like home to him. his dad .. wasn’t really involved much and then just skipped out for good when he was about seven. his mom ... could’ve done better .. we’d give her a gold star for trying but ... did she ?? akdfj. she got remarried when keir was twelve and he never felt MORE distant from his parents until then. he doesn’t really feel ... connected to them, if that makes sense?? obviously his dad is nowhere to be found so keir’s never really had a relationship with him, but his mom has always been there until she got married and they had a kid and he felt like she just .... found something better (ouch). but he had all the love he needed with his grandparents, esp his grandma !!! they were determined to pick up their daughter’s slack and make sure that keir had a home and was loved unconditionally !!

he’s been into the idea of becoming a chef since play-doh was first put into his hands. he would also help his grandparents cook a lot growing up and always felt like a Big Cool Grown up. it was one of their favorite pastimes.

when keir was in his last year of high school, unfortunately his grandfather passed away. it definitely took a toll on him and his grandma obviously, but having to confront his mother (through funeral things, etc) kinda made him bitter... ?? like he felt like ... why are you here now all of the sudden when you never cared for us anyways ??? it was kinda eating him up and his grandma noticed. she wanted him to focus on nice and positive things which is why she convinced him to go to college and achieve his dream.

he was initially VERY hesitant, he didn’t want to leave her, he didn’t want to leave his home, but eventually after taking a year to decide, he agreed to start college for culinary arts.

that’s p much how he landed where he is! he’s been staying at holloway for two years now, studying and bussing tables. 

personality 

oof, keir is .. a taurus so obstinate by nature. once he’s made up his mind, that’s usually that ajdlfjd. so it goes, he’s very opinionated about everything. he’s right, you’re wrong, shut up. very positive, almost to a detriment. he likes to see the best in people and situations even when it’s not best for him. he tends to idealize situations to the point of not being able to see it clearly, not until some third party comes along to shake him out of it (which, again, can be difficult because he’s just .. so so stubborn). but it’s not ALL bad he’s always that friend that helps you see the bright side and to comfort you when things seem glum.  

he’s very antsy almost to the point of being flighty. he needs to be occupied at all times because if he’s not, his mind can wander and get him in trouble. his moon is in gemini so i think that’s where his taurus gets shaken up a bit (sjfks sorry geminis!). he’s affable and charming and a caring, but he can get to the point of being argumentative, esp if someone doesn’t see things his way. he’s a bit jealous, a bit possessive in general, but not in an overbearing way. if he was feeling some type of way he’d 100% internalize it and just pout and be short with you and then get more mad when you don’t instantly know why he’s being a crackhead. he’s hardworking, loyal, a somewhat reliable person (he has his moments), and deep down he just wants to get close to other people and find his home away from home.

that’s all i can think of thus far !! i’ll update this if something comes to mind, but otherwise i’d love to plot with everyone !! feel free to hmu or like this, yk the usual !!

#hollowayintro #bio #this was ............ a mess !! #i'm half asleep that will b my excuse

[jumpboy-rembrandt]

hey do yall wanna hear an au idea i’ve had abt the seven birds as a superhero team? the plot is constantly changing, but here’s what i’ve got (warning it’s a lot and bullet points are used gratuitously):

an alien object falls to the earth, breaking apart as it falls. it scatters around a small city, and the pieces seem to hone in on the nearest living human once they near the ground.

(psst – this is the light of creation)

these seven (mostly) unrelated people slowly realize that they now have…unusual abilities

another alien entity follows, and its agents begin wreaking havoc around this city searching for the missing pieces of the light

(psst – this is the hunger)

individually, each person touched by the light ventures out to fight off these beings, especially since they themselves tend to be targeted.

these agents can get a vague sense of where the shards are, but not who exactly has them. thus, there is some degree of investigation done to find the individuals.

said agents can either be sentient or monster-like

the light-holders are all disguised as they fight – some for anonymity, some so that these agents have more trouble seeking them out, and some just because it seems like the right thing to do.

none of them knew each other before now, but they cross paths often enough that they realize they should probably group up.

most of them want to keep their identities secret, so they agree to do that while also making a few other decisions:

they should all have each others’ numbers. they won’t seek each other out, but it is important to keep in contact.

they should get better costumes (a plea from taako, who subsequently makes them)

they should have a theme

so they decide upon uniform colors and the title of “seven birds” because…idk, maybe they all like how poetic it sounds?

anyway, here’s a breakdown of each member:

magnus was struck by the light while sparring with carey behind their apartment complex. he was knocked over and carey kinda panicked?? but then he got up and said “did you do that?” and she responded “how would i hurl something at you from the sky, you’re fucking huge” and they moved past it

carey and magnus are roommates, so she’s the first one to notice when he starts accidentally breaking things and can knock her down more easily.

the weirdest part was when he was carving a little figurine and she jumped up behind him – to be fair, she thought he was drawing plans for something at the carpentry shop. they both saw the knife go directly towards his fingers and…bounce off. being magnus, he immediately tried to stab his hand and nothing happened. carey, being carey, poked the edge to see if it was dull and, ow, no, it wasn’t.

so, magnus has super strength and armor-like skin. a downside to this is that the changes weren’t entirely magic (think commitment), so he has to eat a lot more than usual and that’s. not insignificant.

the superhero name he chooses is eagle, which he called out immediately bc he wanted the best bird. his color theme is orange. his uniform doesn’t have sleeves, and it was a struggle for taako to even make him wear a shirt.

merle was hiking through the woods, and when he got hit he actually blacked out for a little bit. he woke up in a bed of flowers and, huh, that’s really convenient how it broke my fall

he works part time as an EMT and spends the rest working in a plant nursery. i. think you can guess how he notices what’s going on.

merle’s power is accelerating and manipulating organic growth, which means that he can both control plants and heal wounds. this does take a physical toll, as it is his energy being transferred. he also needs to eat a lot.

his superhero name is dove bc ~peace~ and stuff. his color theme is, naturally, green.

taako and lup were. uh. not getting in trouble. they were just having a misunderstanding. fortunately, said misunderstanding was not as fast as they were bc the misunderstanding was missing their shoes. they stumbled and fell as the light split at the last second and hit them both, but they quickly jumped back to their feet, turned a corner, and were home free.

both of them are studying masters level chemistry, so their discoveries are in public and require a bit of covering up. taako was trying to work out the chemical structure of a fairly simple crystal when it moved. he jumped, then tried it again, and found out that he could even separate out certain parts without needing a reactant.

lup gets bored waiting for a solution to boil and suddenly it explodes

taako’s power is manipulating chemical structures and lup’s is causing combustion or explosions. both require a knowledge of chemistry; taako has to understand the structure of what he’s moving or separating, and lup needs to know about boiling/ignition points and pressure changes etc. again; the energy comes from them. you get the point by now, i think.

taako is starling and purple, and lup is phoenix and red.

they both have pockets containing little beads of easy-to-change materials if they can’t find anything else to use

barry is a phd student, and was in the basement bio lab of the local university when the light phased through the ceiling and hit him. he stumbled backwards and fortunately didn’t hurt himself, bc he basically lives in there and no one would check on him for a while.

the next time he’s forced into a university function, he’s shrinking against a wall wishing he wasn’t there, and then he…isn’t. he falls over into the next room bc he just went through the wall.

i’ll be honest – barry basically has danny phantom powers. the tricky bit is that if he’s exhausted, instead of losing his powers, he can’t keep a physical form very well. finally, a reason for this man to get some sleep already.

his codename is nightingale and his color is blue. thank goodness he can make his clothes and glasses ghost with him, or else he’d be recognizable and useless.

davenport was relaxing with a short flight just outside of town. he notices some strange lights, then realizes one is coming towards him, then barely manages to keep the plane from crashing when it hits him in the head. he quickly lands and checks the plane for damage, but there’s no trace of it.

his mind is wandering during a pretty boring meeting one day when everyone suddenly stops. davenport tunes in and notices that, um, there’s a small boat appearing to float across the table. this completely snaps him out of his thoughts, and it disappears. it’s a good thing the old people on the board like to brush over unexplainable things, bc after a few moments, the meeting picks back up.

he works at a nerd museum. he mostly enjoys it, but also wants to save up enough to move to the coast.

his power is creating illusions and, depending on his energy, materializing them. the illusions barely cost anything, but the materialization is really draining.

his hero name is canary and his color theme is gold.

i wanted it to be albatross at first, but that sounded a little…eh? i liked canary better, esp since it’s yellow

+ instead of having half the symbolism of a curse, it symbolizes freedom!! i think that’s an important dav trait.

finally, lucretia was riding home on her bike and, unlike dav, did crash. strangely, she and her bike were totally unharmed.

lucretia works part-time as a secretary to save up for college, while also working at a bookstore bc she is a Nerd. she got lost in the Deep Shelves and, when a pile of books fell and set off a domino effect, she stretched out her hands to stop them – and they actually did stop.

lucretia can create force fields of any shape, and move them around. that may seem simple, but she can ride them like a hover board, trap people, and, if she’s strong enough, slice things.

her superhero name is bluejay and her color is teal.

other characters include:

julia, magnus’s coworker/boss’s daughter, and they’ve been in love since forever. when the light stuff started though, magnus figured he should slow down.

…yeah, she figures it out pretty soon. magnus is bad at keeping secrets.

carey, magnus’s roommate and constant alibi/excuse-maker/back-up

killian, who works security at the business lucretia secretaries at, and keeps bringing her out to social stuff bc the girl needs it. they also talk abt girls a lot bc they’re both Gay™ – lucretia especially enjoys teasing killian about carey with the “really great calves” from the gym.

killian accidentally said weird shit when first gushing about her and, of course, lucretia will never forget it

noelle was saved by the team from whatever the hell lucas ends up doing in this au. carey offers to share her room, esp since magnus is uh. working a little more irregularly these days and they could use the split rent.

noelle and carey also talk about girls, including killian who could “probably throw me across a room” from the gym.

angus was looking into all this nonsense and figured it was easiest to track down twins who seem to know a lot about chemistry. it wasn’t too hard. taako and lup were appalled that his parents Just Let Him Do That and so there’s a 50/50 chance that angus is in their spare room at any given time.

listen they got a two-bedroom apartment, but apparently they’re still too clingy to sleep alone. nerds.

ren is taako’s coworker and best friend. she knows Something is up, but isn’t entirely sure What. she also knows better than to try and find out. taako will tell her when he tells her.

honestly i low low lowkey dig the idea of noelle/ren but you didn’t hear that from me. if it happens to show up though. oh well.

avi makes frequent deliveries for the hammer and tongs, and is pretty tight with magnus. he’s even tighter with magnus’s dogs, which stay at the h&t bc his apartment is run by ruthless monsters.

johann is the town’s dramatic and overtalented musician, who is almost always in the background. i’m not sure what his deal is, but he sure is good at music.

hurley is a cop who keeps trying to figure out what is going on, but isn’t having much luck

artemis sterling is the very frustrated mayor

certain people are given powers by the hunger, a la hawk moth. these include gundren, magic brian, jenkins, sloane, the hammerheads, cpt cpt bane, lucas, etc.

the major manifestation of the hunger is john, but only merle manages to see him.

unlike miraculous, the hunger is dangerous to its hosts if they become disagreeable. the birds can save the people possessed, but it’s not easy.

there are Mysterious Third Parties that can grant additional powers

one is known as the raven queen. she grants kravitz the power to possess non-organic materials, as well as a scythe that can temporarily dislocate souls and do mild portal shit.

kravitz was a coroner trying to get a gig in the orchestra, but then he almost died and the raven queen resurrected him and he’s got a really strong sense of duty so he’s doing this now, he guesses. at least he still gets to have a normal life when he isn’t busy.

i like to think that after sloane rejects the hunger, the raven queen scoops her up and also grants the ability to possess non-organic objects. she was a good mechanic before, and is super good now. she gets hurley to give up on the whole investigation thing and join her and they live happily ever after, and also kick the occasional ass.

at first, RQ’s orders are to retrieve the light so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands, but taako persuades kravitz that the birds are able to use it to defeat the hunger once and for all.

after that, the mission is just to keep as many people out of danger as possible.

istus and pan can also grant powers, but i’m not sure how they’d fit in yet

more random facts:

taako, lup, and barry are actually at the same university even though they never see each other. the mascot is a mongoose.

at some point the bio and chem departments are doing a joint conference thing. taako and lup are wandering around while spamming the birds’ group chat with really awful memes with magnus. meanwhile, barry is trying his best to ignore his constantly-vibrating phone as he talks to a professor about something actually important.

do they find each other in this truly ridiculous way? You Decide.

lucas is in the same department as barry, and even though he’s kind of a genius, he is also. how you say. a dick.

ren and taako work as chefs at the davy lamp. ren is almost definitely going to own it one day, and taako is proud of her.

lucretia and magnus meet via carey and killian, and quickly become close friends. because magnus is incapable of keeping a secret from anyone he knows, she finds out that he’s eagle and so they now know each other’s secret identities.

anyway that’s all i’ve got for now, thanks for coming to my ted talk

#ok i'm going to sleep #this is mostly for my own rference #not that i'd ever write this but it's nice to think abt #text #ipre #idk how ekse to tag uh #bye #fixed the tenses! and added stuff! #superhero au

[frolwriting]

Asylum Part 1

Hey guys!  I’m so sorry I’m getting this out late!  I worked yesterday and didn’t have my chapter on fan fiction done, so I had to do that today on top of homework.  This is here though!  I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

Fandom: Supernatural

Series: A Whole New World

Episode: Asylum

Warnings: few cuss words, talk of death, mental institution, 

_______________________________________________________________________

After the case at the old Winchester house, the boys started treating me better. Sam and I grew closer than ever since he found out I liked to geek out as much as he does. Dean knows I never forget his pie, so he likes me as well. That case has been the best thing to happen since I've met these guys. At the moment, we are sitting in a motel room. Dean was reading John's journal, while Sam was talking to their friend, Caleb.

"No, Dad was in California last we heard from him. We just thought...he comes to you for 'munitions...maybe you've seen him in the last few weeks. Just, call us if you hear anything." Sam says. There was a pause. "Thanks." Sam hung up the phone.

"Caleb hasn't heard from him?" Dean asks.

"Nope and neither has Jefferson or Pastor Jim. What about the journal? Any leads in there?"

"No, same as last time I looked. Nothing I can make out...I love the guy, but I swear, he writes like friggin' Yoda." I let out a chuckle.

"You know, maybe we should call the Feds. File a missing person's."

"We've talked about this. Dad's be pissed if we put the Feds on his tail."

"I don't care anymore." It's been really hard to not tell them I saw John at Missouri's. I want to tell him he's okay. I want to tell them that he was so close to them. I want to tell them they will be getting a phone call from him soon. Dean's phone starts to ring. He heads over to his duffel bag. "After all that happened back in Kansas, I mean...he should've been there, Dean." He was, but I can't tell them that. "You said so yourself. You tried to call him and...nothing."

"I know!" Dean says as he struggles to find his phone. "Where the hell is my cellphone?"

"You know, he could be dead for all we know."

"Don't say that! He's not dead! He's-he's..."

"He's what? He's hiding? He's busy?" Sam is getting frustrated and angry. I probably would be if I was in there position. Dean finally finds his phone.

"Huh, I don't believe it." Dean says quietly.

"What?" Sam and I ask.

"Its, uh...It's a text message. It's coordinates." Dean then grabs Sam's laptop and searches the coordinates.

"You think Dad was texting us?"

"He's given us coordinates before." I say.

"The man can barely work a toaster, guys."

"Sam, it's good news! It means he's okay, or alive at least." Dean says happily.

"Well, was there a number on the caller ID?"

"Nah, it said 'unknown'."

"Well, where do the coordinates point?" I ask.

"That's the interesting part. Rockford, Illinois." Oh, I think I know what this case is.

"Ok, and that's interesting how?" Sam asks.

"I checked the local Rockford paper. Take a look at this." He says flipping the laptop around for me and Sam to see. I was correct on what we are about to do. We are about to go to an asylum.

"This cop, Walter Kelly, comes home from his shift, shoots his wife, then puts the gun in his mouth, blows his brains out. Earlier that night, Kelly and his partner responded to a call at the Roosevelt Asylum."

"Okay, I'm not following. What has this have to do with us?" Sam asks.

"Dad earmarked the same asylum in the journal. Let's see..." Dean says as he opens John's journal. "Here." Dean says showing us the page from the journal. "Seven unconfirmed sightings, two deaths-till last week at least. I think this is where he wants us to go." Sam snorted.

"This is a job...Dad wants us to work a job." Sam says crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, maybe we'll meet up with him? Maybe he's there?"

"Maybe he's not? I mean, he could be sending us there, by ourselves, to hunt this thing."

"Who cares! If he wants us there, it's good enough for me!"

"This doesn't strike you as weird? The texting? The coordinates?"

"Sam! Dad's telling us to go somewhere, we're going." Sam makes a face and sighs.

"I agree with Dean. Even if we're not meeting with John, we're still going to take out some evil."

"Exactly, Sam. Come on. We need to pack up and go." We packed up and hopped into the Impala. The first place we go to is a bar, where we are told Kelly's partner hangs out. I go to the bar and order a virgin drink and wait for the boys to do their thing. I hear an argument and know that Sam is getting on the cop's good side. Dean walks over to me. "A virgin drink, really Kate."

"I don't drink, and you know that Dean." I said. This drink is so good.

"One of these days, I'm going to get you to drink a good drink." After a while, Sam walked over to us, and we head back out to the Impala. "Shoved me kinda hard in there, buddy boy." Dean says to Sam.

"I had to sell it, didn't I? It's method acting." Sam says.

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"What'd you find out from Gunderson?" Dean asks.

"So, Walter Kelly was a good cop. Head of his class, even-keeled. He had a bright future ahead of him."

"What about at home?"

"He and his wife had a few fights, like everybody, but he was mostly smooth sailing. They were even talking about having kids."

"Alright, so either Kelly had some deep-seated crazy waiting to burst out, or something else did it to him."

"Right." Sam says.

"What'd Gunderson tell you about the asylum?"

"A lot." After that, we were ready to head to the asylum. We got there, and the guys had to help me climb the fence. Dean had gone first to catch me on the other side. Sam helped me climb since he is taller than Dean. Sam climbs over, and we head inside. This place is scarier than it looked on the television. "So apparently the cops chased the kids here...into the south wing." Sam said pointing to a sign over a door saying the south wing.

"South wing, huh? Wait a second." Dean says as he pulls out John's journal. "1972: three kids broke into the south wing, only one survived. Way he tells it, one of his friends went nuts and started lighting up the place."

"So whatever's going on, the south wing is the heart of it." I say.

"But if the kids are spelunking the asylum, why aren't there a ton more deaths?" Dean asks. Sam goes over to a broken chain that was on the south wing door. "Looks like the doors are usually chained. Could've been chained up for years."

"Yeah, to keep people out, or to keep something in." We look at each other, and Sam opens the door. We walk into the hallway and kept on the lookout.

"Let me know if you see any dead people, Haley Joel." Dean says.

"Dude, enough." Sam says.

"I'm serious. You got to be careful, all right? Ghosts are attracted to that whole ESP thing you got going on." Does that include whatever is going on with me?

"I told you, it's not ESP! I just have strange vibes sometimes. Weird dreams." Me and Dean exchange looks. We don't believe a word he is saying right now.

"Yeah, whatever. Don't ask, don't tell." Dean says as we continue down the hallway.

"You get any reading on that thing or not?" Sam asks.

"Nope. If course, it doesn't mean no one's home."

"Spirits can't appear during certain hours of the day." I say.

"Yeah, the freaks come out at night." Dean says.

"Yeah." Sam says.

"Hey Kate, who do you think is the hotter psychic: Patricia Arquette, Jennifer Love Hewitt, or Sam?" Dean asks turning to me. Sam pushes Dean, who laughs.

"I don't go for females, so I'm going to have to go with none of the above." I say jokingly.

"Hey!" Sam says faking being hurt. This caused Dean to start laughing harder.

"Alright, Sam you're the hottest of the list." I say nudging him. "Mainly because I like your hair."

"I'm not going to let you braid my hair, Kate." I snapped my finger.

"Darn it. One of these days I'm going to braid that hair Sam Winchester." We continued down the hallway until we came into a room with an operating table in it.

"Man." Dean says as he whistles. "Man, electro-shock, lobotomies, they did some twisted stuff to these people. Kind of like my man Jack in Cuckoo's Nest." Dean turned to us and made crazy eyes. I laughed. Sam just ignored him. That was odd. Sam usually rolls his eyes, scoffs, or rarely gives a chuckle. We look around some more in the room. "So, what do you think? Ghosts possessing people?"

"Maybe, or maybe it's more like Amityville or the Shining."

"Spirits driving them insane. Kind of like my man Jack in the shining." Dean says.

"Dean, Kate." We look at Sam. "When are we going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Dean asks.

"About the fact Dad's not here." Sam says.

"Oh, I see. How about...never." Dean says as he goes back to whatever he was doing.

"I'm being serious, man. He sent us here..."

"So am I, Sam. Look, he sent us here, he obviously wants us here. We'll pick up the search later."

"It doesn't matter what he wants."

"See, that attitude? Right there? That is why I always get the extra cookie."

"Dad could be in trouble. We should be looking for him. We deserve some answers, Dean. I mean, this is our family we're talking about."

"I understand that, Sam, but he's given us an order."

"So what, we got to always follow Dad's orders?" I'm getting flashbacks to what will happen in season five. This is the reason they're chosen to be Michael's and Lucifer's vessels. I wonder how I'm going to fit in with that..

"Of course we do." I don't want to be a part of this fight. Sam looks frustrated. Dean turns away. After a while, Dean picks up a sign. "'Sanford Ellicott'...You know what we got to do. We got to find out more about the south wing. See if something happened here." Dean says. He handed it to Sam. Sam looks down of it looking slightly angry. I chuckle and follow Dean out of the asylum. We go back to the motel room and research as much as we can about this Doctor Ellicott.

"Check this out." I say looking at Sam. He comes over and looks at my laptop screen. "There's a psychiatrist named Dr. James Ellicott." Sam goes over to his computer and looks up James's information.

"He is actually the son of our Sanford Ellicott." Sam says. "Good job, Kate."

"Thanks." I say. Sam picks up his phone and starts dialing a phone number.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm going to get an appointment with Dr. Ellicott." He called the place and made an appointment for this afternoon. I was really surprised he got an appointment so early. Dean came in with our lunch. Sam explained what the plan was to Sam. After lunch, Sam and Dean take off to the office for Sam's appointment. I decided to stay back and do some researching.

#supernatural #spn #supernatural imagine #a whole new world #sam x reader #dean x reader #its gonna be sam

[wweirdani-blog]

• Putting A Price • . . First of all, WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SEVEN SEAS IS THIS THING . Second of all, WHAT. IS THIS. I CRIINGEEE . Third, okay y'all deserve an explanation. This is gonna be a long, emotional post so if you prefer not to read, please, feel free to scroll down ^_^ . Initially, I made this waaay back when I was deciding my commission prices. It was my first time, I was nervous. . Technically, it wasn't my first time? I've done commissions once two years ago but it was for a charity event and I wasn't the one deciding the prices. It was set for $5 for an A5 sized paper. I can be quite emotional when it comes to art :'D Mostly because art has been a way for me to express my feelings w/o having to say anything (my older posts can prove this statement) So I thought that $5 was overpriced. . When a client commissioned me, I was kind of happy. I mean, hey, I made a sale right? 😂 But the moment I finished the artwork, I went into a breakdown. I thought that my drawing wasn't good enough, esp bcs I only used pencil and it was a fairly simple sketch. I was in public, but I felt so ashamed and distraught with my own artwork that I went under the table cover, hid and cried. . "This looks terrible." "I shouldn't have joined." "This is not worth anyone's money." I kept degrading my work and skills and I couldn't stop crying. When the client came back, I apologized, told him my thoughts and sobbed terribly. . He was supportive and said that it looked great regardless. I also had a circle of great friends - I really miss them 😔 - and they comforted me until I calmed down. (one of them took a picture of me crying holy cow-) . The same thing happened when I was deciding my prices. I cried nonstop bcs I think they would be overpriced. I cry when someone tells me they actually want to pay for my art. I cry when I receive the payments. Overall, if it involves money and my art, I'd cry 😂 . (continued in the comments section) https://www.instagram.com/p/CB7VGjnBSnO/?igshid=100aus41jxk4o

[peterlista]

Age and Puerh Prices

I recently got really into puerh and spent some time thinking about the relationship between age and price. The common wisdom is that puerh tea will increase in price every year it ages, with a significant increase at 4-5 years. White2Tea even warns its customers of annual price increases. However, while there is a lot of folk wisdom about puerh prices, there is very little data. So, as I have done in the past, I decided to collect my own.*

*This post has some technical language, but I do my best to explain what I mean by technical terms. There is also a short appendix at the end.

Take a look at the following figure:

After collecting a random sample of 230 puerh teas offered by Yunnan Sourcing (as of August 2017), I graphed the relationship between price (y-axis) and age (x-axis) for sheng and shou puerh. First, notice that the relationship between price (per 100g) and age is positive (corr. = 0.37) and, if you run an OLS regression, significant. In fact, each additional year of age is associated with an average increase of $1.28/100g (p < 0.001), when controlling for style (Sheng = 1) and shape (Cake = 1) (Table 1). Second, looking at the graph, there is a noticeable increase in price around the tenth year. These trends are clearer still when you look only at sheng costing less than $50/100g:

In this subset of the sample, you can see a clear increase in puerh prices over the past 19 years (1999-2017). Moreover, at the lowest price range, there are obvious increases at years seven, nine, thirteen, and sixteen—or about every three years. (You can even see higher prices for 2008 puerh, perhaps a legacy of the bubble.) With a larger sample (and many more vendors), I bet that these trends would stand out more, though the trendline would smooth slightly. Another interesting trend is the small annual increase in sheng price for teas produced in 2013-2017. In those years, the relationship between price and age is actually negative. My guess is that puerh offerings (esp. the Yunnan Sourcing label) have become much higher quality since 2013. I think that’s probably a good thing.

The positive relationship between price and age also emerges when looking at regular productions. For example, the 2017 Menghai 7542 sheng costs $44, while the 2015 production costs $47. The Yunnan Sourcing label “Impressions” sheng costs $23 for the 2015 production, and $29 each for 2012 and 2014. At the higher end, the Yunnan Sourcing label “Mu Shu Cha Ancient Arbor“ sheng costs $120 for the 2017 production, $144 for 2014, $152 for 2012, and $154 for 2011. For shou, the 2017 Menghai 7572 shou costs $25, while the 2016 production costs $27, 2014 costs $29, 2012 costs $33, 2010 costs $35, and 2009 costs $38. For these four productions, the annual price increase is about $1.50-2.00 per cake at the lower end and $4-7 per cake at the higher end. 

Compare those trends with White2Tea:

White2Tea has the opposite relationship. The quality (and price) of high-end W2T teas have increased so much over the past few years that they’ve actually outpaced the price of age. Hence, the trendline on the figure above is negative, as is the price-age correlation (-0.20), though it’s not significant (Table 1).

What about YS and W2T “Label” teas?

Finally, looking only at YS Label and W2T Label puerh you can really see the differences in price and price/age. First, it’s worth noting that Yunnan Sourcing has been producing private label puerh since 2009. White2Tea, however, has only been producing since 2012. (I did not include W2T teas before 2014.) Second, the average price of W2T Label puerh is a little over two times higher than YS Label puerh ($47.89/100g versus $22.31/100g). Again, the association between price (per 100g) and age is positive (but not significant) for YS Label puerh and negative (but not significant) for W2T Label puerh.

These two companies provide a nice snapshot of the current (western-facing) puerh market more generally. Large-scale vendors like Yunnan Sourcing (perhaps especially Yunnan Sourcing) have a wider range of products (beyond their own label) at wider price points. On the other hand, there are smaller specialty vendors like White2Tea (or, for example, Crimson Lotus Tea) who primarily sell their private label teas and may have higher average quality. I think that this sort of bifurcation is actually good for consumers and is a necessary component of a robust puerh economy. However, if the price difference between “budget” and "specialty” vendors gets too large, then it will inevitably lead to a bifurcated customer base (and tea community). This has not happened yet, though the trends for W2T may foreshadow a future shift.

Here is how I did it:

To create the sample of Yunnan Sourcing puerh, I collected data on every puerh offered online by YS (sorted by age) produced 1990-2003 and then every third puerh thereafter. Teas that were “out of stock” were not included in the sample, unless they still had prices listed. Only pressings of 100g or higher were included. I collected data on price ($), weight (g), age (years), type, shape, and label. I did the same data collection for White2Tea puerh, except I included all puerh (over 100g) in their online store for which prices were listed. I do not include W2T “label” productions before 2012. Because the teas labeled 2012 and 2013 were both out of stock, the first production included was from 2014.

For analysis, raw prices (per cake) were converted into price per 100g and year was converted into age (2018-year). To check for robustness, analysis was repeated with price per cake and price per 100g. The latter was chosen for ease of interpretation. Controls for type of tea (Sheng = 1) and shape of pressing (Cake = 1) were also included in the multivariate regressions. While more data—both a larger N and more variables—would be useful for further analysis, it is not practical in this context. Moreover, limiting analysis to one large vendor (Yunnan Sourcing) and one specialty vendor (White2Tea) provides an interesting comparison, while limiting other effects (e.g., storage, shipping).

Below is a regression table showing the relationship between price (per 100g) and age (years), with controls for type of tea (Sheng = 1) and shape of pressing (Cake = 1). The analysis shows that among puerhs sold by Yunnan Sourcing, there is a positive and significant relationship between price and age (p < 0.001). Within that same sample, sheng puerh sells for about $8.80/100g more than shou (p < 0.01). There appears to be no effect of puerh shape, though that might be because sheng is unlikely to be pressed as anything but a cake.

Among YS Label puerh, there is no significant relationship between price and age, although that may be because the sample size is small (N = 82). The same applies for the two control variables. For W2T Label puerh (N = 61), the relationship between price and age is negative but not significant. Not surprisingly, there is a significant difference in the price of sheng versus shou, with W2T sheng costing about $37.98/100g more than W2T shou (p < 0.05).

(If you have any questions about the data analysis, or have suggestions for future data collection projects, please let me know.)

#tea #data #puerh #puer #vendors #yunnansourcing #white2tea

[aeipathic-a]

hogwarts au rundown.

name: Pearl Madlabayan (birth name, Tagalog for “common people”; adopted family surname is Diamant) house: slytherin wand: aspen and unicorn hair, 10 1/4 inches, brittle patronus: lark

wand analysis.

aspen.

Wand-quality aspen wood is white and fine-grained, and highly prized by all wand-makers for its stylish resemblance to ivory and its usually outstanding charmwork. The proper owner of the aspen wand is often an accomplished duellist, or destined to be so, for the aspen wand is one of those particularly suited to martial magic. An infamous and secretive eighteenth-century duelling club, which called itself The Silver Spears, was reputed to admit only those who owned aspen wands. In my experience, aspen wand owners are generally strong-minded and determined, more likely than most to be attracted by quests and new orders; this is a wand for revolutionaries.

unicorn hair.

Unicorn hair generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations and blockages. Wands with unicorn cores are generally the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. They are the most faithful of all wands, and usually remain strongly attached to their first owner, irrespective of whether he or she was an accomplished witch or wizard.

Minor disadvantages of unicorn hair are that they do not make the most powerful wands (although the wand wood may compensate) and that they are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may 'die' and need replacing.

i chose this wand for pearl partly because of the Aesthetic™ of having a white wand, which is reminiscent of her spear (esp if i hc that there’s a subtle spiral pattern in the woodgrain), but also because the aspen hints at her eventual mastery of dueling, and for the part about being drawn to quests and new orders. a wand for revolutionaries indeed.

unicorn hair is not the most powerful wand, which fits because pearl is not the most powerful witch in terms of magical ability, but it is steady and faithful, also fitting because pearl, too, is prone to fits of melancholy if mishandled.

house analysis.

here’s where it gets interesting. pearl is difficult to sort - she has attributes from all houses, really. like gryffindor, she values bravery and chivalry and believes you should fight for what’s right. like hufflepuff, she’s loyal and nurturing. like ravenclaw, she values intelligence and thoughtfulness and has a thirst for learning. like slytherin, she’s ambitious, determined, and cunning.

slytherin may not seem like the obvious choice for her, as someone who upholds both the ideal of a chivalrous knight and a learned scholar. but here’s the thing: if pearl had been raised in a healthy, encouraging environment - if her love of learning had been allowed to blossom, if she had been given validation and room for emotional growth - she would have been in ravenclaw, no doubt. 

but both in canon and in this au, she was neglected, mistreated, and dismissed for most of her life. she is genuinely inquisitive and thirsty for knowledge, and she does love learning for its own sake, but she’s also learned that she can use knowledge to get ahead, to be recognized, and so that’s a large part of her motivation to learn: a thirst to prove yourself, as the sorting hat once said. slytherin trait.

she is logical and loyal and tries to be fair, but she also has a deceitful streak. though she never means to cause harm, often the only way she can think of to get what she wants is to manipulate others into it (i.e. the sardonyx incident in canon), because she’s too scared of conflict to talk about things openly and too convinced that she won’t be given validation otherwise. so her first instinct (which she does learn to battle) is deceit. slytherin trait.

she’s cunning and pragmatic; she doesn’t like conflict, but she’s also willing to hurt or kill someone if it ensures the safety of her own group. slytherin trait. 

also, loyalty is a hufflepuff trait, true, but slytherins are also loyal, they just aren’t as impartial about it. pearl will choose a small group to be intensely loyal towards, and dismiss those who aren’t a part of that group. slytherin trait

additionally, pearl has crippling self-esteem issues, which leads her to harbor a desperate need to feel superior to others. we see this in canon in the way she treats greg and other humans; after feeling inferior for so long, she clings to any sense of superiority she can find and lords it over those who are “below” her, which can give her a condescending air. slytherin trait.

it’s important to note, of course, that none of this makes her an inherently bad person!! slytherins aren’t inherently bad people. pearl isn’t always kind of patient or right, but she is ultimately good, and her slytherin traits can contribute to that just as they can detract from it. 

of course, if she were given the choice between ravenclaw and slytherin (if hogwarts sorting worked like ilvermorny, for instance, and you got to choose your preference if picked by two houses), then she’d pick ravenclaw. she does not, at least initially, see herself as a slytherin. she didn’t expect to be sorted there, and she isn’t happy to be there for multiple reasons, which i’ll get into more when we get to backstory. it takes pearl a long time to grow to be proud of being a slytherin, and she’ll always have reservations about it because of its stigma, but while she does eventually take a certain measure of (defiant) pride in her house, she’ll always wonder who she might have been, if she might have been better, if she’d gone to ravenclaw.

history.

pearl was born to a squib and a muggle. her mother came from a prominent pureblood family, the diamants, and was disowned from them when it became clear she possessed no magical ability. when pearl’s parents died - only five years after her birth - it was therefore in the diamants’ reluctant care that pearl was placed.

she was not treated well there. technically she was mrs. diamant’s granddaughter, and a half-blood, but to them she was little more than a mudblood, and she was treated more like a house-elf than a child. she was mistreated and neglected, ignored in favor of the diamant children. though clever and inquisitive, she was given few lessons, and most of her knowledge came from sneaking into the family library at night to read by candlelight. 

she showed signs of magic late for a magical child - not until eight years old, when most experts put the cut-off age at seven - and her magic was weak and sporadic. but magic it was, and she received her hogwarts letter when she turned eleven, just as the diamant children had. this was a terrible relief to her; she dreamed of the day when she could attend hogwarts, away from the diamants, where she could learn magic and be just like any other child.

but when pearl, scrawny and timid beside the other first-years who laughed and talked together, sat under the sorting hat, it put her in slytherin. there must be some mistake, pearl thought. slytherin was where the diamants were, slytherin was for the kind of children who kicked her around and called her mudblood. she had wanted ravenclaw. she had expected ravenclaw. that was where she would have been free.

but the sorting hat said slytherin, so she was given a tie of green and silver and sat at the slytherin table amongst children she knew, children she had met at the diamants’ banquets, children who already knew her as the little mudblood, or even worse, as the house-elf. during her first dinner, one of the older students who knew her foster sister suggested that she go down to the kitchens and bunk with the other elves.

pearl’s first months at hogwarts were not happy ones. she was not popular in slytherin, but nor did anyone else want to be friends with her, because she was a slytherin and slytherin was the evil house, wasn’t that how it went? and to make matters worse, pearl struggled in her classes. she understood the theory fine, could memorize any term or definition she needed, could write twice the required length for essays - but in class, her spellwork suffered. everyone else could make their feathers float. why couldn’t she? everyone else could turn their matches into needles. the only class she excelled at was potions - there was no wandwork there, you only had to follow directions, and she could do that.

so she spent those first months alone and despondent, keeping away from other students when she could, throwing herself into her studies in the vain hope that it would make her less weak. because that was the only possible explanation, as the other slytherins were quick to point out to her - her parents didn’t have magic, she was a mudblood, she wasn’t as powerful as they were and she never would be.

she couldn’t accept that. she wouldn’t. if she had to work twice as hard as everyone else to pass, then she would. she spent her time studying, practicing by herself, determined, stubborn, but lonely.

and then she met rose. rose was a hufflepuff, a year or two above pearl. rose came upon a group of slytherins ganging up on them, and made them leave, and then conjured a bunch of flowers from her wand to cheer pearl up. rose was kind and encouraging and didn’t seem to care that pearl was a slytherin and a mudblood and a bad witch. she offered to help pearl practice.

and from then on pearl wasn’t alone. rose showed her how to perform some of the spells that pearl couldn’t seem to grasp. rose invited her to eat breakfast with her in the mornings, even when other hufflepuffs shot pearl nervous looks when they saw the green trim on her robes. rose was the first friend pearl had ever had.

and through rose, pearl made other friends. garnet was a solemn gryffindor, quiet but kind. (and exceptionally good at divination; pearl was awed by her predictions.) amethyst didn’t come until a year later, and she was not a solemn gryffindor, she was a rowdy gryffindor and a metamorphmagus to boot, and sometimes she made her nose long and pointy like pearl’s and laughed, but she was earnest and friendly and rough. the four of them became close-knit - even when pearl felt like the odd one out, the skinny slytherin among two gryffindors and a hufflepuff, even when she wondered if they were only friends with her out of pity, even when she felt herself growing desperate to please them, to keep up with them, so they wouldn’t leave her behind - it didn’t matter, in the end, because she had friends and she wasn’t alone.

gradually she grasped her schoolwork. she would never be very good at transfiguration, and she still had to spend hours practicing before she could master any of her spells, but her grades rose, in charms and defense against the dark arts especially. and in potions, of course, she continued to excel. she clawed her way, not quite to the top of the class, but very nearly so. she was still scorned and teased by many of her schoolmates, but she forced herself to turn the other shoulder - it only motivated her to work harder.

after graduation, they were swept into a war.

the dark lord was ever rising in power, and a group grew up to resist him: the order of the phoenix. rose wanted to join the rebellion, and pearl, of course, stood by her side. they ended up right in the thick of it, and pearl, the witch who had once struggled with the most basic spells, found herself dueling for her life on a regular basis - and, to everyone’s surprise, winning.

not without cost to her. the fighting exhausted her - she was never the most powerful witch, and no amount of training and mastery of spellwork would increase the mana she had to work with. she would fight to the point of exhausting her magic, and what’s more, she often threw herself in front of her allies, taking hits she needn’t have taken to save them (particularly rose), which often sent her to st. mungo’s for healing. as skilled a duelist as she became, she was lucky to make it through the war.

and while the war was going on, there was another disaster to contend with.

rose had fallen in love with a muggle.

rose, who pearl had loved for years, had become totally charmed by this greg - who, of course, knew nothing of the war, nothing of the battles rose had fought. pearl told her it was a bad idea to get involved - told her that she’d only be bringing some poor muggle into a world rife with chaos - but it was no good. they were married, and pearl had to hide her own heartbreak.

they had a child. his name was steven, and even pearl couldn’t help being taken with him. but that point of light did nothing to block out the awful truth: they were losing the war, and it seemed increasingly unlikely that steven would grow up with any sort of happiness.

and then the worst happened. rose was targeted by the death eaters. they came to their home. she was able to hold them off long enough for greg to call for help and get steven away, but by the time pearl, garnet, and amethyst arrived, it was too late. rose had been killed in her attempts to keep the death eaters away from her family.

the war ended soon after that. the dark lord was vanquished, and the wizarding world breathed again. but rose was still dead, and pearl had never, in all of her difficult life, endured grief so acute.

in the end greg raised steven in a house by the beach, with pearl, garnet, and amethyst often coming by to spend time with him. pearl took up teaching study of ancient runes at hogwarts, and headed the dueling club as well (which totally existed before lockhart started it shhh). her focus was on managing her job and keeping an eye on steven - but when the dark lord returned, she, along with garnet and amethyst, rejoined the order of the phoenix to fight the new enemy.

#; you build yourself from the ground up. you will be of your own making. ( about. ) #; hogwarts au tag #long post // #( can u tell i lost steam near the end of the history lmao ) #( whatever i fleshed out all the important stuff and it's flexible anyway ) #( but WHAT'S UP Y'ALL I SPENT SO LONG WRITING THIS ) #( end me )