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gretavanbrie · 11 months

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Dreadful Reminders // part two (J.T.K.)

Summary: The brewing tension in your relationship seems to be pulling your love at the seams. What will happen when what is supposed to be happy news, only tears you apart further. Is one mindless phone call the end of it all?

Pairings: Jake Kiszka x f!reader

Warnings: angst (like.. hella angst), soft smut (MINORS DNI!!!), heartbreak, crying, feelings of anger, isolation, mentions of alcohol consumption, swearing, sad!Jake, excessive apologies, talks of pregnancy, arguing, soft!Jake, flashbacks that might pull at your heart strings just a smidge, heavy dialogue towards the end, oral f!receiving, light impact play like once if you really squint, nipple play, softdom!Jake, terrible singing (I feel like that deserves a warning lmao), if I missed anything please lmk!!

A/N: This is Part 2!! She is longgg and lengthy so buckle up! If you have not yet read the first part I highly recommend you do so. I want to thank those who read the first part I hope the second does the first some justice, this chapter has a lot more dialogue and context between Jake and y/n. All flashbacks are italicized!!! I do not have a tag list yet so I apologize. I also want to give an honorable mention to my best friend who helped co-write the smut. Without further ado, enjoy!!

Part 1

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After the feud you questioned the half decade spent with Jake. Had you done something to push him away? You had a bad habit of blaming yourself for things that were never in your control, but how could he? The situation left you with nothing but guilt and questioning. How were you meant to go through this pregnancy on your own? Desperately craving guidance and clarity.

The minute the door closed behind you, you couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of guilt wash over your body. You drug your feet down the paved road to your car slugging your bag along. You felt pathetic for silently wishing he’d come chasing after you, to feel wanted for the first time in what felt like forever. But he never did, he never came running out.

The hole in your chest now a pathetic excuse for a heart.

You opened your car door throwing your bag in the back. You let out a long sigh, throat tight on the brink of tears.. yet again. Resting your head on the steering wheel you replay the events of tonight. You felt silly for being so dramatic, I mean packing up and leaving? Because your feelings were hurt? A part of you knew not to be too hard on yourself, your emotions were at an all time high. That didn’t help the tiny daggers Jakes words metaphorically threw at you.

The question aching in your chest the most is, how are you meant to go through these next 9 months without him. You felt so alone. Where were you even meant to go in the mean time? I mean at least until you could collect yourself and contact someone. You thought back to all of the happy times with Jake. A memory in particular tugging at your heart strings, you put your car in reverse knowing exactly where you were going. The long drive seemed to have cleared your mind enough to put an end to the incessant crying.

Is it better to hurt than to feel nothing at all?

You questioned yourself as you pulled into the long dirt road leading to the old wooden cabin the boys have used for years. Putting your car in park you silently curse yourself for wanting to be away from Jake but ending up in the one place that is littered with remnants of him. The universe had a funny way of mocking you, the irony of it all almost humorous.

Stepping inside you took in everything around you. The old rugs scattered across the floor, some equipment still left behind. You ran your fingers across the mic stand recalling your fondest memory in this place. The memory that lead you here. Longing for a sliver of comfort, even if you had to milk it out of an old memory.

Feeling the lump in your throat return once again you peeled your hands off and made your way to the bedroom you’ve become unmistakably familiar with. You settled into the bed you and him used to share fighting back the tears not bothering to change out of jakes ratty old sweatshirt.

Sleep clouded your mind accompanied by a singular thought relentlessly repeating as you finally allowed your body rest.

What have I done wrong?

—————————————————

Jake awoke to the front door slamming shut, the incessant pounding of his head and foot steps approaching. Peeling his top half off the floor, his eyes squint from the harshness of the light seeping in through the windows.

“Close the blinds.” He says rather harshly, sensing its his twin.

“Well good morning to you as well, dear brother. You look awful” he says with an insufferable smirk. Jake shoots him a sarcastic smile, not in the mood for his antics.

‘You reek of booze man, what the fuck is wrong with you.. where’s y/n?”. Jake stays quiet for a moment as memories from the previous night flood his brain. His chest now tight, fighting back tears as he realizes what he thought was a nightmare is in fact real.

“She’s gone.” Is all he mutters before he stands up. Just as quickly as he got up, he sunk back down. Josh grabbing ahold of his brothers arm right in the nick of time.

“How much did you drink Jake?” Josh asks rhetorically, prying the whiskey bottle from Jakes hands.

“Whatever happened is a conversation for another time, get your shit together or we’re gonna be late. You knew we had an interview, im not letting you embarrass us.” He says sternly pointing a finger in his brothers direction.

Jake stumbles to your guy’s room not bearing the sight of some of your belongings still scattered about the space. He rakes his fingers through his hair as he breathes out a heavy sigh fighting back the new set of tears. One managed to escaped and cascaded down his face. A dreadful reminder of your absence.

Taking a quick 5 minute shower in hopes of somehow washing off his guilt. Noticeably failing at doing so, the ache in his chest only grew stronger. Splashing the water on his face to wake himself up before stepping out. Glancing towards your toothbrush as he went to grab his, he heaves a shaky breath. The best word to describe how he felt was sorrowful. He couldn’t even be mad at himself, he knows he’d have his bags packed and out the door as well had he heard the unforgivable words spoken from him.

He can’t even pin the reason behind his actions either. Conjuring excuses and dismissing them immediately, knowing this is irreversible. He finished brushing his teeth throwing on his over-worn jeans, a button up and his tattered boots. Reaching for his cologne his breath hitched in his throat. The memory of when he first started wearing it flashing before his eyes.

“I love this scent on you honey” you whispered peering up at him through your eyelashes, your soft breaths surely tickling his neck. The sun shining perfectly on your face.

‘god what a woman, a temptress of the earth.’ He thinks to himself.

Jake stuck a little flower he’s been holding onto in your hair as you wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your chin on his chest shining him your brightest smile. You both giggled as the wind blew your hair wistfully across your face.

“I’d wear it for you so long as I’m alive, my dear” he says cupping your face, cherishing the sweetness of your soft lips.

The memory now plaguing his mind, taunting him of what he so selfishly sabotaged.

“Get yourself the fuck together dude” he whispered before picking up the bottle and spraying himself. He trudged out of the bedroom.

“Let’s go Josh.” He says quickly before making his way out the door.

—————————————————

The drive to the radio station was thankfully short, ever since you left jake has hated silence. His thoughts being far too loud in the stillness of the once lively four walls. The boys were headed back to their respective homes. Jake in disassociation, quickly snapped out by daniel’s words.

“What was up with you today man? Talk about a man of few words” he jokes trying to make light of the awkward tension during the interview, painfully unaware of the distress Jake was in. Poor Danny was just trying to lighten the mood, Jake however didn’t care for it.

“I suppose I’ve got my own shit to worry about, you should try it sometime.” Jake mutters, leaving Danny dumbfounded. Guilt immediately creeping it’s way through his brain. He already lost you, the last thing Jake wants is bad blood with someone else.

“I’m sorry man that was harsh, I just have a lot on my mind. I also might’ve had one too many drinks last night… i think i let them catch up to me” he gives a small chuckle in hopes of alleviating the tension. Sam and Danny joke back. His twin’s eyes shooting daggers his direction, believing none of it.

Back at the cabin you finally stirred awake, nauseous for the second morning. Realizing you’re not at home, thoughts of last night hit you like a semi. You curl back up in the sheets wishing for this to be some sick, sick dream. Sure, some may write you off as dramatic but you’re so young, only a few years younger than Jake and you feel as though he forgets this is just as scary for you as it is him. When you dreamt of having a baby you pictured Jake by your side, in it for the long haul.

You tried fighting the unceasing waves of nausea as you rummaged for something to eat in the kitchen. Settling on some toast and lemon honey tea, you made a mental note to head to the shops in hopes of getting your mind off things.

You opened the French doors that led to the beautiful backyard deck and the land that stretched for miles and miles just enjoying the serenity of it all. Sipping your tea you ponder for a moment. You decide you’ve allowed yourself enough time to feel sorry for yourself. Now all that is left is making the best of the situation. You are a strong resilient soul, you need to energetically be the best you can be for you and this beautiful soon-to-be life the two of you have created. You decided to head into town today to pick up some baby and parenthood books, maybe an incredibly early start but it seems like you’ll be spending a lot of time here anyway.

You take a shower to wash yesterday off you, preparing for this new start. Putting on light makeup and combing through your locks you dress yourself in a white sundress you thrifted long ago slipping on some shoes and heading out.

You stop at a farmers market and recall the first summer you and Jake spent alone at the cabin, he had a break from tour and he made it a point to come and spend some one-on-one time.

He went and bought you a singular wildflower from every vender he could find until eventually you had a custom-made bouquet. Stopping and picking out fruits and cheeses together to later be shared in the garden that evening. Picking up cheap bottles of wine to share while the two of you slow danced in the back yard. He got a new cologne that day as well. A moment so tender shared between the two of you, cherished in your heart forever.

Not wanting to stay long you waltz around the closest towns local library flipping through every parenthood and childcare book you could find. Collecting a few to take home, you pay and head back.

As you were washing and cutting the fruits, ‘Til There Was You’ started playing on the old Beatles vinyl in the background. You smiled remembering the song fondly, one of jakes favorites. Little did you know it was only his favorite because of the drunken show you put on for him one night singing along terribly to the song as your friends talked and laughed around you guys. Your cheeks pink and flushed either from the liquor in your system, or embarrassment. Jake didn’t seem to care, you looked beautiful as ever to him in that moment.

You leave the record playing as you curl up in a blanket on the couch diving into one of the many books you bought today. A sliver of peace filling your body, things are starting to look up.

A few hours pass and you finally decide to plug in your phone not having bothered with it since the argument. The screen illuminates indicating battery life, you see no calls from Jake and one missed call from josh. Hurt strikes through your chest as you realize maybe he didn’t want you around after all. You hesitate before calling Josh back, a glimmer of hope in your heart.

It only took a couple rings for Josh to pick up and his voice booms through your ear.

“Y/n!! Finally you answer! Where have you been?! You never disappear this long, you and Jake are practically inseparable!” He exclaims. You grimace as you think back to the things Jake told him.

“I mean this respectfully Josh, but cut the shit. I heard everything he said to you last night on the phone. Since I’m so bothersome in my own home, I’ve taken some time away from everybody.” You say

“A-and please Josh…. Don’t tell anyone about the baby yet, i wanna get through this by myself first.” You plead, voice dripping with nervousness.

You hear the other end of the line fall silent for a moment before a heavy sigh escapes his mouth, him now getting a clue as to why he found a sweaty drunken Jake lying on the kitchen floor next to unpacked groceries. He begins to speak.

“Listen I’m sorry about my brother, I told him he needs to get his head out of his ass. There are many ways you guys can make this work but he’s stubborn. I’m confused where this is stemming from because this is all he’s ever wanted with you, I don’t know why he’s running from it now.” You can hear things being moved around and voices yelling in the back.

“Listen i have some people over right now i have to go but can you at least tell me where you are so i know you’re safe?” His voice coated in concern.

“The first summer we said i love you josh, I’m at the cabin.”

————————————————————-

Later that evening Jake finds himself at his desk sifting through old film pictures you guys took together, the two of you preferring physical proof of the intimate moments rather than digital. That isn’t to say you didn’t have any, these were just far more special to the two of you.

Jake has never felt a love like yours and he senselessly tossed it all out of the window. He knew he wanted a family with you, he just got scared of the responsibility of juggling the band and a family life. He opened a drawer full of all the wilted flowers, saved letters and notes, movies and concert tickets, hundreds of tiny nick nacks the two of you have collected over time. His eyes fall upon an old polaroid from the lake house, your cheeks sunburned, your hair kissed by the sun as you had your lips gently placed on jakes cheek. His smile shining brighter than ever, a slight pink tinge to the apples of his cheeks.

You two had just started dating. He invited you out to see his writing process, eager to have you mesh with the one thing he loves most. Jake had no idea you’d be a contiguous second. You two had spent all day in the sun reading together as the rest of the boys swam about the river. Jake caught a glimpse of his future with you, Both of you old, sat in your backyard watching your children, and eventually grandchildren, play about the land. He peered over to you and saw your rosy cheeks and nose buried in a book with ur legs up to ur chest in the lawn chair. You looked like you were exactly where you belonged. Next to him enjoying the comfortable silence. His favorite summer with you.

You peeled your eyes from the fascinating story nestled in your hands only to be met with your lovers, already drinking you in. you see the long-haired boy shoot you warm smile knowing he’s been caught.

“Whatcha looking at, rockstar” you smirk. Jake felt his heart flutter, your voice smooth like tupelo honey. Never has a woman had him in this much of a chokehold.

“Oh nothing… just my beautiful, beautiful girl” he says standing up from his seat beside you. He made his way to you resting his arms on each side of the chair essentially trapping you in. His torso bent over you as you look up at Jake the sun eclipsed by his head creating a beautiful halo glow around him. His skin sheen with the glistening sweat from the hot summer air. His hair tussled around from the lake water. You’ve never looked at him with so much adoration and love, and Jake could spot it from miles away. His heart began pumping faster and faster. You guys hadn’t even been together a year yet, was it too soon?

He finally speaks up “I was just admiring how natural this feels, here, with you. Wouldn’t trade it for the world…” He whispers trailing off as his eyes dart across your face, admiring the way the sun shone just right. His hands cupping your face like a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Everything felt so right.

“..I love you.” he continued on, entranced by your loving gaze.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, not that you were one for those anyway. It was intimate, a moment shared between you two, and you two only. It wasn’t forced, it wasn’t used for show. It was real and it was natural. You’re immensely thankful Jake was emotionally secure enough to be so open and vulnerable with you.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your already sunburnt cheeks flushed to an even more crimson shade. Jake swore he felt his knees buckle. Though you hadn’t replied just yet, Jake knew. The love in your eyes sold it. His body still leaning over your own sat in the lawn chair, you pull him down a bit further by his necklace placing a gentle kiss to his soft lips.

“I love you more, my Jake.” you whisper as you pull away.

Jake replays the memory in his head. It’s been you all along. He was so blinded by his own bad habits, he shut you out. The one thing in his 27 years of life aside from his music that actually made him feel something. You were his wildest most cherished dream, left wilting from his own venom laced words. Slamming the drawer shut, Jake wasted no time grabbing his keys making his way to the car. No plan in mind.

His only purpose being to get his woman back, to make things right.

Picking his phone up he frantically dials Josh.

“Josh? Josh? hello?” Jake spews into the phone hearing josh pick up.

“What’s up?” Josh answers.

“I need you to tell me where y/n is at. I know you’ve kept in contact, she tells you everything. I don’t care what you say. I need her back. She’s the one josh i-i- i can’t lose her.” The long haired boy proclaimed choking back sobs. Josh had never heard his brother in such distress.

“Even if i make a fool of myself i need to show her I’m hers indefinitely. Ive made no efforts in proving that to her and especially now that she’s carrying my baby I can’t let that slip out of reach. Please Joshua… i need this.” He breathes. Josh is silent contemplating if he should say something. Hearing the anguish in his little brothers voice, he can’t bear to keep it from him any longer.

“Look i won’t say too much. Just think of your favorite summer, it’s evidently hers as well. I gotta go, ill talk to u later”

“Thank you thank you thank y-“ Jake is cut off by josh ending the call. He wastes no time rushing to you. Mentally preparing for this long drive ahead of him.

———————————————————————————

You sat on the living room floor mindlessly flipping through old magazines that were once neatly tucked in a corner, boredom obviously taking its course. The phone call with josh long forgotten about, since then you’ve changed into jakes old band tee you found in one of the drawers here. You hear tires on the dirt road and headlights making its way towards the house. Frightened, you pick up a kitchen knife clutching your bra less chest. You hold your breath as a car door slams and footsteps approach.

A soft knock on the cabin door and you feel the hairs on your arms raise. You peek your eye in the peep hole, after seeing who was behind the door you would’ve much rather it have been a murderer. Seeing those smooth caramel eyes you’ve missed so much only pains you, and reminds you of the hurt he caused. Every harsh word now on repeat. You sigh setting the knife down and pulling the door open.

“Hello” You greet, voice small.

‘You sound pathetic’ you think to yourself

“Y/n please…. I know its so soon and you without a doubt deserve space but I can’t bear another second without. God i was so stupid, you’ve given me nothing but undeniable support and love and I’ve taken that for granted. I should’ve talked things ou-“

“jake…” you cut him off, the softness of your voice ringing in his ears like music from angels themselves. He’s been craving the sound of your voice.

“Please just come inside and we’ll talk you haven’t even stepped foot in the door” you continue

“So.. you’ll hear me out? We can fix this right?” His eager eyes bouncing back and forth between your own, searching for some sort of non-verbal answer.

“I never said that Jacob…” you trail off allowing him to step inside.

“Can i grab you anything to drink?” You offer, Jake mesmerized by your hospitality even in the midst of a broken heart. He didn’t think he could be more enamored by you, but alas.

“I’m not some random guest y/n, i want to prove to you how sorry i am. Please..” he whispers inching closer to you. You look down a sigh escaping past your lips. You look back up at him, he sees the hurt flash in your eyes as you recall the phone call.

“Why did you say those things?” Keeping steady eye contact. It was now your turn to look for the answers in his irises.

“I don’t know honey, I don’t know.. the only logical explanation i can give you is i was scared. But that’s no excuse and i’m fully aware. Things had already been so bad between us it was eating me alive. I thought if I wasn’t even able to care and provide for you how I should’ve the last 2 months, how was i meant to provide for an entirely new human? I realized i was treating you in a way i never thought I would in a million years. I promised myself to cherish a love like yours should i ever have the privilege of being graced by your love and affection and i was blind. So fucking blind. Kids haven’t always been my thing baby you know that and i want nothing more than to have this with you now and to have a family to call our own. I’ve come to my senses. I don’t know what washed over me i let my fear get the best of me. I usually know what to say but there’s no words in the English language to describe the sorrow i feel. I’m so fucking sorry y/n.” He finishes blinking away the brewing tears. You sit almost mute if it weren’t for your shaky breathing.

“Please.. say something, anything” he pleads, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“Jake i wanna forgive you I’m just hurt, 5 years and not once have i been treated like this by you. I thought, you know, telling you the news would alleviate the tension between us. I was hoping you’d somehow realize it was all silly, and the fighting wasn’t like us. Instead you pushed me away further. Am i so terrible Jacob?” You ask dropping your gaze to your feet.

“No my love, i was just being foolish and immature. I let emotions cloud logic, I spoke what felt right at the time being and it was the worst mistake of my life. If i could take it all back i would, you have no fucking idea the lengths i’d go to undo my actions.” He says taking your face in his hand. Closing your eyes, you nestle your cheek into the warmth of his calloused palm.

Oh, how you’ve missed this. You quickly snap out of it before continuing on.

“where were you that morning, Jake? josh called asking for you but you said you were with the boys.” you say peeling your cheek away from his hand. Chest rising and falling with anticipation.

“I was with them for the first part of the morning my love, i was. But i did slip out the minute it was over instead of hanging around how they always do. I went to grab some breakfast to try and untangle the mess that was my brain at the time. I saw a dad alone with his two daughters, i think the mom might’ve been busy but the dad looked so worn out. Completely defeated, and it scared me. It’s still no excuse for the way i treated you prior to the news. I was taking my workload home with me and i pinned faults on you to try and alleviate some of the tension. I’m so sorry baby, you don’t deserve it at all. You were nothing but patient with me a- and-“ his voice cracks his head now hung in shame as his throat tightens up, tears slipping past the ducts.

“-and i failed you y/n. I ran home and called josh to try and gain some sensibility. I voiced the intrusive thoughts that were in no way the truth. I think i just let everything get to my head and i went into this existential questioning mode. I’ll regret it eternally.” he continues, lips now parted flicking his eyes between your own.

“My Jake, I’m not upset at you being scared. This is terrifying. We’re so young i don’t expect you to have this figured out. You’re doing so well with your music. I feel terrible, you have no idea. But i’m just as scared as you are. This is supposed to be a help me help you. No matter how terrifying, this was painstakingly meant for us. This was in store for us whether we like it or not and i honestly couldn’t be more grateful, Jake. I know we can make this work. If there’s anyone in the world I’d want this with its you, I need to you to be emotionally present…please jake” you say hopeful.

“I know we can honey, and I will. You won’t ever have to worry about anything. You can quit your job, I’ll provide for the three of us, you won’t have to lift a finger anymore. You can come with us on tour and i’ll be by your side every step of the way. I will make sure the traveling is as comfortable as can be for my pregnant little lady” he says pulling you in closer by the hand.

“I’m gonna need time Jake, i can’t just ask that of you. And to be frank, your words hurt. Everything is so fresh we can’t just move past it in one day. You didn’t even call me or anything Jake, radio silence. I understand if that was the space you needed but not even to check if I’m okay?” You choke.

“I know my love, I’m incredibly disappointed with myself you have no idea. I should’ve called. I just knew if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t have wanted to be around me either. I figured the least I could do was give you the space you needed. You don’t know how desperately I wanted to call you and text you and run out there, but that would’ve been selfish of me. To say hurtful things and beg you to stay? I deserved you’re absence. I should’ve reached out. I’m so fucking sorry. I have no clue what got to me it was all nonsense, I was being incredibly immature”

“It’s just disappointing, what did I do wrong Jake?” You whisper your eyes flicking between his plump lips and his caring eyes.

“Nothing baby, you did absolutely nothing wrong. I was being an asshole. You don’t deserve that in the slightest. Let me show you how sorry i am baby, let me take care of you” he whispers lips connecting with your pulse point, the light suction sending chills down your spine.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry” gently whispering fighting the crack in his voice, punctuating each apology with a kiss to ur soft skin.

“Jake please not right no-“ you’re cut off by his lips crashing onto yours. Your lips move together like it was the first time you’d ever shared a kiss, eager and love drunk.

“let me make things right.” He whispers resting his forehead on your own.

“You’re all I’ve ever needed” moving to place a kiss behind your ear.

“Jake please” you breathe.

“I’m sorry” he repeats again but only gripping the larger fitting t-shirt of his clung around your body.

His lips meet yours again as he slowly backs you into the counter. Kneeling down in front of you, feeling your hands trace over the top of his head strumming through his long hair. Jake begins pulling at the hem of the shirt the smell of vanilla permeating his nose. The kiss ceases as you realize where this is going.

“Jake we can’t do this, we have to-“ your frantic words seem to go dormant as your shirt is quickly discarded. He strokes the back of your legs and ass pulling your lower half further into him, staring at each other with your lust-filled eyes.

“I just need to taste you, show you how much I need you.” He plants a kiss to your abdomen, finger hooking the thin fabric uncovering the sweet pool of honey.

“Is this okay baby?” he hums against your skin.

You let out a whimper, his lips quirk up in a smile knowing you wanted this just as bad.

The underwear falls as he guides your legs upward to help you step out of them, kicking it to the side using the counter to support your weight. Letting your right leg sit comfortably on his shoulder as he circles your clit with his thumb. Looking deep into your eyes and watching you cave under his touch is more than he can handle, your his greatest strength and undeniable weakness.

Wasting no time, his tongue hungrily glides through your folds, jake completely enamored by the sweetness of your aching cunt. God how you missed him. He’s desperate at this point, the impression of his fingers on your skin, the way your chest drops with every exhale, the tug of your bottom lip between your teeth as your head drops back. The way you fuck back into his face as though this insatiable hunger for one another isn’t one sided.

He pulls back emitting a whimper from you. He quickly but gently bends you over the counter. Admiring the heart shape your ass resembles, he gives a light smack. A smile dances across his lips at the absolute bliss upon your once tear-stained face. He sprinkles light kisses over the small of your back before running his hand back over your soaking wet slit.

“Spread your legs beautiful, I need to see all of you” to which you gracefully oblige.

“Atta girl” he smirks. You swear you could climax from his words alone.

He licked one long stripe starting from your taint stopping just shy of your clit before sucking slightly, his tongue then running up and down the small crevice, your arousal being lapped as though this were his last meal.

“Jesus Christ Jake…….so good” you whimper, your breathy moans like the soft song of a siren, reeling him in stronger than ever before.

“all I ever want is to make you feel good honey, I’m all yours” he says before continuing one of his favorite acts of service. He snakes a hand up to your breasts giving one a light squeeze. He slowly pinched and rolls your sensitive nipple in between his pointer and thumb eliciting a pornographic moan from you.

“You’re all mine” he says, ravenously burying his face into your dripping cunt.

You arch your back lifting your ass giving him more access to what seemed to be his own personal form of heroin, an insatiable hunger only you could satisfy. You’re close, and he knows it too. Keeping the tempo he begins to bring both knees to the hardwood kitchen floor in attempts to give you the chance to slightly sit on his face.

He drops his hold on your breasts using the same hand to circle your clit continuing his assault. The newfound feeling of synchronization between his tongue and finger becoming too much to handle.

“My god Jake, I’m so close” you groan pulling his hair for leverage. You start grinding into his mouth before allowing yourself to fully submit to the feeling.

“ I’m cum-“ you squeak out before the rush of your orgasm cuts you off.

Jake starts massaging your side as physical praise. The nectar drips from your cunt into his mouth, Jake hums in approval at your arousal. You ride out your high on his face. You look back at him with lust and admiration. He pulls back and turns you around grasping your thighs as he begins to clean you with his mouth. Repeated kisses on your legs and stomach. The maintained eye contact, trying to burn this moment into his brain. You look down at him pushing the single strand of hair out of his now glistening face. He stares up at you.

“You look so pretty when you come on my face you know?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes and smile. Searching for the now discarded t-shirt. Jake stands up collecting himself. He pulls you in by the arm before you can get dressed.

“I love you immensely y/n, i will spend every waking day of my life proving that to our little family” he says placing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I was so stupid my love, I had everything I’ve ever dreamed of and I took advantage. I’m not asking you to forgive me right away but just know I will fight for you until my deathbed” he continued, pulling you into his embrace.

“Please just communicate your thoughts with me Jake, we’ve been in this so long. This needs to be a help me help you. No matter how irrational you think the issue may be. I love you far too much to be apart from you” You say staring into his eyes. He places a hand over his heart before solemnly swearing to do so.

The two of you make your way into the old bedroom, his eyes sadden at your clothes spilling out of the duffel bag in the corner. It may have only been 24 hours apart but it shouldn’t even have come to that. His heart clenched at the thought of you feeling like you had to resort to isolation. Although, he knows he would’ve done the same had he been in your shoes. He grabs your hand pulling you into his chest, fingers scratching at your scalp. The way he held you was enough to relive you of any hurt or ailment in your body. The intimacy and closeness you two lacked for so long finally shining through like a streak of sunlight in a window after a terrible storm. You feel the shakiness of his breath before he begins to speak.

“I know I’ve said it many times before my love, but I truly am sorry. You shouldn’t have been alone. God, how scared you must’ve been.” He breathes looking up as if to hold back the tears fighting to escape.

“Thinking of you falling asleep by yourself last night is agonizing. I should’ve been there for you.” He whispers.

“What happened, happened Jakey. Let’s not dwell on what we can no longer change. Please… I don’t wanna think about it any longer. I want to focus on moving forward. I want to be the best version of me for our child” you say pulling away, both of you looking down to your abdomen with sad smiles.

“Did you come here because it was the first time we said i love you to eachother?” He blurts, eyes darting between your own. Scared of what you might say.

“Maybe..” you flush, shying your face away. A smile lights up his face.

“The moment was just so perfect, Jake. So intimate. Something special just for us, no interruptions. We were so happy, young, and in love. After we said it we got so drunk Jakey, you serenaded me with that mic all night. Any song I spoke of you strummed that guitar immediately. I knew i wanted you forever, right then and there.” You giggled

“I was quite the serenader, wasn’t i?” he jokes. Pulling you in by your waist he looks up smiling as he recalls the memory.

“I will play as many songs if it means I can see your pretty smile” he says leaning down giving you a peck on the lips. You two just held each other for a moment before deciding a shower was your best bet after your little reconciliation.

The shower was nothing short of intimate. Soft touches, hands raking through each others hair as the shampoo lathers. Just basking in each others presence. The two of you sat in silence, not a word uttered. You guys seemed to have an unspoken mutual agreement that you needed to make up for lost time in touches. It had been so long since Jake had been so attentive and gentle with you. You finally felt the love you two once had circle its way back. He stayed behind you washing the conditioner from your hair.

“I love you baby” Jake states, breaking the silence. He reaches around, kissing you softly.

“You’re divine, my woman. I can’t get enough of you, I’m sorry again baby.” He says pecking your shoulder. You hum in adoration letting your head rest back on his shoulder as he lathers your body.

You two wrap up the shower after having taken the time to allow yourselves to attentively care for one another again.

You sit naked on the bed with a towel in your hair, book in hand, neither of you bothering to change. Just eager to finally be in each others presence again. Jake is walking around the room, collecting your scattered clothes and packing them up.

“My Jake, just come lay down” you whine wanting nothing but to lay in bed together, to feel a long awaited sense of normalcy between the two of you. You close your book and set it beside you as you watch him circle the room.

“Soon my lady, one more thing” he says, a smirk worn proudly like he was scheming something. He waltzed into the closet finding his old straw hat. He rests it atop his head picking up his old acoustic. Still unclothed , the instrument acting as a garment for his lower half. He strums the familiar tune to ‘Til There Was You’. Your smile beams as you recall the old Beatles song.

“Thought I’d put on a long awaited show on for my special lady and our little bean” He laughs unable to take himself seriously. You giggle as well before responding.

“Take it away, my love!” you encourage as he begins singing the song purposefully off key. Fingers strumming perfectly to the tune.

“No, i never sawrrrrrr them at alllllllllll” he exaggerates.

You two break out into fits of laughter as he rids himself of his guitar and hat diving into bed with you. The room falls silent as you guys lay, you remove your the towel from your hair getting comfortable under the covers. Jake silently admiring your glow, coming to the realization its been lost for so long. Ever since he grew distant, you didn’t shine the same, even hearing your laugh tonight struck something within him. He’s pained he’s the cause of your light dimming. He finally speaks up, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to prove myself to you again. You deserve to shine baby.” He whispers into your neck

“Mhm, don’t make me regret it” you squint your eyes at him playfully. You both laugh before sighing in contentment.

“You know I saw the food laying on the counter, I wish i could take it all back. I’ll thank you endlessly.” He says nuzzling his head into your neck entangling your legs together as his torso rested atop yours. Enjoying the intimacy of laying unclad together, it’s been far too long.

“I just never want you to speak of me like that behind my back again, I felt so unwanted. I trust that you’ll communicate those thoughts to me directly from now on” you say playing with strands of his hair.

“We’re too old for that kind of stuff now, Jakey.” You continue on.

“I’ll never let anything come between us again, i will stop at nothing to ensure your happiness. And 9 months from now i shall do the same for the little one” he says drawing shapes on your stomach. A newfound appreciation for one another, a tighter metaphorical knot now formed between the both of you. You two were made for each other and you know your baby will be so loved. Now its just one step at a time. You wouldn’t trade him for the world, he lays there completely and irrevocably enthralled by your love.

Fin.

136 notes · View notes

daisynik7 · 4 months

Text

Hanging by a Thread

Pairing: Takashi Mitsuya x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (please heed content warnings as this chapter contains potentially triggering content - violence, dialogue that suggests SA, blood)

Word Count: ~6.5k

cw: angst, underaged drinking, dialogue that suggests SA, violence, blood, canon divergent, explicit language, suggestive sexual content, switching POVs (2nd and 3rd person)

Summary: After leaving the Tokyo Manji Gang, Mitsuya feels like his life is on the right track. They have their fearless leader Mikey back to his usual self and Mitsuya’s relationship with Hana grows stronger day by day. They graduate, ready for the next big step in their lives. But with everything said and done, the past will always haunt the brothers of Toman, for better and for worse.

Author’s Note: I know this is a drastic change in tone from this otherwise romantic plot. However, this is how I’ve always imagined the story to play out, so I apologize if I’ve blindsided you by this dramatic turn! Thanks for all the support I’ve gotten so far on this. Please let me know what you think in the comments.

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter (coming soon)

“Takashi Mitsuya!”

Despite his request to them earlier in the week to not cause a ruckus, his friends and family are the most obnoxious bunch during the graduation ceremony. From the stage, he spots Draken standing with Mana sitting on his shoulders, the both of them hollering as Emma attempts to quiet them down. Mikey is next to her, lifting Luna up by the armpits, who’s yelling enthusiastically with her tiny hands surrounding her mouth to emphasize her cheers. Mitsuya’s mom, dressed in her best kimono, cries into a wad of tissues, unable to contain her happiness.

Today, he’s an official high school graduate. He bows politely to his homeroom teacher and the principal before accepting his diploma, holding it gingerly in his hands like a prized possession. He never imagined feeling this way about a simple piece of paper, yet here he is, the proudest he’s ever been of himself. He beams at his cheering squad, then at Hana, who’s seated in their student section. She winks at him, cheeks round and eyes shining, clapping emphatically. He blinks away tears, in disbelief that this is all actually happening. His dreams have become a reality.

When it’s Hana’s turn shortly after, his friends and family are up on their feet once more, shouting their encouragements for her, enough for everyone in the audience to hear. Mitsuya peeps Hana’s parents, standing up and clapping. Her father glances to the back, his expression wary for a split-second, then he smiles proudly at his daughter walking the stage.

Since he formally left the gang, Hana’s father has relented his stance for them to break up. While there is still that awkward tension between them, there is no longer animosity, and Mitsuya considers this good progress. He’ll continue to work hard to prove to Mr. Shimizu, and to himself, that he’s capable of being the loving, supportive boyfriend that Hana deserves.

When the last student’s name is read and the traditional graduation song is sung, they file into their homeroom for one last class with their teacher, who congratulates them with high praise. It’s during all this hustle and bustle that the couple find a sliver to time for themselves, holding hands in the back of the classroom, squeezing each other lovingly. They sneak in a kiss while everyone else is distracted, and for this fleeting moment, it’s the two of them in their own little world.

Soon, there’s more commotion when they’re all dismissed to prolong the festivities in the courtyard. Mitsuya joins his mother and sisters to take pictures. Luna and Mana wear the dresses he made for them specifically for special occasions, making his heart swell more than it already has. He poses for more photos with his Toman brothers and Emma, who rib him for being a “nerd with a diploma”.

Hana’s mom approaches them first, introducing herself to Mitsuya’s mother and crouching down to meet his sisters. Mr. Shimizu does the same, the usual tension in his brow apparent. They all come together for a group photo, Hana and Mitsuya in the middle, his hand on her waist keeping her close, the two of them surrounded by loved ones. “I love you,” he whispers to her. It’s a picture-perfect memory that he’ll never forget.

The two of them part ways, agreeing to celebrate separately with their own families. Draken and Emma graciously host, serving a homecooked feast courtesy of the father-to-be, who prepared special dishes to honor the new grad, including the nostalgic beef karubi-don from when they first met as kids. Others join them, including Takemitchy, Hina, Hakkai, his sister Yuzuha, and Chifuyu. Their apartment is filled to the brim with people celebrating Mitsuya’s accomplishments. When it’s time for Luna’s and Mana’s bedtime, his mother bids them all farewell, making sure to warn her son, “Don’t get too crazy tonight, okay?”

“I won’t,” he assures her, kissing her on the forehead, waiting for them to board the bus, waving at the window as they head home.

He returns to the apartment, kitchen counter now stacked with bottles of liquor, ready to be consumed. Hakkai is halfway through a beer when he embraces Mitsuya jovially. “You are the fucking man, Takashi! I want to be you when I grow up!”

Yuzuha, who graduates in a week, pats her brother’s back, laughing. “It’s a too late for that, don’t you think? You’re a high-school dropout.”

“It’s never too late for anything!” he slurs, tipping the remaining alcohol into his mouth.

She rolls her eyes, prying him off Mitsuya. “Don’t make me take care of you when you get drunk.”

“Too late!” he hiccups, skipping into the kitchen to retrieve another, where she follows him, annoyed.

Mitsuya chuckles, amused by the two siblings and their usual banter. He examines the room, noting how all the most important people in his life are by his side, despite no longer being in Toman. Draken sips on a sparkling water, refraining from drinking alcohol in solidarity with his pregnant girlfriend, who sits on the couch with a sober Hina, gossiping. Mikey torments Takemitchy and Chifuyu in a game of Mario Kart on the television. An unusual sense of peace washes over him, and though he’s surrounded by his friends, he finds himself missing Hana immensely, wishing he could share this sentiment with her.

There’s a knock on the door and his wishes are miraculously granted. She steps inside the apartment, donned in her favorite jean jacket, the one with the heart they stitched together on the sleeve. Her gaze immediately meets his and they reunite in a big hug. “What are you doing here?” he asks, surprised and elated.

“Emma texted me and told me you were still celebrating,” she explains. “We finished dinner early and my parents told me it was okay to see you.”

“I’m so happy you’re here. I missed you.”

“You really can’t go a few hours without me?” she teases, nuzzling her nose to his.

“No, I can’t,” he admits, completely serious. He kisses her, instantly melting into her lips.

“Oi! Get a room, you fucking perverts!” Draken calls out, smirking. Emma and Hina giggle as Mitsuya flips the bird at his Twin Dragon.

They don’t partake in any drinking tonight, Mitsuya already love drunk and Hana too afraid to get caught by her parents later when she goes back home. Nonetheless, the party is full of merriment, especially when Mikey suggests karaoke.

Past midnight, Hana rests her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder, fingers laced seamlessly, listening to Takemitchy perform a particularly heartfelt ballad to Hina. Most of the others have left, except for Mikey, who nods along to the music, and Chifuyu, who finishes off the cake they had for dessert, eating it straight from the box. Draken sits on the other side of the couch with Emma’s head on his lap, sleeping soundly to the tone-deaf warbles of Takemitchy’s voice. His hand gently massages her pregnant belly.

Before it gets too late, Mitsuya and Hana say their farewells to their friends. They ride the near empty streets of Tokyo on his bike, enjoying the bright lights as they whiz through the city. She holds him closely, her warmth a comfort he’ll never take for granted now that he has it. They park a couple houses down from hers, kissing each other under the stars until they’re breathless. He walks her to the front door, sneaking one more kiss, wishing her a good night, already missing her once she’s inside. And although he has plans to see her again later for the festival, it isn’t soon enough.

There’s this perfect balance that Mitsuya has somehow achieved amidst the chaos of being a delinquent. He’s always struggled to find that until Hana came into his life and changed it for the better. She gave him a reason to do something different in his life, to accomplish the dreams he had so often deemed impossible to attain. He can’t imagine a future without her now.

He doesn’t know yet how quickly it can all change in a flash.

~~~

There’s always this rush you wake up to in the mornings, a feeling that blossoms in your chest, has you staring up at the ceiling with a soft smile on your face. And it has everything to do with Takashi Mitsuya.

It’s the way he greets you with a cute good morning text without fail, always the early bird to prepare breakfast for his sisters. You’ll never get tired of seeing his name on your screen, opening your notifications to read his message. Evidence that your love for one another exists, palpable and tangible. Not a dream you have to wake up from, but a reality you’re lucky enough to wake up to. You grin at his text, accompanied by a selfie of him, Luna, and Mana, posing with fluffy pancakes on their plates. This is the life you get to live now, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

His mother has this weekend off and plans to take the girls to their grandparent’s until Sunday, leaving Mitsuya free to attend the local festival tonight. It’s one more celebration before you start university later in the week. Another opportunity to make more special memories with him to add to the collection.

You were dreading graduation, unsure what will happen to your relationship. School became a welcomed part of your routine, mostly because it gave you the chance to see Takashi on a regular basis. However, yesterday made all your concerns fade. It became clear to you that being with Takashi is as easy as breathing. You don’t need to think about it. The two of you find all the little ways you can be with each other. A lingering glance in the middle of a crowded auditorium, a secret kiss in the back of the classroom, holding hands at a party with their friends. A picture with your two worlds together to prove that all of this is real, that this love is real. You laugh at yourself for being worried over nothing.

You head downstairs, dressed casually with your tote bag hanging off your shoulder where your yukata is tucked neatly inside for later. Takashi invited you to his house before the festivities start, giving the two of you some much needed alone time. Your parents sit on the couch, watching one of their favorite cooking shows on TV. You approach them, sticking your head between theirs from behind. “I’m heading out now,” you announce, giving them both a smooch on the cheek.

Your mother smiles at you. “Have fun at the festival, dear.”

“Be careful,” you dad mutters, staring straight ahead.

“I will. I love you.”

“We love you too, honey. And tell Takashi we say hello!” she adds, returning to her program. Your father snorts, making you chuckle. He hasn’t quite warmed up completely to your boyfriend, but it’s definitely progress.

You take your time during the stroll to Takashi’s, enjoying the crisp air of the welcoming spring season. Sakura blooms around you, soft pink petals falling slowly until they paint the ground in their beautiful pink color. You make it to his house, knocking on his door twice, excited to see him. When he answers, you immediately launch forward to give him a hug.

He laughs, squeezing you tightly. “Hi sweetie.”

“I missed you,” you say, burying your face into his collarbone.

“Now who’s the one who can’t go a few hours without me?”

You pout. “Yeah, you got me there.”

He laughs harder, scattering sweet smooches all over your face. “You’re the absolute cutest, you know that?"

The two of you cuddle on the couch, indulging in your favorite snacks while watching a movie that you barely pay attention to. Instead, you focus on Takashi’s lips on yours, his usually steady breathing becoming uneven as you deepen your kisses. His hands explore your body, slipping beneath your blouse to graze the plush skin of your belly, inching closer and closer to your bosom.

“Takashi,” you whisper, tugging at the collar of his shirt, unsure if you want him to keep it on or off, leaning towards the latter. You haven’t had sex yet, though you’ve gotten excruciatingly close to it, especially in heats of the moment like this.

He pulls back, removing himself from you, blushing. “I’m sorry. We should…we should get ready now,” he murmurs, running his hand through his hair, catching his breath. Before you can respond, he stands up and rushes into his room, closing the door.

You sit up on the couch, confused and concerned. You don’t want to stop. You want this. You want him.

“Takashi?” You tap your knuckles gently on the door, which is ajar and not shut all the way like you expected.

“Come in,” he answers. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows to his knees, head bowed, like he’s ashamed.

“Takashi,” you repeat, taking a seat beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry. I don’t want to rush this. I don’t want to do it if you’re not ready. I just…can’t control myself with you.”

You pull him close. “Then don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t control yourself.” You kiss him, placing his hands on you, giving him full rein. “Make love to me, Takashi. I’m ready. I want it.”

“Baby,” he gasps, kissing you back eagerly. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” You lift your arms for him to hoist your top off. “Absolutely sure.”

It’s clumsy and messy, even a bit uncomfortable at first. But Takashi is careful with you the whole way, takes his time treasuring you as if you’re the most delicate, precious jewel he’s ever held in his hands. And while it feels good to be this physically intimate with him, it’s the way he looks at you that makes this more special. He doesn’t say it; you see it in his eyes. You’re safe with him, you always will be.

You snuggle in bed, gazing at each other with goofy grins on your faces. He cups your cheek, tracing the outline of your lips with his thumb, unable to contain his smile. He turns to reach for his phone on the nightstand, checking the time. “I guess we should start getting ready,” he suggests, clearly more comfortable being here than anywhere else.

“We still have tonight. After the festival,” you mention, trying to sound nonchalant.

He tickles you under your chin, covering you in smooches. “You naughty girl! You really can’t get enough of me, huh?”

You giggle, putting in minimal effort to shrug him off. Honestly, you’re completely content with the idea of spending the night in with Takashi, then you remember the commitments you made to your friends who are expecting you. Eventually, you both get up to slip into comfortable clothes underneath your yukatas, appropriate attire for the occasion. As you inspect your reflection in the mirror, Takashi stands behind you, his hands on your waist, his mouth grazing the back of your neck. “You’re beautiful.”

“You are too.” You reach behind you to pat his head, noticing something hanging from your sleeve. “Oh no, there’s a loose thread,” you point out, showing it him.

He examines at it carefully, tugging on it. “It’s not too bad,” he reassures you, giving you a peck on the cheek. “I’ll fix it later.”

When you’re ready to leave, you hop on the back of Takashi’s impulse with the helmet on your head, bunching the robe up your legs. He does the same, starting the ignition and driving off. It’s another lovely night, the bitter cold of winter replaced with the warm breath of spring. Everything seems so perfect when the two of you are together; maybe this is what people mean when they talk about being in the honeymoon phase. It may not be perfect forever, but to be able to experience it in the first place is enough for you. You’re the happiest you’ve ever been, and it’s all thanks to Takashi Mitsuya.

You arrive about half an hour later than you said you would. Draken is the first to spot you, beckoning the two of you with a wave. Emma has her arm linked to his while Takemitchy and Emma hold hands next to them, everyone adorned in yukatas. They don’t question why you’re tardy, though you catch Draken nudging Takashi in the ribs, snickering.

Mei and Keiko are also here; you retrieve your phone from your purse, texting them that you’ve arrived. They’re quick to respond, sending you their location so that you can meet with them. This seems like a great opportunity to introduce them to your new gal pals, so you, Emma, and Hina bid farewell to your partners.

Takashi smiles at you. “Have fun. I love you.”

You kiss him sweetly. “I love you, too.”

Draken points into his open mouth, faking a gag, while the two girls coo at how cute the two of you are. Your boyfriend gives you a wink, watching you leave with the girls.

It doesn’t take long to find your friends, who are waiting at the carnival games for you. They introduce themselves to Hina and Emma, hitting it off right away when they compliment each other on their yukatas. Together, you make your way to the food stalls, everyone craving something different. Hina and Emma decide to stand in one of the longest lines for fresh strawberry mochi, which the soon-to-be mother claims is what the baby craves. Mei and Keiko have a hankering for okonomiyaki while you are undecided, wanting to peruse your options. “I don’t know what I want yet, so I’m going to keep looking around,” you tell them.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” Keiko asks, concerned.

You nod. “Of course! I won’t be gone long. These two will probably be stuck here another half hour.”

“Maybe, but at least we’ll have delicious mochi in our bellies,” Emma teases, sticking her tongue out at you.

You laugh, waving goodbye to them, setting off to explore on your own. At the third booth, you find a menu item that catches your eye. While you read the description, you’re bumped by someone from the back. Startled, you glance at the stranger behind you, the gold glint on his wire-framed glasses glaring amidst the festival lanterns.

“Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all. It’s an unfamiliar voice, one you don’t recognize. Still, you have a sick feeling in your gut that something’s not right about this. In fact, something is terribly wrong.

Nervous, you focus on the menu in front of you, avoiding him. “It’s okay,” you mutter, not really meaning it.

He continues to stand there, encroaching on your personal space. You can feel his eyes bore into you, watching you intensely. “Hana Shimizu. It’s you.” It isn’t a question, he doesn’t need a confirmation. He knows exactly who you are, as if he’s been seeking you out. Takashi’s Toman crash course from a few weeks ago replays in your mind and it’s now that you realize the man currently stalking you is Tetta Kisaki. Your heart races, terror stuck in your throat. You don’t respond to him, praying with every fiber of your being that he goes away, leaves you alone, as long as you ignore him.

His body presses against you, his mouth stifling on your ear as he whispers, “It’s dangerous to be out alone like this. Isn’t your boyfriend aware of that?”

You’re frozen in fear, feet rooted to the ground, unable to move. Trembling, you ask, “What do you want?” You desperately search for the vendor behind the table, who’s too busy speaking to another customer to aid you in your panic.

“I just want to talk. In private.” He grabs your wrist, holding you firmly.

“I’ll scream,” you threaten him, with as much conviction as you can muster at this point.

He barks a harsh laugh. “Kinky. I can see why Mitsuya likes you so much.” His grip tightens, enough for you to start losing circulation. “But you won’t. Because if you do, Shuji will do exactly what he wants with those stupid friends of yours. He has his eye on sweet Keiko. He might try her out first.”

“No!” You face him, tears in your eyes, pleading with him. “Leave them alone. Please. I’ll…I’ll go with you as long as you don’t hurt them.”

His eyes narrow, the awful grin on his face widening. “Good girl.” Without taking his gaze off you, he reaches into his pocket for his phone, holding it to his ear. “I got her. Let’s go.”

You swallow thickly, resisting the urge to vomit as he leads you through the crowd of people who have no clue the danger you’re in.

~~~

The festival is huge, one of the biggest in the district. There are food vendors on either side of the fairgrounds and the boys happen to be on the opposite end where the girls are. Mitsuya stands between Draken and Takemitchy, all three of them munching on takoyaki they stood twenty minutes in line for. When Takemitchy spits one out because it’s scorching hot, they laugh at him, giving him some of theirs to replace it.

“So,” Draken muffles, mouth full of food, “did you and Hana finally fuck?”

Takemitchy nearly chokes on another octopus ball, outraged by his friend’s lack of tact. “Draken! You can’t just ask him that!”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Why not? They were obviously late. Might as well have a good reason for it.”

Mitsuya chuckles. “It’s okay. I’ve learned a long time ago to accept this dude’s crude behavior.”

“So, I’m right, aren’t I? You two…” This time, Draken makes a fist in one hand, then pokes into it with his finger, deciding this obscene gesture was more appropriate.

Mitsuya smiles to himself, remembering it fondly. “Yeah, we did.”

“That’s my fucking boy!” Draken beams at him proudly. “How was it?”

“Draken!”

The younger boy is ignored while Mitsuya muses, “Amazing. She’s amazing. I love her so much.”

Draken jokes, “Damn, Taka. At this rate, Ken Junior might have a friend to grow up with.”

“No, no. We were safe.” He stares down at his shoes, still smiling. “I mean, that wouldn’t be the worst thing. I’d love to have a family with her someday.”

Takemitchy gawks at him. “Mitsuya, you’re really serious about her!”

He nods. “I’m seriously in love with her, yeah.”

When they’re about finished with their food, Mitsuya’s phone vibrates in his pocket. “It’s Emma,” he announces, confused. He picks up, and without waiting for a greeting, she asks, “Is Hana with you?” She sounds distraught.

“No. Why?”

“Oh my god,” she gasps, inaudible as she hands the phone off to someone else.

It’s Hina now, shaky though a tad calmer than Emma. “We can’t find her. She’s not answering her phone.” She gulps loudly. “Mei and Keiko said that Hanma introduced himself to them at one of the booths. Gave them really weird vibes.”

At the mention of his name, Mitsuya’s heart sinks and panic immediately sets in. It’s his worst nightmare coming true. “Is Kisaki there?”

Keiko answers in the background, “Yes, he mentioned being here with his friend Kisaki. Mitsuya, what’s going on?”

Without thinking, he tosses the cell to Draken, who catches it, a concerned expression on his face. “Takashi, what’s wrong?”

“They took Hana!” he yells out, making a dash for the exit.

“Who did?” They trail right behind him, doing their best to keep up in their robes.

“Hanma and Kisaki!” he shouts, sprinting faster.

“Those motherfuckers,” Draken curses, putting the phone in his pocket. “Takemitchy, stay with the girls. Keep a lookout for Hana and for those assholes!”

“Got it,” Takemitchy responds, changing course to follow his new orders.

The Twin Dragons reach the parking lot, splitting up to hop on their own motorcycles. Draken rides his Zephyr next to Mitsuya, waiting to follow him wherever he goes. When he puts his helmet on, Mitsuya can hear his own blood pounding against his eardrums. His stomach turns with dread. How could he have let this happen?

Suddenly, Draken cuts the engine off, reaching into his back pocket to answer Mitsuya’s vibrating phone. He shows the screen to him, an unknown number displayed. He quickly grabs it from his friend’s grip, answering it without speaking, certain who it is.

“Hey there, Little Taka.”

He clenches his teeth at the sound of Kisaki’s voice. “Where is she?”

“You shouldn’t have left her alone. Shuji warned you someone would come along and take her.”

“Where is she?!” he yells, spit flying out of his mouth.

Mitsuya can practically hear the snide grid on Kisaki’s face when he sneers, “We didn’t take her far, don’t worry. Your friends will find her soon enough. I’m surprised they didn’t hear her screaming already – ”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Mitsuya seethes through ragged breaths. “I’ll fucking kill you and Hanma. Make you fucking regret what you did until you’re both rotting in fucking hell.”

The other man snorts, unvexed by the threat. “Consider this payback for not minding your own fucking business.” Before he hangs up, he mutters, “I guess I’ll see you in hell.”

Mitsuya’s hands shake violently, his entire body convulsing in a fit of rage. Just as he’s about to slam his phone into the pavement, it vibrates once more, Hina’s name flashing across the screen.

Her voice is quiet and solemn on the other line, fighting back a sob. “We found her.”

~~~

Mitsuya isn’t sure how long it takes them to reach Hana. Five minutes, thirty, an hour. Whatever it is, it’s too late; the damage is done and he has to see it with his own eyes. She’s sprawled on the ground, her yukata undone with the sleeves torn, her clothes underneath shredded and roughed up. There are scratches all along her arms, as if she was dragged across the pavement of the alleyway they currently gather in, outside the festival grounds. Her lip is split, cheek swollen, her right eye puffy and bruised. Blood trickles from her brow line down her face. He can’t bear to look at her, heart breaking each passing second as he holds her limp body in his arms, cradling her delicately. She’s unconscious, but breathing, and it’s the only solace he finds in this nightmare come true. He doesn’t realize that he’s screaming until Draken pulls his face into his chest to muffle his anguished cries, distracting him while the paramedics lay her out on a stretcher.

It's all a blur, his memory in fragments. Draken shoving him in the backseat of Hina’s car. Keiko and Emma consoling him while he sobs, “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault!” over and over again. Mei in the passenger seat, breaking the news to Hana’s parents, barely able to keep her composure. They make it to the hospital, Draken and Takemitchy following soon after on motorcycle. None of the girls can get Mitsuya out, so the two Toman brothers hoist him up by their shoulders and drag him inside the waiting room.

When her parents arrive, Mrs. Shimizu is in hysterics, immediately demanding the staff to lead her to her daughter. Mr. Shimizu marches directly to Mitsuya, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the wall, hard. “This is your fault, you son of a bitch! You let this happen!”

Mitsuya doesn’t try to defend himself because he’s right; this is his fault. “I’m sorry,” he stutters, unsure what else to say. “I’m so sorry.”

Draken attempts to separate them while Takemitchy pleads with Mr. Shimizu, “Please, sir! It’s not his fault!”

Ignoring them, he snarls, “She should have never given you a chance! You ruined her life, you good-for-nothing thug!” He loosens his grip, wrestling away from Draken’s hold. “Don’t ever come near my family again,” he threatens, following his wife past the double doors leading into the ER.

Mitsuya slides down the wall, tucking his head between his knees, bawling into his hands. He hasn’t stopped sinking into this darkness since she went missing, an abyss he didn’t even realized existed.

Draken kneels besides him. “Hey man, don’t listen to him. It’s not your fault.”

“No, he’s right,” he snivels. “I ruined her life.”

Takemitchy and Hina chime in with their own words of comfort, but nothing they say will make any of this better. Eventually, they leave him alone while they wait for any updates on Hana’s condition.

Only the sound of Mr. Shimizu’s voice brings Mitsuya back to reality. He glances up, noticing him talking to Mei and Keiko as they follow him out, presumably to take them home. Emma is asleep on Draken’s shoulder while Hina has her boyfriend’s head on her lap, massaging his temples.

Suddenly, Mrs. Shimizu pokes her head through the doors. her eyes catching Mitsuya’s, her expression serious. She nods, beckoning him. He gets up and follows her through the hallway of the ward in uneasy silence. Finally, she says, “Hana is still unconscious, but stable. I thought maybe you’d like to see her.”

He stares down at the linoleum tiles beneath his feet, his entire body moving in auto-pilot. Still, he manages to utter a quiet, “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t expect forgiveness from her, not right now, maybe not ever. He can’t even forgive himself.

She doesn’t respond to his apology. It’s quiet between them until she stops in front of an open door near the end of the hallway. “Five minutes,” she states sternly, looking directly at him. “You have five minutes to say what you want to say. After that, you leave. I don’t want you near our daughter ever again. Do you understand, Takashi?”

He nods, unable to look at her, biting back tears.

“Five minutes,” she reminds him, stepping to the side to let him through.

He forces his feet to move, slow languid steps into the dimly lit hospital room. Hana’s in a gown, the scratches on her arms covered in ointment and gauze, in the process of healing. Her head is bandaged up, stitches noticeable on her right eye socket, where she must have been punched. There’s an IV and heart rate monitor attached to her, beeping steadily. He studies the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, ashamed to feel relief at a moment like this. She’s stable. She’s alive.

Three minutes into his allotted time frame, he finds the will to speak. His throat is sore from screaming, his voice coming out in rasp. “You didn’t deserve this,” he starts, already sniffling. “This should have never happened to you. I’m so sorry, Hana.” He takes a step closer, carefully placing his hand on hers. “You have to forget about me. You have to find someone that will protect you the way I couldn’t.”

Flipping her palm face up, he tugs off his earring, dropping it into her hand, closing it into a fist. “I love you.” He brushes his thumb against her, relishing her soft skin one last time. “I’ll always love you.”

He leaves promptly, his gait quicker than it’s been all night, a fury ignited in him that can only be dealt in one way: revenge. As soon as he returns to the waiting room, he approaches Draken. “Give me the keys.”

He refuses. “You can’t go like this, man. It’s not safe – ”

“Give me the fucking keys, Draken!” he yells, startling the others.

Takemitchy tries to reason with him. “What do you think you’re going to do, Mitsuya? Kill them? Go to jail? Get yourself killed?”

“I don’t care what happens to me anymore. I’m going to make those two pay even if it does kill me.”

“You’re being crazy right now! Let’s wait until the morning to figure it out –”

“Please,” he begs, tone changing to one of desperation. “Just give me my keys.”

There’s a heavy pause. Finally, Draken sighs, reaching into his pocket and tossing them to him. “How are you going to find them?”

Mitsuya retrieves his phone. “They want to fight. All I have to do is tell them I’m ready for one.” He selects the unknown number at the top of his call list, typing out a simple message: Let’s settle this.

A minute later, he receives a response, a pin to a familiar location displayed without any additional message. Mitsuya scoffs, oddly amused at how easy it is. He knows the game Kisaki is trying to play.

“This is crazy!” Takemitchy exclaims. “You can’t go there by yourself!”

“He’s not,” Draken says. “I’m going with him.”

Emma tugs him by the wrist. “Ken, are you sure?”

He kisses her on the forehead. “Don’t worry, sweetie. The Twin Dragons are gonna rough them up, enough to scare them off. I’ll make sure Mitsuya doesn’t do anything reckless.”

“Fine, then I’m coming too!” Takemitchy puffs his chest out bravely.

Hina makes a noise in her throat, but Emma pats her back. “They’ll be fine, Hina. Toman boys always know how to handle business.”

~~~

The three of them head to the location, Mitsuya on his Impulse and Draken on his Zephyr with Takemitchy riding with him. They end up at the empty parking lot of his school, where they were just at yesterday for the graduation ceremony. He ignores the tragic irony behind this to focus his attention on the two men standing in the center of the lot under a lamplight. “This doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Hanma jeers, sauntering towards them with his hands in his pockets. “It’s three against two. We’re outnumbered.”

“You didn’t care about that when you attacked Hana,” Draken counters, scowling at them, clenching his fists.

“Fair enough,” he shrugs, revealing a pocketknife, casually tossing it in the air to catch by the handle. “Oh well, we’re still going to kill all of you.” Hanma pounces first, throwing a dangerous jab at Draken, who dodges it smoothly, the blade barely grazing him. He launches a kick, sweeping his opponent by the ankle, knocking him to the ground.

Mitsuya homes in on Kisaki, running at him in a full sprint, wrestling him into the pavement. He’s stronger than him, especially on an adrenaline high like this. The mere thought of Hana covered in injuries sends him into a fury, his fists sinking into Kisaki’s face easily. What’s strange is that the other man doesn’t seem to want to fight back, taking each blow with a bloody smile.

He wraps his hands around Kisaki’s throat, squeezing tight. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouts, disturbed by the persistent look of satisfaction on his face.

With a few teeth missing now, he smirks, voice barely a whisper as he chokes. “I told you, didn’t I? Told you I’d see you in hell.”

It’s too late to realize that Takemitchy is yelling his name, keeled over with blood leaking from his mouth. Too late to notice Draken is sprawled on the ground, a gash in his stomach that’s pooling crimson all over his yukata. As soon as Kisaki utters those words, Mitsuya is lifted back up to his feet, grabbed from behind.

Hanma’s breath is hot on his ear, the blade cold against his throat. It’s cutting into his skin already; any slight movement and he’s dead. “She put up a pretty good fight, you know,” Hanma whispers into his ear. “Kicking and screaming the whole time. I had to drag her all the way into that alley before I could shut her up.” Then, he laughs, depraved and sinister, lacking any of joy or mirth. "Bet she’s just as feisty when you fuck her. If I had more time, I would have found out for myself.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Mitsuya seethes through gritted teeth, every breath he takes making the knife dig deeper into his neck.

Hanma’s cackle suddenly stops, his grip loosening on the weapon, causing it to fall to the ground. Mitsuya turns around to find Draken holding a knife, the blade stuck in Hanma’s back.

“What the fuck…” Hanma stammers, blood sputtering out of his mouth, collapsing on top of Mitsuya, who catches him. Draken stumbles, his wound worsening by the second. Police sirens are blaring in the distance, and it’s only now that Mitsuya realizes that Kisaki is gone, driving away from the scene of the crime on his bike.

Hanma continues to cough up blood, dying in Mitsuya’s arms. Takemitchy is beaten, but not as badly as Draken, whose injury could be fatal if not treated soon. In this split second that Mitsuya makes a decision, fond memories from his life play in his head like a movie in fast-forward. Luna’s first steps and Mana’s first words. His mom’s homemade cake for his seventh birthday. The day he reunited with Draken, finding out they both had dragons tattooed on their heads. The summer they found Toman with Mikey and the rest of his friends. The night he confessed to Hana and every day he’s had with her until tonight, when he had to say goodbye. I’ve had a good life, he thinks to himself. It’s a short one, but in the end, he’s lucky to have experienced it in the first place. Now, it’s time for him to return the favor to all the people who’s gotten him this far.

“Takemitchy,” he calls out, removing his yukata and throwing it to his friend. “Take Draken’s bike and get him to a hospital. Wrap this around his wound so he doesn’t lose any more blood.”

He nods, obeying his orders and draping Draken’s arm over his shoulders, hobbling with him to the motorcycles. “Okay, we’ll see you there.”

Mitsuya shakes his head. “I’m not going.”

“What?”

The police sirens grow louder. “They’re going to wonder who did this. We can’t let them know it was Draken.”

“It was self-defense though!” Takemitchy argues.

“It doesn’t matter. They won’t let him off the hook for that. So, I’m going to take the fall for it. Watch after Luna, Mana, and Mom for me. And Hana. Please.”

Draken lifts his head slowly, clutching the robe against him, groaning in pain. “Fuck that. Come on, Takashi. Let’s go.”

“You’re going to be a great dad, Draken. And you’re going to do great things, Takemitchy. I’m sure of it.”

“We’re not leaving you behind!”

In the distance, Mitsuya can see the flashing lights and they’re out of time. “Get out of here, now! Emma and Hina need you! Please!”

At the mention of their names, Takemitchy and Draken stiffen, not arguing any further.

“Get out of here!” he repeats, desperately pleading with them.

Takemitchy rubs the tears away from his eyes, hauling Draken with him, who tries to protest, but is too weak. Mitsuya watches them leave on the Zephyr with a satisfied smile on his face, the sirens ringing loudly in his ears, finally at peace.

#cw blood #cw violence #cw sa implied #tokyo revengers #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #tokyo rev smut #mitsuya takashi #takashi mitsuya #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya smut #mitsuya fluff #mitsuya x you #takashi mitsuya x reader #takashi mitsuya smut #mitsuya x oc #mitsuya x original character #lavender & velvet series

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ugh-yoongi · 2 years

Text

you suck! | ksj

(or, the one where everything goes very wrong but a lot more goes very right.)

→ pairing: vampire!seokjin x f. reader → genre: supernatural; strangers to lovers; roommates; crack, fluff → rating: explicit. minors dni. → warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex work, taekook are also chaotic vampires, a lot of twilight references for someone who has never seen or read it, completely made up and non-canonical vampire lore, a teeny-tiny bit of angst, jin’s forehead has powers or something, jin takes dick pics on a polaroid (canon), one very purposely awkward smut scene that includes: slight praise kink, unprotected sex, oral, kissing. overall this is very soft and they are just two idiots very in love, your honor. → wordcount: 18.3k → a/n: i started this almost exactly a year ago after buying this print from @yelhsaart and becoming completely obsessed with it. i just wanted to write jin as a goofy, idiot (affectionate) vampire. as i said in the warnings, the vampire lore is completely made up here. some of it is canon, some of it is inspired by the wayhaven chronicles, some of it is just plot device. don’t take it too seriously. → thank yous: lauren, for once again being my beta and telling me when my brain writes sentences that don’t make sense. jess, for being born today — happy birthday, this is my lame and completely self-serving gift to you. bee, for always encouraging my chaos.

You were fifteen the first time you were mistaken for someone else.

It’d been a guy in the grocery store, a bag of lemons in his hand and a confused expression on his face. He’d tapped you on the shoulder, started talking at you like the two of you were well-acquainted before you’d even turned around, and he’d seemed startled when he realized you weren’t who he was expecting you to be.

Sorry, he’d said. You looked just like my daughter from behind.

The second time had been during college: a girl had caught up to you in the quad. Had been calling out a name that certainly wasn’t yours and had grabbed your elbow when you hadn’t responded to it. She’d looked horrified when you weren’t who she’d been looking for, either, and stuttered out an apology as she let you go.

Oh my god, I’m so sorry, you just—you looked just like my friend.

You’d looked like the granddaughter of the elderly man who lived in your mom’s neighborhood. You’d looked like the mother of a kid who’d gotten lost at the mall. Even your friends got mixed up sometimes during nights out—approached strangers they thought were you at the bar, danced with them in nightclubs, drunkenly clung to them at parties.

Your mother had told you once that you just had one of those faces—a top ten anime betrayal coming from her, considering she’d been responsible for half your genetic makeup. Sure, you’re pretty, but it’s always been a common beauty; soft, delicate features where others might have more striking ones. And it’s… fine. Maybe you’d gone through bouts of insecurity every time the world deemed some new feature desirable and you didn’t have it, but you’d always been able to move on.

Except now.

Because now—now you’re wondering if having one of those faces is how you find yourself in this situation.

In a dark alley in between the club and a 24-hour convenience store as a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, very sharp teeth tries—and fails—to sink them into your neck.

He coughs awkwardly, pulls back as he tightens his grip on your waist. Your back is pressed to his chest, so it’s not like you can see his face, but you think if you could there’d be a very perplexed look on it. “Well, this is awkward, huh?”

You blink. “Yeah.”

“Hm. Do… do you think they were pranking me?” he asks, and despite the situation in which you’ve found yourself, you find a sliver of comfort in the overfamiliarity in his tone. As if the two of you are old friends who talk all the time and there’s absolutely nothing weird about this. “Because I’ve gotta say, I’ve done this a lot and this is a first for me.”

There’s no reason whatsoever for the way your belly flips at his statement. He’s a vampire, for fuck’s sake. Of course he’s bitten a lot of people. But it still wounds your ego that you’re just another proverbial notch in this guy’s neckpost. “P-Pranking you? Who would do that?”

The man scoffs and you can feel the vibrations against your skin. “You clearly haven’t met my clan. We got these two new guys, right? And they’re nice, you know? I like them a lot. As much as I can like someone, I guess. But fuck they’re annoying. Really young. Like to fuck around, especially with me since I’m so much older, and I should’ve known this is something they’d do—”

This has to be a dream, you think. There’s no way this is real. You’d stumbled into the alley to find your friend who’d gone for a smoke and never returned, and now you’re here. There’s a vampire at your back, talking your ear off about fuck knows what after having unsuccessfully tried to bite you, and he’s still pawing at your waist with his superhuman strength. And it hurts but you’re too nervous to bring it up, because what if you do and he remembers he’s supposed to be killing you, and that’s it? You’ll be a goner all because you had a brief, fleeting moment of stupidity, like the kid back in high school that always asked the teacher if they were going to collect the homework after they’d forgotten. Everyone hated that kid, and you’ve learned nothing.

You swallow. “I-I don’t think they pr-pranked you,” you stutter out. “I, uh… I just have one of those faces? Maybe you just thought I was someone else?”

“Someone else?” he repeats, and his grip finally loosens. He doesn’t let you go, because this is how you’re destined to die, but his hands move to your shoulders to turn you around.

Because your brain is the ultimate betrayer, your first thought is holy fucking shit. Your second thought questions the word selection in your first thought, because this very beautiful man in front of you is a vampire and would probably hiss and go up in smoke if you said the word ‘holy’ in front of him. And your third thought is, well—it’s not an appropriate thought to be thinking about a man who’d just tried to bite you and drink you dry, to say the least.

“You seem weirdly okay with me being a vampire.”

See, here’s the thing: you’re not going to pretend you know the ins and outs of vampire culture or whatever, but you’ve always known they exist. Not even an open secret or anything. Not a secret at all. That’s just the world you were born into. So, really, there’s no excuse for your reply to be, “It’s fine, I’ve seen Twilight.”

Because here’s the second thing: yes, you’ve always known vampires exist, but they’re still something to be feared. Still an apex predator stalking the shadowed parts of the city once the sun goes down. Long ago, the human world made accommodations for them so the two of you could coexist, but they were put in place for the same reason they started putting seatbelts in cars: no guarantee they’ll save your life, but it’s the best chance you’ve got at staying alive.

“Wow,” the vampire deadpans. “Okay. Let me tell you all the problems I have with that movie—”

You’re shaking like a leaf as you blurt out, “I guess I’m just in shock that I’m still alive so I’m saying stupid stuff,” and it comes out all breathy.

He stops rambling then. Snaps his jaw closed and looks down at you with what you’d call concern if he was human and hadn’t just tried to kill you. “Oh shit,” he says. Then he’s shucking off his thick coat and wrapping it around your shoulders, and if you hadn’t been in a daze before, you sure are now. “Here, take this. Wow, I have no manners. My mother would be so pissed if she heard about this. Please don’t tell her, she’ll stake me.” All you can do is nod; it’s not like you know his mother. Maybe she’s nice.

The coat just… feels like a coat. There’s no residual body heat lingering in the wool, which makes sense, but you’re thankful for the extra layer all the same. You’d told your friends going to a club in early January was stupid, but you’d only been thinking in terms of hypothermia or the common cold or looking like an idiot for being the person who orders a cup of hot tea at the bar. Small picture stuff. Encountering a vampire hadn’t even made your list of concerns, which is probably why the universe chose you to star in this moment out of everyone else on the planet.

(The universe does love a good bit of irony.)

Then, as if you hadn’t already made yourself look like a fool, the vampire’s eyebrows knit together as he says, “Also, whoa, hey, I wasn’t—I wasn’t gonna kill you.” He’s looking at you with such concern that it just makes you feel stupid. A vampire pities you.

Maybe it’s adrenaline or maybe you’ve just had a very, very fucked up night, but your cheeks are burning before you know it and fat, hot tears are rolling down your face. The vampire really looks concerned now, which just makes everything worse. “I’m s-sorry,” you manage to blubber out. “You—you probably d-don’t have to deal with ma-many crying girls, huh.”

“Um,” comes his brilliant response. “Well, no.” He scratches the back of his neck, and it’s the first time since he’d grabbed you earlier that you’re without both of his hands on you. They hadn’t been warm, but you find yourself missing the weight regardless. “I mean, like—sometimes people look like they… want to? I can sense they’re scared of me, but usually I… you know… before they start doing… um, this.”

Great. Not only had you been unkillable, you’re also the first victim to have a mental break in front of him. As if this night couldn’t get any worse. Now you’re upset and embarrassed. “I can’t believe you eat people for a living and I wasn’t even good enough to get murdered,” you wail.

Had you been looking, you would’ve seen the look of absolute panic that flickers across the vampire’s face. He looks absolutely frazzled in a way that would’ve made you laugh. Maybe it would've made you feel just the tiniest bit better, because this is uncharted territory for both of you. If you feel lost at encountering your first vampire—whose coat you’re still wrapped in, nonetheless—that anxiety is amplified tenfold for the man in front of you. Imagine his shock when he’d tried to bite you and quickly discovered you had the Fort Knox of necks.

“Hey now,” he says, doing his best to shush you. He already knows he’s in for a reaming for outing himself to a human; the last thing he needs is to be caught by anyone else. “Anyone would be lucky to murder you. You’re totally good enough! Don’t say things like that about yourself.”

It takes a few seconds, but he seems to register his words at the same time you wail harder. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. Oh wow, I’m so bad at this. I just—I meant you’re… you know.” A grimace mars his otherwise beautiful face, a silent prayer for you to somehow just know what he’d meant because there’s no way he’s going to be able to explain it. “Also, hey, what the fuck! Let’s rewind to what you said for a second. I don’t eat people, first of all, and I certainly don’t eat them for a living.”

All you can do is blink up at him. “Oh.”

The vampire scoffs, and you think there’d be a blush creeping up his neck if he was able to do such a thing. “Eat people for a living,” he repeats. “Like I’m some competitive eater. Of people.”

“Okay,” you murmur, and it’s a struggle to even get out such a simple word. “Can, um—if you’re not going to kill me, can I—can I… go?”

“Oh,” the vampire deadpans, looking down at you before his eyes move to his large hands, still gripping your shoulders. “Whoops. Technically I’m not supposed to let you go—job and life insurance, I’m sure you understand—but since you’re not biteable, I don’t see why not.”

A small glimmer of hope parts the proverbial clouds above your head. Sends your adrenaline spiking, and you’re still trembling but the thought of being able to see your cat again dampens it just enough. Truth be told, you’ve always known Xander was a bit of a problem child. Definitely not a cat anyone would willingly take ownership of in the unfortunate event of your premature death. So, yeah—the thought of Xander nibbling on your toes as you sleep in your own bed in your own apartment is a really comforting thought after thinking you were going to be murdered by a vampire in a sketchy alley in the not-great part of the city.

Once the vampire’s grip on you loosens, you shrug out of his coat and hand it over. “Thanks. Let’s do this again sometime, hm?”

You feel yourself blanch. “Um—”

“Geez, I’m joking!” he assures you. Is it weird to find a vampire’s laugh endearing? Because you do, and you question all of your life choices in the span of six seconds. “Wow, you’re really uptight, huh?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t tried to bite me,” you quip, face beginning to flush with anger. He just laughs harder.

“Okay, that’s fair.”

“Not to mention,” you continue, a manicured finger jabbing into his chest, “you totally ruined my night. My friends dragged me out to celebrate me, you know? I finally got that promotion at work that should’ve been mine years ago, but my shitty boss gave it to Steve! Fucking Steve. But I finally got it, so my friends were like, ‘Oh my god, let’s go out to celebrate! We’ll buy all your drinks!’ Which—do you know how fucking cheap my friends are? They never pay for drinks! I was drinking on an unlimited tab, and you ruined it, you fucking dickhead! And I’m gonna have to go back to therapy!”

The vampire just looks amused, now. Cocks his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side with a bemused little smirk that drives you crazy in the bad way. “Ah, I should’ve known. You did taste an awful lot like a soulless office worker.”

You scoff. “And how would you know? You couldn’t even bite me.”

His eyes narrow, a sliver of a glare that might be intimidating had you not heard his squeaky laugh. “I did enough to get the idea.” You roll your eyes. “The gist. A waft. A—”

“Aren’t you leaving? Don’t you have some other innocent person to chew on?”

“Chew—wow. And to think I was going to offer to walk you home!”

Involuntarily, your jaw drops. “And what makes you think I would’ve accepted? That’s easily the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“You think I’m the only vampire hanging arou—”

“Lurking,” you interject. “Skulking. Creepily hiding in a bush. Not hanging around.”

The vampire blinks once, twice. Takes a steadying breath and says, “I should’ve eaten you.”

You shrug. “But you can’t, so.” Then your two brain cells connect. “Wait, does that mean all vampires can’t bite me? Am I immune? Is this my superhero origin story?”

“It’s giving me a fucking migraine, is what it is.”

You huff. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Because I don’t know the answer.”

“Oh, you weren’t granted infinite wisdom in your old age?”

“Who are you calling old?” he snaps. “I’m the third-youngest in my clan, I’m not old.”

“Are you older than one hundred?” He nods. “Two hundred?” He nods again. “Then you’re fucking old. That’s, like, more than double my lifespan.”

He rolls his eyes. “How old are you, then?”

“Twenty-seven.” His eyes widen a bit, like he’s prompting you to continue. “What? I’m twenty-seven.”

It’s a weird thing, watching the color drain from a vampire’s face. Not that you’ve ever been an expert, but you had seen both Twilight and Interview with the Vampire so you’d assumed they’d all be pale. Devoid of warmth all over. Cold hands, pallid skin, no heartbeat. So it freaks you out to watch the vampire in front of you go white as a ghost.

“Oh my god,” he moans, panic overtaking his features. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god—”

“You can say that?”

“Holy fucking shit,” he chants instead, eyes darting around the alley like he’s hoping a bush will materialize so he can dry-heave into it. “Oh my god, I cannot believe—oh shit, oh fuck, oh no—”

You click your tongue, heeled boots stomping on the asphalt. “What is your problem? You look like you’re about to croak over and die.”

He turns to you, then, eyes as big as the moon. There’s a grimace on his face you’d only seen that one time you’d tricked your cousin’s kid into sucking on a lemon. “You’re my problem! I almost ate a literal infant!”

“Excuse me—”

“Twenty-seven? Are you joking? Do you want me to go to prison?”

“For trying to murder me? Yeah, it’d be a good fucking start!”

The vampire pulls at his hair, clearly exasperated. “For the last time—I was not going to kill you!”

“Oh, right, you were just going to nibble on me a bit! The human can have a little exsanguination, as a treat.”

“Is that what the kids call a may-may? Because I don’t understand that reference.”

You make a gagging sound. “What the fuck? You mean a meme?”

“Sure, whatever. Anyway—”

“Right. Doesn’t matter. I’m taking an Uber home, anyway. I live too far to walk.”

Awkwardly, the vampire clears his throat. “I should walk you.” As you move to protest, he sends you an apologetic smile. “I’m not the, uh—the only one who’d want to eat you.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you really trying to tell me my Uber driver’s gonna be a vampire?”

“It’s not an uncommon side hustle,” he retorts, offense painted across his features.

You pause, head tilted to the side as you try to determine if he’s messing with you. “Are you messing with me?”

“No…?”

“Really?” you deadpan. “You really expect me to believe there are vampires out there moonlighting as Uber drivers?”

He scoffs. “Well, we certainly can’t daylight as them, now can we?”

And that’s the story of how a vampire walks you back to your apartment.

It’s cold and it’s a long walk, takes the better part of an hour and that’s with a few shortcuts sprinkled in. Your companion talks the entire way, never shuts up even for a second, and you wonder if all vampires are as talkative as him or if you’d just run into one who’s kind of annoying but chivalrous and charming, somehow. He lends you his coat again and pops into the convenience store to buy you gloves and a cup of coffee. You jokingly ask if he bought them with money from his part-time rideshare gig and you learn he has a contagious laugh.

You also learn his name is Seokjin.

By the time you reach your door, you also-also learn you’re far more endeared to him than you should be.

“I’m not sure what the protocol is for this,” Seokjin says, scratching at the back of his neck. There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he peers down at you, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. “I’ve never done the walk of shame back to my own clan.”

You snort. “I can do your makeup and let you borrow a dress and some heels if you want the full experience.”

There’s a riposte on the tip of his tongue that rapidly melts away, his eyes softening as his mouth opens and snaps shut a few times. “Most people wouldn’t say it like that,” he says, voice quiet like he’s telling you a secret.

“Like what?”

“Full experience,” he quotes back to you. “Most of them would probably say human experience.”

“Ah.” You smile, moving to wipe nonexistent dirt from the lapel of his coat. It’s obscene, the way it stretches across his broad shoulders. “Trust me, you don’t want the human experience. It’s all student loan debt and unrealistic beauty standards and oh my god I have to figure out what to cook and eat for dinner literally every single night until I die and doing math to figure out if the nineteen streaming services you’ve signed up for are actually cheaper than just getting cable.”

“Sounds terrible,” he jokes. But you can see it, the sadness that lies dormant in him. Not that it’s much of a shock. Whatever kind of life he lived before this is most likely centuries in the past, long gone but not entirely forgotten.

So it’s purely out of empathy and the depressing look on Seokjin’s face that you say, “Hey, wanna come in and meet Xander?”

He startles, back suddenly ramrod straight. “Xander?”

“My cat. He’s a bit of a hellspawn but you two seem like you’d get along, for obvious reasons.”

“Are you calling me a hellspawn?” he teases, eyebrow quirked.

You shrug. “I’m not-not calling you one.”

There’s his squeaky laugh again. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not sure you know exactly what you’re offering, so I’m going to do the responsible thing and decline.”

“Why, are you on some kind of housecat-only diet or something?”

He laughs again, harder this time, and you find yourself wishing you were funnier just so you can hear it all the time. Laughter looks good on him. “No. A lot of vampire lore is bullshit, but the one about needing to be invited into someone’s home is true.”

“Oh.” You think on it for approximately four seconds. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like you can eat me, right?” Still, Seokjin shrugs, almost looking sheepish. “Okay,” you say, hands raised in defense. “I won’t force you. I’m a big believer in consent and respecting boundaries. But you’re always welcome to come by if you’re feeling lonely. You know where I live now.”

It takes a minute for your words to sink in. Seokjin’s face, which had been flushed from both the cold wind and his incessant laughter, seems to soften at your offer. Then, it’s in a hoarse, croaking voice that he asks, “Why?”

And all you can think to say is, “I don’t know, you just look like you need a friend.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

You never should’ve seen Seokjin again.

The memory of him should’ve been lodged into an unused crevice of your mind—some dusty, cobweb-covered wrinkle that also housed lyrics to one-hit wonders from the ‘90s and the formulas for trigonometric ratios. Sine, cosine, and tangents may have been lost to the recesses of your mind forever, but Seokjin hadn’t.

Which is why you’re shocked when he shows up at your doorstep a mere two weeks after the night he’d tried to bite you.

“Seokjin?” you stupidly ask. Of course it’s him. You’ve made a lot of questionable choices in your life, but meeting and somehow befriending multiple vampires isn’t one.

He looks different, though. His once-dark hair is now a pale shade of pink, longer than it had been the last time you’d seen him, secured loosely to the crown of his head. Stray strands frame his face—a face that you wouldn’t admit to being handsome, even under duress and especially now—and it’s scattered with tiny cuts and dried blood, a purple bruise beneath his right eye, streaks of dirt down his cheeks.

To put it mildly, he looks like shit.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

Seokjin’s frazzled. Can’t seem to concentrate on anything. “Can I come in?” he asks, and even his voice sounds rough.

Judging from the last time you’d invited him into your apartment, you know he wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. You know the weight those words carry. “Yeah,” you answer instantly, opening your door wider. “Yeah, of course. Come in.”

You steer him toward the couch, depositing him there as you fetch a blanket and wrap it around those god-forsaken shoulders of his. This is normally the part where you’d offer to make him something—coffee, a cup of tea, something bitter and alcoholic—but you’re not sure what he drinks other than blood. Which is not a thing you have outside of your body.

It all makes you feel really helpless. You barely know Seokjin. Probably shouldn’t have entrusted him with irrevocable access to your apartment. Definitely shouldn’t have done that, in retrospect, but he’d just looked so dejected. What were you supposed to have done? Those sad eyes of his had thrown a lasso over your head and roped you in before you could even think about it.

And now here you are.

Nine-o’clock on a Saturday night. Previously alone in your apartment, because one near-death experience was enough to put you off clubbing for a while. A knock on your door. A mysterious man on the other side. He has sharp teeth. Once tried to use you as a chew toy. Grass is green, water is wet.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask, unsure of what to do with your hands. You’re tactile. Always have been. The hugger of your friend group, so you want to reach out for him, comfort him somehow, but you’re not sure if you should. If he’d want that.

Seokjin heaves a deep sigh, finally looking up at you. Exhaustion is all you can see. “Maybe just some water.”

You nod. You can do water, had even gotten one of those fancy pitchers with a filter as a housewarming gift to yourself. You even manage to change it regularly and on time, a water-based ‘fuck you’ in the face of adulting and everyone who says it’s difficult.

(It is very difficult.)

But hey, you’re managing to save both the environment and downtrodden vampires alike, so you deserve to feel that tiny sliver of pride.

Water acquired, you offer it to Seokjin who accepts it with trembling hands. “Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, because you can’t really say you’re saving a downtrodden vampire if you don’t even know why he’s slumped against your couch.

“Not really,” he grumbles.

With a sigh, you plop onto the couch next to him, hands once again itching to reach out and comfort him in some way. “Can I touch you?” you ask, and once he nods, you maneuver him so he’s laying on his side with his head in your lap, fingers immediately busying themselves in his blush-colored locks. “Is this okay?” Seokjin nods again.

That’s how the two of you remain until you can feel the tension slowly melt away. Could be minutes, could be hours. You’re not sure. All you know is someone had shown up at your doorstep asking for help and that sometimes it’s nice to run your fingers through someone else’s hair. Gently untangle someone else’s knots. Scratch lightly at someone else’s scalp.

You try not to think much of it beyond that. You don’t think about Seokjin being a vampire. Don’t think about the fact you barely know him. Definitely don’t think about the fact he’d tried to bite you. It all seems a bit inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, species be damned.

Finally, long after you think Seokjin’s fallen asleep, he asks, in a faint voice you’ve only heard from him once, “What do you usually do?”

You hum. Wonder if Seokjin can feel it. “What do you mean? Like, when I’m sad?” He nods, a quiet yeah. “Mm. Depends on why I’m sad, I guess. Usually a long shower and a glass of wine if it’s just a bad day. Trashy reality TV and ice cream if it’s more serious.”

This seems to pique his interest. “What are those?” he asks, sitting up so he can stare at you with wide, curious eyes. The water sloshes in the glass.

“Huh?”

“Those things you said.”

“Trashy reality television and ice cream?” Seokjin nods, more strands of hair falling from the topknot. “You’ve never watched reality TV?”

“Don’t watch TV at all.”

“What.”

He scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “I’m busy, okay? I don’t have time for things like that.”

“Aren’t you immortal?” you quip. “You have, like, unlimited time.”

Seokjin levels you with a look—one that clearly says what the hell do you know about being immortal and also time management? You ignore it. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a very addictive personality. I can’t get sucked into television. I’ll never stop watching it.”

“That’s fair,” you acknowledge. “You’re so far behind it’d be, like, impossible to catch up, anyway.”

His gaze narrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the first television broadcast aired in 1928. That’s almost a century’s worth of stuff to catch up on.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, but surely not all of it is worth watching,” Seokjin replies, eyebrows disappearing beneath his hair. You confirm his words with a noncommittal hum. “What’s your favorite?”

“Season five of Love Island UK.”

“That’s it? Only one show?”

You scoff. “There’s no only about it. It’s got everything you could ever want in trashy reality television, okay? Especially after Casa Amor—”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You pause. As much as you’d love to go on a tirade about Anna and Jordan—and, really, you’ve been waiting for this, having been limited to barely legible tweets that went ignored since your friends refuse to watch it—Seokjin’s right. He has no idea what any of this means. “Oh. Well, you can start with something easier. You don’t want to peak too early, you know? All TV post-Love Island will just be a letdown.”

“Of course,” Seokjin agrees easily, “we wouldn’t want that.”

“It’d be very tragic,” you tack on. Seokjin just nods.

Although he seems a bit more comfortable, he’s still obviously restless. Crooked fingers have been picking at the pilling of his sweater since he sat down. There’s a small pile of it on the floor, right at his feet, that he’s oblivious to. Not that you’re going to mention it, either, but the last thing you need is for Xander to eat it and hack up some disgusting combination of hairball and sweater fuzz, so when Seokjin isn’t looking you subtly push it under the couch with your foot.

Knowing this is a situation that requires precise delicacy, you clear your throat and angle your body in a way that conveys optimal comfort for the recipient, and say, “Not that I mind sharing my streaming passwords with you, but do you mind if I ask why you’re here?”

Seokjin sucks in a breath that he aborts halfway. Holds it for a few seconds before he exhales heavily, the weight of the world almost visible on his shoulders. As a soulless office worker, as Seokjin had once kindly called you, you’ve seen your fair share of exhaustion—coworkers slumped over at their desks during overtime, those still fighting hangovers on Monday mornings at the coffee machine, the last day in the office before a holiday break—but Seokjin looks… different. It’s a different kind of exhaustion, you think; one bone-deep instead of artificial. Not the kind of exhaustion that can be fixed with a nap or a weekend spent recuperating in bed.

“I… I’m not really sure why I came here,” he begins, tone soft and careful. “Everything happened pretty fast and all I could think of was the last time I was here and you told me I was welcome to come by anytime.” He looks up at you, then, like he’s waiting on confirmation. You nod. “Word travels pretty fast in circles like mine. Mostly for survival. Like, if there’s some kind of threat and we need to leave quickly, we set up ways to inform everyone as quickly as possible a long time ago. But—but things are different now. Faster. Smartphones and the internet and all that.”

“Did… did someone, y’know… see us?”

Seokjin sighs. A fractured, broken thing. “Yeah,” he croaks. “It’s not uncommon. It happens sometimes. I’m not the first one to ever do it—”

“Bite someone with an impenetrable neck?”

You smile when the corners of his lips tug upwards despite himself. “Sure, if you want to put it that way. Like I said, it’s not uncommon, but it’s… a big deal, I guess. Clans are really sensitive to the treaties put in place. Biting a human is a no-no since they established the blood banks, but biting someone, failing, and letting them go?” His words trail off, gaze locked blankly on something in the distance. “That’s unacceptable.”

You swallow, trying not to let the guilt seep in. “So, what’s that mean, then? Unacceptable?”

“It means you’re a liability.” He starts picking at his sweater again. Starts humming a song to himself that you don’t recognize but know will stick in those scarcely-used corners of your mind. A haunting kind of melody; something that pines, something that hurts. “Clans can’t risk a liability.”

“They… kicked you out?” Seokjin nods. “What does that mean?” you ask again.

Not that you know Seokjin very well, or at all, but you’re smart enough to notice patterns. You’ve noticed the way he fidgets when he’s anxious. That he’s more amenable to skinship then, too; doesn’t mind you touching him. You notice the way he blinks differently when he seems unsure of what to say or how to say it, which seems out of character for him in the first place. You’ve noticed the anguish on his face since you opened the door, so you expect more of that when he answers your question.

What you don’t expect is his clenched jaw. The crease between his eyebrows. How he seems to chew on the inside of his cheek before he steels himself and says, “It’s a death sentence.”

Because, as he informs you, a vampire is very unlikely to survive on their own. They need a clan. Need its resources and its protection. Out in the world, alone, there’s no guarantee of survival; of food and safety and camaraderie. A rogue vampire, Seokjin tells you, is a living, breathing target, and everyone knows it.

“When did they kick you out?”

Seokjin shrugs. Picks at the skin around his fingernails. “Not long after I left your place. A few hours at most. Told me as soon as I returned that they’d have to vote on it but not to get my hopes up.”

“Wow. That’s fucked.”

“That’s just how it is. Always been that way.”

You scoff. Scrunch your face up in a way that’s surely ugly but gets your point across. “So? Doesn’t mean it’s not fucked.”

He snorts a laugh and raises his eyebrows, studying you. “Are you gonna be the one to go up against centuries of vampire politics?”

“Who knows what I might do to defend your honor,” you joke. That squeaky laugh of his makes a welcomed reappearance when you throw an exaggerated wink at him.

Much to Seokjin’s relief, step one of Cohabitating With a Vampire is not going up against centuries of vampiric politics. Instead, you follow through on your promise and give him the passwords to all your streaming services.

(“There’s, like, twenty of them. I’ll never remember all this.”

“Then write it down. Didn’t I tell you part of the human experience is doing math to figure out if all this bullshit is cheaper than cable?”

“I don’t have to be human to tell you it’s definitely not.”)

Step two is getting him one of those cheap prepaid cell phone plans from the convenience store. Nothing fancy, because Seokjin has enough problems with technology, just something that allows him to make calls and text you throughout the day when he needs an outlet for all his feelings about Avatar: The Last Airbender. He finishes all three seasons in just over a day, so there are a lot of texts to send.

Things continue like that for a while. Seokjin is surprisingly easy to live with, which might not be saying much. You’d lived with a few people in university that probably skewed your views on what does and does not make a good roommate, but Seokjin is polite and respectful of your space, which is really all you can ask for. Not that he makes much of a mess, but he always cleans up after himself when he does, and he always tells you if he’s going to be out late. He has a key, so it’s just to ease your worries.

Because he doesn’t… talk. About the whole excommunication thing. Hasn’t said another word about it since he broached the topic a few weeks ago. You’re not an idiot, though. You can tell it weighs on him heavily, can tell he seems to second guess leaving your apartment each time he lingers by the door. But then he sighs, pulls his lips into a tight smile, says gotta eat sometime, and off he goes.

Hence why you’d recommended he start with bingeing cartoons.

Which, so far, has worked out well. You respond to Seokjin’s mistyped texts with the appropriate amount of interest and the occasional meme and you don’t push when his thoughts become less joke-y and more introspective. He asks your thoughts about the concept of found family, if you think people (and by people he means Prince Zuko) are capable of redemption or if sometimes someone can truly be too far gone.

Asking for a friend? you ask.

Something like that, Seokjin writes back.

Things are fine. Good, even, despite the fact that Seokjin is still very much a stranger and how abruptly you’d had to adjust to someone else being in your space. Which brings you to—

“How long would you like to stay?”

Seokjin’s head snaps up, eyes wide like you’ve just caught him doing something he shouldn’t. “Oh. I, uh—I haven’t really thought about it.”

You hum in acknowledgment and turn your attention back to the stove. Human food makes Seokjin sick, so you only cook for yourself, but he’s taken to keeping you company in the kitchen each time you make dinner. Asks you about work, about what you’re making and how you make it; asks you where things go as he tidies up behind you.

Now, he stays firmly planted on the other side of the kitchen island, using it as a barrier. “I—I can… go? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“That’s not what I said.” You turn off the burner and reach for a plate. “I would’ve asked when you’re leaving if I was trying to get rid of you.”

“Oh.”

Xander wanders in and wraps himself around your legs. “You have to give me more credit, Seokjin. I’m very assertive. My sister says it’s because I’m an Aries.” You scold Xander when he tries to jump on the counter, claws scraping on the cabinets as he scurries off. “So please believe me when I say if I wanted you out of my space I would just say that. I have no qualms about it. Fuck, he actually fucked up the cabinets, the little shit.”

“Okay. Okay, uh—I guess I’ll—”

You turn to Seokjin, face exasperated. “You literally tried to bite me and low-key murder me. What happened to that guy? You were so cocky.”

“Ugh—”

“Kind of an asshole, too, if I’m being honest. You don’t have to be all timid around me.”

Seokjin barely makes it to the stool at the counter before he’s slumping into it. “Sorry, it’s just—this is weird for me. I’ve never been… alone.”

After you finish plating your dinner, confirming for the billionth time since he moved in that Seokjin does not, in fact, want to risk the stomachache that accompanies human food, you take a seat beside him. A questioning stare asks if it’s okay if you touch him, and he nods minutely, finding the comforting weight of your hand on his bicep seconds later. “I’m not gonna pry, but just—just remember that you’re not alone, okay? I know I can’t relate, but you can talk to me about whatever you want, whenever you want. Xander, too. Sometimes he’s better because he can’t respond, he just has to sit there and take it.”

Sensing he’s being talked about, Xander meows from his spot on the floor. He still seems skeptical of Seokjin sometimes but has otherwise moved onto resigned nonchalance. “Xander’s a pretty weird name, huh?” Seokjin says, leaning down to scratch at his head. “Where’d you come up with that?”

Whatever bubble of friendship you’ve created between you and Seokjin is erased instantly as you awkwardly explain the plot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“How much do you know about human holidays?”

Seokjin barely spares you a glance. Ever since you’d mentioned Buffy, he’s made it a point to binge all seven seasons and tell you, in extreme detail, how inaccurate it is. “Hm?”

You roll your eyes, spitefully deleting the nice sheet set you’d put in your cart for him. “Human holidays. How much do you know?”

“Just the big ones, I guess. The ones bastardized from the Pagans.” You hum thoughtfully. The kind of hum that Seokjin knows means you want something, because it’s one he’s heard a million times already. But the lure of Buffy is strong, especially the musical episode, and he’s still unable to tear his eyes away from the screen when he follows up with, “Why do you ask?”

“Tomorrow’s a holiday. Just wondering if you’d want to celebrate.”

“Depends what it is.”

Suddenly shy, you balk at answering. “Forget it,” you say, re-adding the sheets to your cart along with an overpriced memory foam pillow. Just because Seokjin doesn’t sleep much doesn’t mean he shouldn’t do it in luxury when he does. “It’s silly.”

Catching the hesitation in your tone, Seokjin turns to you with an eyebrow quirked. “Tell me.”

You nearly groan at the way your cheeks warm. “No.”

“Since when are you shy?” he teases, one corner of his mouth catching on a smile. “Are you embarrassed?”

“I’m not shy,” you argue, despite all momentary evidence to the contrary. “I’ve just decided I don’t want to celebrate a holiday with someone who can’t stop watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer for two seconds to pay attention to me.”

“Ah,” Jin says with a snort of laughter. “You’re not shy and embarrassed, you’re jealous and needy.”

You delete the sheets and pillow again.

When you get into work the next day, there’s a bouquet of flowers waiting for you on your desk and a small box of chocolates.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Guess I know a thing or two.

-SJ

You buy the goddamn sheets, paying extra for same-day delivery.

Having a roommate is strange.

You’ve grown used to having Seokjin in your space. You’ve made room for him, made a room for him, and have finally ironed out all those awkward kinks that come with living with a stranger.

So it feels weird when he’s not around. Wrong, almost.

Which is stupid, you tell yourself. He’s allowed to go out. Now that he’s mostly shaken the nerves from his exile, he’s been doing that more frequently. He’d told you a few weeks ago that he can finally go out and not spend the entire time looking over his shoulder, which is great for him, but you spend every second he’s gone worrying about him.

And now it’s spring, so all you can do is lay in your bed with the windows cracked and wonder if every police siren you hear is because something awful has happened to him. Which is also stupid, because the man has superpowers, for fuck’s sake. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself, can do far better of a job than you could ever hope to, so there’s no sense in worrying.

Still.

Your mind is working overtime to convince you of all these horrible things, like Seokjin’s gone to a club and was spotted by someone in his old clan and now there’s no more Seokjin. Just—poof!

At times (like now) you feel like an overbearing helicopter parent, always two seconds away from sending a text demanding to know where he is and who he’s with. Let me know you’re safe in the next thirty seconds OR ELSE. You think that has a nice ring to it. Doesn’t matter that Seokjin’s at least ten times your age, OR ELSE has never been an empty threat from you.

Your thumb hovers above the send button as you hear the lock turn in the front door. You’re up and halfway down the hall in an embarrassingly short amount of time—just enough to watch Seokjin stumble inside and nearly brain himself on the console table.

This is weird and not correct. Seokjin doesn’t stumble. He’s infuriatingly composed at all times, especially when he’s dressed to go out and leaves a bit of forehead showing. Then he’s really composed. Carries himself with an unshakeable arrogance that has you wondering how one’s forehead can wield so much power.

“Jin?” you call out, both to make sure the man in front of you is actually him and, if it is, to give him a heads up and not scare him to death. (Because, as you’ve also learned, Seokjin startles very easily. It’s both endearing and a source of great distress for him.)

Seokjin looks up, catches your eye at the same time he catches himself on the wall. You think he’s trying to take off his shoes. “Oh hey!” he sing-songs, and your stomach drops straight to the floor.

He’s drunk.

Wasted, even.

Which shouldn’t be possible, according to him. Something about his inhuman metabolism that prevents it. “Are you—Kim Seokjin, are you drunk?”

“No,” Seokjin insists, “that’s impossible. I—I can’t be that.”

You eye him warily. “I think you’re drunk, Jin.” Grabbing him gently, you maneuver him to the couch. “Sit. I’m gonna get you some water.”

Five minutes later, he’s properly hydrated and slumped against the arm of the sofa, moaning about how he can’t see and his stomach feels weird. “That’s because you’re drunk,” you reiterate, to which Seokjin replies, eyes narrowed even though he can’t lift his head to properly glare at you, “No, I’m not.”

You click your tongue. “Where’d you go tonight, then?”

“The blood bank.”

“Which one?” you ask, because you may not know all the ins and outs of vampire bylaws and treatises, but you know all blood banks aren’t created equal. Seokjin had explained the hierarchy once. There are the bougie, all organic, free range blood banks not unlike the bougie, all organic, overpriced head of cabbage supermarkets in your world; then there are the dirt cheap blood banks, the ones that capitalize on desperation and skirt the law a bit too much to be harmless.

Judging from the look on Seokjin’s face, he hadn’t gone to the bougie one.

“Jin,” you say, trying to curb the reprimand in your tone. “You know that place isn’t safe.”

He slumps backwards again, dazedly staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. “I know that.” He fists his hands in the fabric of his coat. “It’s not like I had much of a choice.”

“Okay,” you say, because it’s not like you can say I know or I understand, because you don’t. Seokjin’s world is so far removed from your own, enmeshed only by force and a lack of other options. “I just… I worry about you, you know? I just want you to be safe, and that place isn’t safe.”

Seokjin scoffs. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

You level him with a stare even though his eyes aren’t open to see it. “I’m not talking about physically, you idiot. I mean, I do worry about you physically, but I worry more about you mentally and emotionally. You went through an incredibly traumatizing thing and you don’t talk about it.”

“Did you learn that in therapy?” he deadpans.

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “I did, as a matter of fact, and you can tell it’s working by the way I’m not the emotionally constipated one between us.”

“I’m not constipated.”

You sigh. “Okay, Jinnie. Just… promise me one thing, okay?” He grunts. “Don’t go back to that blood bank. They clearly took a donation from someone they shouldn’t have and now you’re all fucked up.”

“I’m fine,” he argues, just for the sake of arguing.

“You’re really not.”

“Yes I am, and I don’t have any money for the nicer blood banks. I’m all out.”

Reaching for his hand, you intertwine your fingers and squeeze. “Okay. Just tell me next time you need to go and we can figure it out.”

That seems to grab his attention. He snaps his eyes open and looks over at you, taking far too long to look focused. “I’m not taking your money.”

“Jin—”

“No, don’t Jin me. You’re already letting me stay here for free. Did you know that not having a safe place to live is the number one cause of death for rogue vampires? Because it is, and you’ve already spared me from certain death, so I’m not going to ask you for money on top of it just so I can go back to drinking my fancy aged blood.”

“Is there really nothing in between aged, organic B-positive and took a sketchy donation from someone rolling on E?”

“That’s a common misconception. The different blood types don’t really taste all that different.”

You groan. “Not the point. The point—”

“Don’t go to the bad place anymore,” Seokjin mumbles, sounding all too much like a scolded child.

“Correct.”

“Still doesn’t solve my money issue.”

A slow, smug grin overtakes your face. “Give me two days and I’ll have it solved.”

You truly are a genius, even if Seokjin won’t admit it.

See, you had the advantage of not being over two-hundred years old. You’re young and aware of trends, and that came in handy when you had a centuries-old vampire looking for employment in the modern age. Ridesharing had been out of the question, not because Seokjin had cracked that horrible joke eons ago and didn’t want to go back on it, but because he'd forgotten to renew his license. Getting an overnight job—either stocking shelves at the supermarket or working at the convenience store or whatever—had been out of the question, too, due to Seokjin not wanting his beautiful face to go to waste.

“Become a Twitch streamer, then,” you’d said.

Which had been a mistake, because instead of outright refusing and moving on, Seokjin had suckered you into explaining what Twitch was for thirty minutes. Add another thirty minutes of explaining what a streamer was and it’d nearly taken up your entire evening.

“I’ve never played a video game in my entire life,” Seokjin had said, but he hadn’t looked dissuaded.

You’d shrugged. “Some people are into that. It makes for a good shtick.”

Seokjin had paused, then; stared into the distance as if it could tell him all the secrets of the universe. “Do you really think people would watch me be bad at playing video games?”

“Trust me,” you’d replied, taking his face between your hands and squishing his cheeks a little, “humans not only watch way worse things, they pay for them, too.”

And now you’re here, a month and a half later.

You’d stolen (more like permanently borrowed without prior consent, because stolen is such a loaded word) some spare equipment from work. Got Seokjin set up in a corner of his now-bedroom. Ordered those LED light strips all the other streamers have and told him to milk his horrible sense of humor for all it was worth, and boom, his channel had blown up far quicker than you or he had anticipated.

Now he has a steady viewership and a reliable income and his own Discord server. Sure, the start had been a bit rough. Seokjin really had never played video games before, so trying to find something good for streaming was difficult. He didn’t have the coordination for MapleStory, Stardew Valley was too boring, he lost ten subscribers when he tried streaming Pokémon. You’d casually suggested he start streaming horror games. He was endearingly inept and easily startled—seemed like a no-brainer.

Once again, you were right.

So here he is, hogging the small bathroom as he applies his moisturizer, shooing you away each time you ask to take a shower because he has to look good on camera. Which is ridiculous, you think, because he’s actually incapable of looking bad.

“That’s ridiculous,” you huff. “You’re literally incapable of looking bad.”

Seokjin smiles all smug and pleased. “I know. But I’ll be done in a minute. My stream starts soon, anyway.”

With another huff, you stomp down the hall to melt into the couch until he’s done. There’s an episode of Bake-Off paused on the television that you resume, snorting at Seokjin’s squawking protests.

You hear the bathroom lights flick off, Seokjin’s footsteps on the wood floors, Xander tangling himself in his legs and sending him staggering into the wall. “Yah! Watch it, you horrible cretin!”

“Xander did nothing wrong,” you retort. “He’s innocent.”

Seokjin just rolls his eyes, clearly exasperated. “You’d let that cat get away with murder.”

“If it was yours? Absolutely.”

Later on, after you’ve showered and are tucked into bed, a warmth spreads through your chest as you hear Seokjin say to his stream, nothing but affection in his voice, “Can you believe my best friend’s cat tried to murder me today?”

Then there’s a strangled yell as he promptly gets killed in-game.

Hearing Seokjin call you his best friend has damn near catapulted you into a full-blown crisis.

His words have been playing on a loop all week. The warmth never dulls, never lets up; the words best friend always lodge themselves in some hard to reach space in your heart. Because they mean something. Because Seokjin’s not the type to say something just to say it. Because you always try to do right by him and for a long time you’ve wondered if you’re doing enough, if sometimes you try to do the right thing but make things worse and Seokjin’s too nice to say so.

Worse—you’ve been a little terrified that he only sticks around because he feels obligated. Like he has to pay back some invisible, unspoken debt.

It’s not like that. Maybe it’s cliche to say he’s more important than whatever it costs to house him here, but it’s true. Simply being able to lay in bed, cool breeze streaming in from a cracked window, and hear Seokjin’s squeaky laughter and muffled voice as he talks to his stream—it’s priceless. You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

So, yeah—Seokjin calling you his best friend strikes you someplace deep.

You’re not sure what time it is when you hear a knock on your bedroom door. Seokjin takes up almost all of the frame. Sometimes he has to duck when his hair is done and coiffed, and maybe it’s silly but it makes you feel safe.

“Hi,” you say, leaning over to flick on the lamp. At once the room is bathed in amber, shadows long and prominent in all the darkest parts, and it’s not until Seokjin’s silence registers that you look over at him.

He’s crying.

Two things happen before you even have a chance to breathe: you get tangled in the duvet and eat shit trying to scramble out of bed, and your hands are pressed to Seokjin’s cheeks, thumbing away the tears beneath his eyes. He heaves a sob and pulls you closer. Wraps those gangly arms around your shoulders and cries quietly into your neck.

It all makes you feel a bit hopeless, but you know Seokjin feels safe. You know you’re a safe place for him.

So you let him cry. Don’t ask what’s wrong, because you already know, have been waiting for it to hit out of the blue and all at once. There are only so many distractions. Even fewer that can bear the weight of a trauma like Seokjin’s.

Eventually the sobs turn to hiccups and quiet sniffles. His tone is watery as he apologizes for ruining your sleep shirt. You tell him it’s okay, and this time you don’t ask if you can press a kiss to his forehead, you just guide his head down so you can reach. His body sags in response.

“Do you wanna sleep in here?” you ask. There’s a large part of you that wants him to say yes, and a small one that refuses to consider what that means.

Seokjin says yes, regardless.

You tuck him into the empty side of the bed. Grab a glass of water from the kitchen and some aspirin, even if it won’t do anything, because Seokjin did a lot of crying and you know how that feels. He’s still awake when you return, just staring at the ceiling, so you sit on the edge of the bed next to him and just run your fingers through his hair. It’s blond now, and it suits him.

“Do you,” he starts to say, but his throat is dry and wrecked, voice hoarse.

“Sit up,” you instruct. Bring the glass to his lips. “Drink this.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bossy,” he jokes, but does as you say anyway. “Do you remember the night we met? I told you I was the third-youngest in my clan. We’d taken in two new guys.” You nod. Seokjin swallows hard. “They… they found my stream. Reached out.”

Your hand pauses in his hair. “Oh. What did they say?”

“They apologized.”

“That’s good, right?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “They—they said they’re the reason I got kicked out. That they’d fucked up the person at the club—“

“Me,” you conclude.

Seokjin nods. “Yeah, you. It was supposed to be someone else. We—it’s not, uh. Uncommon.”

It takes a second for the dots to connect. Then they do, and you choke on a laugh. “Like. As a kink?”

“Yeah. People pay a lot of money for it, and it’s not, like, illegal to bite someone consensually, so long as there’s proper documentation. And I’m really, really handsome, right, so people would pay a lot more money to get bitten by me, specifically.”

You snort. “So someone at the club that night had paid a lot of money to be bitten by you, the world’s most handsome vampire, and the two new guys in your clan… what, mistook me for someone else?”

“Apparently.”

“Then you tried to bite me, I was not biteable, and then you got kicked out of your clan?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yeah.”

You hum. “What happened to the woman who paid?”

“Taehyung bit her instead. He’s nowhere near as handsome as me, but he’s fine in a pinch.”

“Is he—“

“One of the new guys? Yeah. Jungkook is the other one. He’s the one who found me on Twitch.”

“I see.” You find his hand and press another kiss to the back of it. Interlock your fingers. “Are you okay?”

He sighs. Goes very quiet and very still before saying, in a voice so meek and unlike him, “They asked me to come back. Said they could probably pull some strings and get the clan to take me back.”

The thought of Seokjin leaving nearly steals the breath from your lungs. Has your stomach twisting in knots, limbs jittery with anxiety, and it’s all you can do to choke out a tiny little oh.

You’ve grown so used to having him in your space, in your life. The thought of no longer hearing his ridiculous laugh from across the hall, still audible even with your noise-canceling headphones on? The thought of cooking dinner alone again. The thought of no longer coming home from work to find Seokjin napping on the couch, Xander curled up on his chest. It’s all unfathomable. Has your heart pounding wildly in your chest, and you know Seokjin can hear it, know you’ll probably have to examine all these feelings soon, but—

“I said no.”

“What?”

“I said no,” he repeats. “I… I told them I’m happy here. That I’ve learned how to adjust and that I’m doing well.”

“Seokjin,” you say, voice hardened around the edges because it’s easier to pretend to be mad at him than it is to cry in relief. “Seokjin, why would you do that? They can give you so much more—“

“No,” he says, tone so firm and sure there’s no room to dispute it, “they can’t.”

Why can’t they? you want to ask. What can I possibly give you? But that’s… dumb. They’re questions you already know the answer to, especially when Seokjin’s looking at you like this: like you’re the only thing in his entire universe that matters. Like he’d trust you to lead him into war; trust you to keep him safe.

That’s what all of this is truly about, isn’t it? Trust.

Seokjin trusts you. Seokjin has allowed something solid and impenetrable to be formed between you, has helped create it. Now it’s time to trust him in turn—trust that he’s happy, safe, wants to stay here.

(Stay with you.)

So you don’t push it again. Don’t give voice to all your insecurities. You’d told Seokjin once that if you wanted him gone you’d ask him to leave. It’s the same for him.

“Do you want to see them?”

Seokjin hums. “I—maybe? It would be nice to see a familiar face, I guess.”

You can’t believe you’re about to ask this, but: “Would you… want to invite them over for dinner?” Seokjin gags. “Oh, shit, right—no dinner. Um. Would you like to invite them over to meet Xander and play video games and not eat human food?” you try again.

“Jungkookie eats human food. He’s a vile little creature.”

“Okay. What about Taehyung?”

“He’s like me.”

“Okay. Invite them.”

Seokjin sits up a little. Scrunches his eyebrows together as he stares up at you. “Are you sure?”

“Are they gonna try to eat me?”

“Doesn’t matter if they do,” Seokjin dismisses, “your neck is infamous now.”

Your jaw drops. “What does that mean.”

“It means you’re a bona fide local celebrity, darling. The only person in this city immune to a friendly chomp. After my unfortunate excommunication, you were the talk of the vampire world for weeks. The two chaos demons will probably ask for your autograph.”

Eyes narrow, you study Seokjin’s face. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

“I would never.”

“That’s a lie.”

Seokjin just grins.

By the time you finally meet Taehyung and Jungkook, Seokjin’s bedroom isn’t used for much more than streaming.

It happened gradually. A knock on your door frame once he was done with his stream, just to ask if you were awake. Sometimes you weren’t. Sometimes you were, and he’d make you a cup of tea and sit in the empty space on your bed and tell you all about the game he’d played and his viewers and all their funny comments and how many new subscribers he got. That turned into him crashing there, because Seokjin loved to talk and talked endlessly, and sometimes you’d look at the clock and it’d be nearing two a.m. and you’d have to hush him and tell him to go to sleep.

The mornings following would always be hell, but you’d always plop down at your work desk with a goofy smile on your face.

Sleeping alone had started feeling weird after that. It’d been one hell of an adjustment period, getting used to someone else in your bed, but Seokjin’s presence was calming—his weight at your back, far more hesitant to reach out and touch than you are, but sometimes you’d wake up to his fingers in your hair, gently detangling.

Then it was making room for socks and underwear next to yours. His products next to yours in your shower instead of the guest bathroom. His nice shirts hung up next to yours in the closet. His phone charger on the nightstand, plugged into the outlet behind the bed. Now it’s making both sides of the bed in the morning instead of just yours. It’s making sure your alarm is quiet so Seokjin’s able to sleep through it, even with his ridiculous hearing. It’s—

“Oh, what the fuck,” Taehyung says, jaw comically slack. “No wonder hyung doesn’t wanna leave—Jungkook-ah, come look at this! They’re practically fucking married.”

Jungkook seems to materialize beside him, his wide eyes growing even wider as he stifles a laugh. “This is peak marital bedroom.”

Seokjin’s next to you in the hallway, unable to sputter a response. If he could blush, you’re sure it’d go all the way to his toes. “Yah! We’re not—what do you two even know—c’mon, that’s-that’s not even—absurd.”

“It’s not even absurd?” Taehyung and Jungkook think this is riotously funny. “Well,” Taehyung concludes, turning to you, “at least hyung chose well. Imagine if he tried to bite someone who lived in a shithole. Totally wouldn’t have been worth the excommunication.”

Exasperated, Seokjin looks to you for guidance. You just shrug. “He has a point.”

Seokjin’s sputtering again, deflating in the face of betrayal. He throws his hands in the air and dramatically announces, “Aish! Tour’s over, you insolent brats!”

“Don’t worry, hyung,” Jungkook says, making his way down the hall, “we’ll do the self-guided one.”

“Good thing we didn’t pay for this,” Taehyung tacks on. “Two out of ten stars,” he continues, voice growing distant the further they go into Seokjin’s bedroom. “Great location, but the tour guide was a giant pissbaby. Totally unreceptive to comments about his marriage.” You think the last bit comes from the closet.

With a heavy sigh, Seokjin trails after them. Probably to make sure they don’t touch his streaming stuff, considering you’d permanently borrowed it without prior consent. Your boss still hasn’t noticed, so that’s a win, but it’s pretty nice. Not the kind of low-quality garbage you’d be able to afford replacing out of pocket if it all took an unfortunate tumble to the floor.

There’s some muffled yelling—probably also from the closet—before Jungkook pops into the hallway, scratching the back of his neck and looking sheepish. “Hyung sent me out here to help you cook.” He gnaws at his bottom lip. “I-I don’t, uh—cook often? I don’t cook often. So I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.” He looks down. “If that’s okay?”

God help you, you’re now endeared by two vampires. What an embarrassing lack of survival instinct. “Of course it’s okay.” You gesture for him to follow. “Does anyone in your clan cook?”

You hand over an apron. By the way Jungkook stares at it, you conclude the answer to your question is very obviously no. “Never mind,” you say. “Jin says you eat human food? Do you enjoy it?”

Jungkook nods, hair flopping wildly. “Yeah! I eat everything.” Instant horror. “I mean—! Not everything-everything—I don’t eat people! Or a-animals! Wait, I do eat animals, but not live ones! Not, like, housepets. Just the meat and stuff from the store—I’m not gonna eat your cat!”

Xander just blinks up at him. There’s that embarrassing lack of survival instinct again.

You laugh. Squeeze his shoulder. “Jungkook, relax, it’s okay. I didn’t think that at all.”

“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t look convinced. He just looks sad, like he’s on the verge of tears. “I just—I feel bad for hyung. I’m trying to make a good impression so you’ll like us and invite us over again and we’ll get to see him all the time.” Then, in a small voice, he adds, “Like before.”

You wonder if he can hear the way your heart plummets to the ground. “Oh, you sweet thing.” Unlike Seokjin, you don’t ask Jungkook if you can hug him. You just do it, because he starts sniffling before you can even finish your sentence. “You and Taehyung are always welcome here, okay?” Jungkook nods into the crook of your neck. “As long as you don’t, like, break anything. Seokjin isn’t bringing in that much money yet.”

This gets a laugh out of him. A sweet sound; airy and carefree, even though he’s carrying so much guilt. “Hyung seems really happy here.”

An unbidden smile. “I hope he is.”

“Are you happy he’s here, too?”

Jungkook’s clearly looking for something in your expression when he pulls back. He’s already heard the way your heart rate spiked at his question, so you’re not sure what it is, but it’s easy to say, “Yes, I am,” because it’s the truth.

“Okay. That helps, I think.”

“Good. Now, what are your thoughts on carbonara?”

Jungkook is a good sous chef.

He’s a quick learner, efficient at chopping things, and doesn’t mind doing the dishes because he “wants the experience.” After cooking alongside Seokjin for so long, it was second nature to hand out little jobs to do. Easy to make light conversation. Even though he’s a century older than you, Jungkook seems so young. Hasn’t lost that sense of childlike wonder. Still has all those stars in his eyes.

So you hand over a pair of gloves and let him do the dishes. You’re halfway down the hall when the sound of the faucet fades and gives way to hushed conversation.

“—it’s alright, Taehyung-ah, I’m not scolding you, it’s just—it’s touchy, okay? Even if that’s something she’d want, you know it’s different for us. You know the laws.”

“I know, hyung. I’m sorry. It was a stupid joke and I just got carried away.”

You should say something, you think. They probably know you’re here, just skulking in the dark, eavesdropping, their superhuman senses be damned.

Christ, you probably smell like pancetta.

“…Do you, though?”

Seokjin sighs. You’d know that sigh anywhere, considering how many times you’d heard it during his Buffy binge. “Yeah. I think I do, Taehyung-ah.”

“Are you gonna tell her?”

“How do you imagine that playing out? We haven’t even had The Talk yet.”

Someone gasps. “Oh, shit. You haven’t? Really? That’s a pretty important conversation to just skip over.”

“Yah, don’t give me that look! It’s complicated!”

“Okay, hyung, I’m sure it is. I just want you to be happy, you know? And, like, you’re clearly happy here, but maybe you could be even happier. I know there’s laws and rites and customs, but who gives a shit?”

Seokjin lets out a strangled yelp. “Yah! Are you actually trying to get me killed? First you get me excommunicated, now you want me to say ‘fuck ten millennia of vampiric customs’ for—“

“Don’t say ‘bullshit,’ hyung, because it’s not. Not if that’s what you want. Not if it’d make you happy.”

Another sigh. “When did you get so smart, huh?”

That night is the first time it’s awkward sleeping next to Seokjin.

Suddenly the drawer with the socks and underwear seems too big. The clothes aren’t hanging right in the closet. Seokjin’s phone keeps vibrating and skittering along the nightstand and the sound is grating. The breeze from the open window doesn’t feel nice, just makes your skin tacky from the humidity.

Or maybe it’s Seokjin that’s throwing everything off. Has barely said a full sentence since saying goodbye to the kids. Excused himself immediately to take a shower and stayed in there forever; that’s what it’d felt like, at least.

The long and short of it is this: you’d overheard a conversation you shouldn’t have. You know things Seokjin probably isn’t ready to say. Not to you, not right now. If you combine your two brain cells, the logical conclusion is that Seokjin quite possibly has very real feelings for you and might be in the midst of a crisis, and that’s a problem because—

The Talk.

Something you’ve managed to push to the back of your mind, even though your twenty-eighth birthday is coming up. You’ll age, grow older. Seokjin grows older, too, but not like you. No guarantees, but no expiration date, either. And that’s—tough. Really fucking scary to think about: you, with the lines in your skin showing your age, so many decades in the future; Seokjin, still looking the same.

How is that supposed to work?

Seokjin will stay by your side and watch you grow old until eventually there’s no more growing to do. He will stay by your side and maybe hold your hand as you depart this life and maybe set off for another. One where you won’t know him and his squeaky laugh and his warm comfort; one where he’s left behind.

It can’t be worth it. Despite what Taehyung had said, nothing can be worth that kind of grief. Because Seokjin is so good—he’s kind and fierce; wildly chaotic and unwaveringly stable. He deserves to be loved endlessly and eternally, and how will you ever be able to do that if you’ll always have time breathing down your neck?

“I can hear you thinking.”

You sigh. Squeeze your eyes shut because you can feel them start to water. There’s guilt and there’s injustice and there’s anger, because you want to be the person he chooses to be loved by. “I…” You take a deep breath. Hold it a few seconds. Compose yourself. “I overheard you talking to Taehyung.”

Seokjin swallows. “I figured.”

“I—I don’t know what any of it means,” you say, “but I think… I think maybe there are some things we should talk about.”

“Right, okay. The Talk.” He sounds resigned. “I’ve never had to have The Talk before. I probably won’t be very good at it.”

You don’t even sound convincing to yourself when you say, “How hard could it possibly be?”

Very, it turns out.

The two of you talk in circles until you’re nearly crying in frustration, because Seokjin just doesn’t hear you. Refuses to accept that loving you and eventually having to say goodbye is worse than the alternative. Refuses to accept that you’ll grow old and get wrinkles and look your age and he’ll always look beautiful, look like this, and how that might be okay now, when you’re still young, but what will it look like when you’re seventy and he still looks twenty-five? How will he still be able to look at you and see you as someone beautiful, desirable? What will the rest of the world see when they look at the two of you like that?

“You’re not listening to me,” you sob. Everything feels so overwhelming. So out of reach. “Seokjin, how could you—why would you ever want me? Why would you want something so impossible?”

Seokjin scoffs, wounded. “Impossible to who? To you? Because it’s not impossible to me.” Anger sounds so wrong on him. Makes your stomach twist. “In all that thinking you’ve done, did you stop to consider the alternative? That I keep going through this world alone, scared to get too close to anyone because I’ll always have to watch them die?”

“What does that mean?” You’re nearly shouting. Anger doesn’t sound good on you, either. Not when it’s directed at him. “Why would you be alone? You could be with someone like you.”

“Someone like me, huh? Who’s that? A freak? Some other cursed bastard who doesn’t want to be like this but can barely survive on their own?” He’s sobbing now, too, voice hoarse as he fists the duvet just to have something to hold onto. An anchor. “Who am I besides a fucking monster?”

You’re on him immediately, moving frantically to gather him in your arms. Seokjin only stops sobbing to dry-heave; only moves to give you enough space to thumb away the tears on his cheeks. He cries until he’s got nothing left besides tremors. He cries until you’re rocking him in your lap, your heart broken for this beautiful, kind man. He cries until his lips give way to apologies instead.

“Shh, you have nothing to apologize for.” You kiss his hair. It smells like blackberries. “You are so many things, Kim Seokjin, and not one of them is bad.”

He hiccups. “I just want to be normal.”

“You are. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“How can you say that?” he whispers. “I’m broken.”

You hum. Run your fingers softly up and down his arms, leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Do you wanna know what I see when I look at you?”

“If it’s not ‘someone incredibly handsome’ I don’t want to hear it. My heart won’t be able to take that kind of pain right now, I’m too vulnerable.”

“Someone incredibly handsome was actually first on my list, so you’re in luck.” Seokjin snorts. “But I also see the strongest person I’ve ever met. Someone determined and stubborn. Someone who could’ve killed me to stay out of trouble but let me go, because it was the right thing to do. Someone who has experienced hardships I could never imagine but still remains soft and compassionate. Someone who has reached into my chest and grown roots there, because now that I’ve had you here, I don’t think I could ever possibly think about letting you go.”

You sigh. Feel your throat grow tight all over again. “And that’s—that’s what scares me, because how can I ask you to stay when we both know how it ends? It’ll be the rest of my life, but what will it be for you? Will it feel like a minute, an hour, a year? That’s what I meant, when I said someone like you—someone who doesn’t have to say goodbye.”

When he looks at you, Seokjin’s gaze is impossibly soft. He looks at you like you’re a little stupid, too, which he does a lot. “I already am someone who doesn’t have to say goodbye.”

He finds your hand, rubs his thumb over individual knuckles. “There are… ways. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, because we can always try and find it doesn’t work, just like anyone else would, so I don’t think I’m ready to have that specific conversation yet, but I just want you to know that. That there are options.”

Something dangerously close to hope blooms in your chest.

It’s easy, once you’re over that hurdle.

Once that particular elephant in the room has been addressed and shelved.

You’re not naive enough to think there aren’t many difficult discussions in your future, but you find it hard to care when Seokjin doesn’t shy away from you, can barely tear himself away from your side even for a second. He’s there to kiss you awake in the morning when you’re on the verge of running late for work. He’s there when you walk through the door after a hard day, another kiss pressed to your forehead. He’s there next to you in bed as soon as he finishes a stream, skin soft from the shower, and that feeling of security he brings with him warms you even when he can’t.

Seokjin insists on doing things properly. Like a real couple, he just barely stops himself from saying, and you don’t mention it and he doesn’t, either, but you’re proud of him for catching it, for stomping down that line of thinking. Because the two of you are a real couple. You do the cliche dinner-and-a-movie dates, even though Seokjin spends the entire time making fun of the characters. You go for walks along the river. Sometimes all he wants to do is spend hours walking around the city. Even though the sunlight gives him a headache, you still hold his hand and walk for as long as he wants to.

It’s easy.

Also easy is how he touches you, the feel of his lips on your skin. Fluid, like all the time he spent before knowing you was just practice. Fragile, the way he holds you like a delicate thing; like the entire world is in his hands, and he doesn’t have to be careful but it’s worth it to be so.

So much changes between the two of you, but there’s even more that doesn’t. Seokjin is still Seokjin. Still laughs too loud and carries around the weight of the world, but at night you can still hear him talk to his stream, tell them all about you. You can hear the way he shrieks with glee when he finally tells them you’re his girlfriend, that it’s official even though that word feels juvenile, and you smile to yourself in the dark.

It’s so, so easy to fall in love with him when you were already halfway there.

Much like he always is, Seokjin is honest first. Just presses himself to your back one night as you’re cooking dinner and whispers in your ear that he loves you. In your shock, the pan nearly goes clattering to the floor. Xander hisses, does the Scooby-Doo run out of the kitchen to escape the chaos, and Seokjin just laughs.

You’re scowling when you tell him you love him, too. He kisses it away.

“What’s this thing?”

You sigh, drop the bundle of hangers in your hand. Cleaning out your closet had sounded like a great and logical idea in theory. Seokjin was quickly outgrowing his allotted side, you hadn’t touched the back of it since you’d moved in so god only knew what was growing back there, and there wasn’t much else to do on a stormy Sunday afternoon.

The closet, however, had very quickly gotten the best of you.

Now you’re knee-deep in clothes you haven’t worn in years, hairline and and armpits sweaty, and so close to snapping that the line between you and a murder charge is paper thin. And poor Seokjin—he’s just trying to help, but he’s more curious than he is genuinely helpful. Keeps stopping every two minutes to inspect something and ask what it is, figure out how it works. First was the fart machine you’d gotten as a gag gift six Christmases ago. (Seokjin loved this, said he’d send it to Taehyung and Jungkook.) Then it was the box of butterfly hair clips your mother had saved and dumped on you as soon as you’d gotten your own place. (He loved them, too; claimed ownership of them and said he’d wear them during one of his streams.)

You look over to see what he’s holding this time and barely have enough time to grit out the words DO NOT PRESS THAT BUTTON before Seokjin presses the button and you’re temporarily blinded by a flash.

“Oh shit,” comes his brilliant response. Then, “What the fuck. Did it just spit something out at me?”

You try to blink the stars away. “It’s a Polaroid camera.”

“What’s that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” you answer tartly. Then you sigh, because it isn’t Seokjin’s fault that he is who he is and you feel guilty. “It’s basically an instant camera. The film is self-developing so you can take and print a picture just about immediately.”

Seokjin makes a little humming noise. “Where’d you get it?”

“My sister gave it to me.”

“An invention like this and she just gave it away?”

You snort. Walk over and gently take the camera from his hands. “Yeah, older siblings tend to do that,” you answer. Point the view finder at him until he’s centered in the frame. “They love to offload all their worthless junk onto you in the name of being charitable. Smile.”

Unfair, really, how effortlessly beautiful he is. It’s all you can do to look away from the picture once it’s developed, and Seokjin’s smiling in it, sure, but it pales in comparison to the smile that sits on his face once the photo of you becomes clear.

Seokjin becomes obsessed with the camera.

Manages to use up all the old film without even leaving the apartment. He takes photos of you, of himself, of you and him together, of Xander, the plant in the kitchen that probably doesn’t get watered enough, his computer screen once he hits a subscriber milestone, the view of the city from the living room windows during another storm. He leaves them around the apartment for you to find—a little game of hide and seek that only the two of you are in on.

And they don’t sell that old film anymore, so he uses his own money to buy a new Instax. Then he finds an old camera shop way off the beaten path and spends even more money there, but while he’s out he loads up on film and spends hours taking pictures in the city. Comes home and dumps them out of his pockets like he’d looted a bank, and you try to keep a straight face, you really do, but he’s so goddamn endearing that you can’t help the fond smile. They’re all dated and labeled, little messages drawn in limited space.

This tiny dog took a massive shit at the park and the owner didn’t even clean it up!

Doesn’t this cloud look like that ugly green guy from that movie you made me watch? Shark

Pretty flower! Reminded me of you ♡

This cat hissed at me! Reminded me of Xander ♡

Maybe we can go to this cafe this weekend if the weather’s nice?

Then, one from a trip he must’ve taken to the beach, because there isn’t enough contrast to see the waves, but written clearly in the sand—

I LOVE YOU!!! Sand is itchy!

That one’s your favorite.

Thing about Seokjin is—nothing stays innocent for very long.

He’s simultaneously adorably naive and the smartest person in any room he walks into. There’s this little act he does: says something blissfully ignorant, almost too ignorant to be true, and waits to see how long it takes you to realize he’s fucking with you. He loves it; it’s his favorite game. Always ends up with him laughing so hard he cries, that squawking laugh of his booming loud, and you know better but fall for it every time like a sucker.

So, really, it shouldn’t come as a surprise when he hands over a stack of Instax photos, does that mischievous little smile he does where he rolls his lips to keep from laughing. Just for a moment, all you look at is a set of wide shoulders disappearing through the door of his streaming room, then the shut door. Then, when you look down—

“Kim Seokjin!”

His maniacal laughter rings throughout the apartment.

Because Seokjin has just handed you a stack of dick pictures, and this is not an idea Seokjin would’ve had on his own. Taehyung or Jungkook or both are probably behind this, you think. Taehyung had stopped by not long ago, took one look at the Instax, and wiggled his eyebrows at you, so you should’ve known. Should’ve known that a trio of vampires that took money from people to bite them would be the types to take unsolicited pictures of their dicks.

(“I don’t do that!” Jungkook insists later on, cheeks flaming red.

Taehyung snorts. “You did that one time.”

“I did not—”

“You did,” Taehyung insists. “Remember? It was that one college girl who lied and totally suckered you by saying she was an anthropology major and was comparing dick sizes between humans and vampires and needed a picture of your dick for science.”

“That’s different,” Jungkook argues. “It’s not weird if it’s for science.”

Taehyung hums, seemingly buying into this argument. Then he takes another bite of the pop-tart he’d insisted on trying before he makes a face and spits it onto the table.)

As it turns out, handing your roommate-turned-immortal life partner a stack of dick Polaroids prompts a lot of discussions about sex.

You’re not an idiot. Of course you’d searched how vampires get erections without a blood supply, but the results had been less than helpful. They just do, is as much as you got. Imagine your surprise, then, when the dick in Seokjin’s pictures was very erect and very ready to go.

“How does this work?” you ask him.

Seokjin looks startled. “Uh… what do you mean?”

“This,” you say, pointing to the picture. God, you hate that it’s a good one. You’re not supposed to appreciate unsolicited dick pictures. “The dick.”

“Um. I—you see, when two people love each other very much—”

You squawk. “Not sex! I know how sex works!”

“Well how am I supposed to know that?” he squawks back, matching your volume with very little effort. “You just pointed at my dick and asked how it worked!”

Eyes narrowing, you retort, “I know how dicks work too, thank you very much, I mean how does yours work?”

“...The same as everyone else’s? Babe, I really don’t get what you’re asking me here.”

You huff. Shake your head a little to try and clear the brain fog. “What I mean is: most people with dicks are able to get erections because the blood goes down there. You don’t have blood, so where does the boner come from?”

“I don’t know,” Seokjin says, shrugs his shoulders and looks at you like you’re kind of crazy. “It just happens. Appears like a mirage in the desert. Usually after I think about sex or boobs—”

You roll your eyes, falling back onto your bed with a huff. Seokjin’s on you in a second. Stares down at you with some dopey, loved-up look on his face, all traces of exasperation gone. The weight is a familiar comfort by now, an anchor, and no matter what, every single time: “Hey,” Seokjin whispers, mouth so close to your skin you can feel the words, “guess what?” You hum an acknowledgement, dip your hands beneath another oversized t-shirt to trace along his own skin, warmed only by your own.

You know what he’s going to say, but—“What?”—you play along anyway.

“I love you.”

“I know,” you tease. Seokjin huffs, something else you feel in the hollow of your neck, before he presses another kiss to your skin.

“Are you gonna say it back?”

You will, because you always do. Just one of those things that had been instinctual the first time: a brief realization, oh, I love him too, and then the words had come spilling out. No hesitation and no second-guessing, just a whispered truth and twin smiles once you got past the anger of your dinner almost tumbling to the floor. “I might.”

A groan, then all of Seokjin’s body weight collapses on top of you. “You’re insufferable,” he laments, a playful whine high in his throat, “it’s kind of killing my boner.”

“Wow. And they say romance is dead.”

“Well, technically I’m dead, too, so that makes sense.”

Seokjin can’t see you roll your eyes, but you do. Are you stalling? Undoubtedly. Are you stalling because your chest gets tight and you kind of forget how to breathe every time Seokjin tells you he loves you, or are you stalling because his boner is still very prominent and the two of you had decided to take it slow? Definitely both.

And it isn’t like you mind. One of the many upsides to being with Seokjin is that time is the one thing you’ll never want for. There will always be time, so you don’t mind sparing a bit of it until you’re both on the same page. Bless him, Seokjin had nearly looked green the first time he’d broached the topic: stuttered his way through an explanation on how it’d been decades since his last partner, his last real one because the ‘biting people for extra money’ stuff didn’t really count—that the last time he’d been with a human was back when he still was one, too, so he’s a little nervous, would you mind waiting, he just needs to do some… research, is all. Just so he doesn’t embarrass himself, he’d said, and you’d just nodded along and pressed your lips to his forehead and said of course, whatever you want, it’s all okay with me.

So you’re trying to be respectful.

You are being respectful, but it’s a little hard to think straight when his boner is pressed against your pelvis.

Still, you groan. “Can you not remind me that you’re an undead immortal being while your erect penis is touching me?”

Because he loves nothing more than antagonizing, Seokjin just presses harder against you. “Why?” he teases, shit-eating grin on his face. “Is it weird?”

You roll your eyes. “A little, yeah.”

“We could make it even more weird.” He waggles his eyebrows at this.

Usually you’d brush off a quip like that: just Seokjin being Seokjin, another way for him to tease you. But this, too, isn’t so easy to ignore when he’s hard and on top of you, gazing down at you the way he is, all heat and bad ideas. Like he’d happily devour you whole if you said the word, and the word is biting at the back of your teeth, right on the tip of your tongue. You want to. You want, have wanted for a long time, but—

“Seokjin,” you manage to choke out. A real feat, considering he’s rocking slow against you. So slow you probably wouldn’t notice if you weren’t hyper-aware of every single thing, every shift in movement. “You wanted to wait, remember?”

He just hums. Presses his lips back to your neck, easily finds that spot that drives you wild. “I’ve been studying,” he says. Has his voice always been that deep? No, you think, this is just horny delirium. A hormone-induced mirage, tempting you to the edge.

“Okay.” You try really hard to sound put-together. “I’m not really sure what that means.”

Seokjin huffs a laugh and you feel that, too. “It means I’ve been watching a lot of porn and jerking off for weeks while you’re at work, and most of the time I’m so fucking horny I can barely keep my dick in my pants.”

All of that sounds… really nice, although the thought of Seokjin touching himself, head thrown back in pleasure, that neck on full display, toes curled, does very little to help your self-control. Still, you manage to curb it, pulling back just enough to catch his gaze. “Are you ready, though? I don’t mind waiting. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

He pecks your nose. “I don’t. I’m ready, I trust you, we’ve already talked about all the important stuff, and if I jerk off one more time I think my dick is going to protest and fall off.”

When you look at him, there’s not a trace of hesitation to be found. It’s a little maddening how he can go from looking at you with such fervor right back to something like spun sugar. That’s how he’s looking at you now: with trust, with love, with excitement. And it’s ironic, you think, that he’s the hiemal one between you, because he always manages to fill you with warmth.

Just like the sun. You reflect everything he feels for you, all the devotion, and return it tenfold.

So there’s no hesitation in you, either, when you smile and say okay.

Much like he is any other time, Seokjin is an absolute hellion in bed.

You’ve been teased within an inch of your life, hands and tongue everywhere except where you need them most, and he’s completely impervious to your suffering. The corners of his mouth quirk upward before he resets them, relishing in your begging but not letting you catch on, and then he’s dragging you to the edge once more, pushing your hips back down to the bed with a hushed I know, baby, I know.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, almost mocking. “You’ve been so good for me,” he murmurs, and you try to pretend the praise doesn’t set you alight. It had taken a while to find his rhythm, but it must be like riding a bike, you think. Seokjin probably could’ve gone an entire millennia without doing this and it’d still be just as good. It pisses you off a little. “Are you ready?” You nod as best you can. “You have to use your words,” he goads, “I can’t read your mind.”

Maybe he can’t, but your answer is obvious enough: the way you’re writhing, the rapid beating of your heart, the heat between your thighs. If it feels this overwhelming to you, there’s no way Seokjin’s unaware. And you know he isn’t—know he’s only doing it to get a reaction, to drag it out further, so you just huff. Disengage. Seokjin can’t win if you don’t play, and maybe you reflect his sunlight, but you can reflect his chaos, too.

“Babe.” He laughs. Works a hand over his cock once, twice when he realizes you’re looking. “Don’t start getting petty now, of all times.”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, then,” you fire back. “You know I’m ready. Been ready for hours.”

He huffs. “It’s only been twenty minutes.”

You narrow your eyes. “Hours,” you repeat.

“Sheesh, okay, okay.” Just as he’s about to press inside, he pauses. Looks at you with that loved-up look again. Normally it’d be endearing, butter soft, but you’ve been at his mercy for far too long and it’d started taking its toll somewhere around minute two, so. “Hey, you know I—”

“Seokjin, I swear to fucking god—”

He huffs again, nothing but exasperation, and finally gives you what you want. The initial stretch takes your breath away, giving way to full full full, the only thing you can focus on is how full you feel, but then it’s—

“Jesus Christ!”

There’s just screeching. From you and Seokjin, because while you’re trying to scamper up the bed, he’s pulling out and wearing a full-on grimace. You can’t even lie, that hurts. You’ve had a lot of awkward one night stands, but no one has ever grimaced before.

“Hot!” Seokjin wails, grabbing at his crotch. “Holy fuck, hot! Hot! My fucking dick is on fire—”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your skull. “Hot?! Are you fucking joking? It feels like you just impaled me with an icicle!”

It does. There’s still a phantom pain in your cunt that feels a lot like frostbite. Like when someone sticks their cold hands up the back of your shirt.

Seokjin ignores you, though. Just puffs out his cheeks and blows room-temperature air towards his cock, and you’d maybe laugh if this was any other time in any other situation. Having this happen the first time the two of you have had sex is… mortifying. A little worrying for the future, too, because you’ve tried those warming lubes and they’re terrible. It’s also just—disappointing. You’d been looking forward to this for a long time, being close to Seokjin in this way, and of all the times you’d envisioned it, you didn’t imagine your body heat would be too scorching for his penis, of all things.

Shit.

You’re not going to cry.

Not over this.

Not while Seokjin is still hopping around the bedroom on one leg, still desperately puffing out air. Not while he’s chastising his cock in the process. Something that sounds suspiciously like c’mon buddy, it’s just a little body heat, don’t do this, you don’t have to do this, fuck, c’mon. Another thing you might laugh at another time, but you can’t. Not now. Not while Seokjin finally sighs in defeat and meets your eye and looks equally devastated.

Devastation looks worse on him than it feels on you, so you joke, “Maybe we should’ve started with oral?”

A beat of silence. Then the disappointment cracks and he’s sending you a blinding smile. “Something something Icarus, too close to the sun, et cetera.” He flops unceremoniously on the bed and drapes half his body over you. “Seems pretty obvious in retrospect, huh?”

Your fingers are immediately in his hair. “Yeah.” Lips find the top of his head. “We’ll figure it out.”

(And you do. Condoms are the first experiment, even though they were essentially useless before, considering Seokjin’s dead and all, unable to reproduce or harbor any kind of infection. Problem with that is—

“Why are they all so fucking thin?” Seokjin whines, staring down at another box with CLOSEST THING TO WEARING NOTHING! across the front.

You snort, tossing back another box of the same. “Because most men don’t want to wear a condom and will gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss their way into going raw.”

So you try a different approach and order the super thick ones meant to help with premature ejaculation. Those are okay, but almost too effective. Sex with Seokjin is great, it turns out, but not when it seems to go on endlessly and everything starts to hurt and chafe and Seokjin’s trying, babe, you think I wouldn’t have come by now if I could, but, well. The condoms work as advertised, is the thing.

Back to Old Reliable, then: oral sex. Even having your mouth around his dick nearly sends him launching off the bed, but the two of you figure it out. Small kitten licks until he starts to acclimate, an inch or two at a time once the whole dick is in your mouth, and slow, slow, slow. Truthfully, it’s a long and tedious process, and it all but kills the idea of wild, spontaneous fucking, but the actual sex part, when you finally figure it out, is so goddamn good you figure you can go without.)

“Does your family know about me?”

Honestly, you’re surprised he hasn’t asked sooner considering your birthday is just around the corner. You aren’t doing much to celebrate, considering it’s in the middle of the week, but it hadn’t stopped your mother and sister from offering to take you to lunch on the weekend. Seokjin hadn’t said much when you told him about it, complaining for the nth time about the seafood restaurant your mom’s insisting on just because it’s her favorite, but you can see now why this might’ve been on his mind.

“Yeah, of course they do.”

Also unsurprisingly, he seems shocked to hear this. “What?”

“Why wouldn’t they know about you?”

“Um. Because I’m… y’know. A vampire.”

You roll your lips, suppressing a laugh. “Are you calling my family racist?”

“No! I am definitely not saying that!” he sputters, suddenly finding the new rug very interesting. Xander had barfed all over the last one in a way that was completely unsalvageable. “I just—I was just wondering? Since it’s your birthday soon, and you’re going to lunch with them, and I didn’t know, like, if they knew about me? Like, I’m sure they know you have a roommate, but do I have to pretend to not be your boyfriend if they come over? Like, if we’re just roommates, should I come out screaming about losing all my socks in the dryer or leaving dishes in the sink or something—”

“Is that what you think roommates fight about?”

This puts an abrupt end to his spiral. “Er, yeah? That’s what they fight about on TV.”

“Okay, remind me to change the Netflix password. Now, will you come here?” You stand from your spot on the couch and engulf him in a hug. “They know about you. All of it, so you don’t need to worry about it, all right?” You pull back. “Unless you’re worried about something else?”

“No,” he answers, voice small.

“Okay. My sister dated an absolute demon in college, so you being a vampire is nothing in comparison, trust me.”

“Demons aren’t real.”

“They are, and my sister has somehow dated all of them. My mom actually contacted the church about an exorcism.” This gets a laugh out of him. “Now, do you want to come to lunch with someone who consorts with demons and someone who puts any modicum of trust in the Catholic church, or is that a hard pass for you?”

He nuzzles further into your neck. “Are they nice?”

“They’re okay.”

“Are they like you?”

“I’m definitely the hotter sister, despite whatever my sister may think, and I have to text my mother every month to remind her to pay her car insurance because she forgot and let it expire twice and got tickets both times, so I’m not sure what that says about her, but they did raise me, so. I don’t know, I guess so?”

“Then they’re probably nice and I think I’d probably like to meet them.”

Your heart feels warm again.

On the morning of your birthday lunch, you wake up alone.

This is uncommon but not outright strange, so you think nothing of it. If you had Seokjin’s ultrasonic hearing, you would’ve heard the three vampires giggling in the kitchen, trying desperately to hush one another every ten seconds because they’re incapable of shutting up, but you don’t, so you trudge into the en suite to pee and brush your teeth, ignore the mess of hair on your head, and then trudge into the kitchen.

“Surprise!” Jungkook screams, popping out from behind the island. Taehyung’s at the sink, clearly trying to hide the remains of some science project gone wrong, and Seokjin’s slumped against the counter with his head in his hands.

Still, there’s a half-assed birthday cake being presented to you, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! written in Seokjin’s recognizable scrawl, and a smile rapidly forming. “You made this yourselves?” you ask, more to make conversation than genuine curiosity. No bakery on earth would sell something that looks like the cake in front of you.

“Of course we did,” Taehyung says, snark loaded and ready, “what do you take us for, amateurs?”

Jungkook ignores him. “Seokjin-hyung says you turned twenty-eight and that’s a big deal so we wanted to do something nice!”

“Well, that’s a straight up lie,” Taehyung says, rolling his eyes. “We wanted to get you a cake but we have no idea how to order things at human bakeries and the lady behind the counter was mean as fuck so hyung looked up how to make one from scratch.”

“It was awful,” Seokjin moans, agony muted by the countertop. “Don’t ever ask me to bake something again.”

“No one asked you to do anything,” Jungkook snaps. “This was your idea! You were the one who texted us and said, and I quote, ‘My idiotic little dongsaengs, I want to do something special for her because I’m in love, so I’m going to look up how to bake a cake from scratch and the two of you are going to help me, and if you say no I will hack into the blood bank database and change your blood preference to O-negative,’ to which Taehyung replied, and I quote, ‘Don’t you dare sign me up for that basic bitch blood, hyung, that’s just cruel,’ to which I replied, and I quote, ‘Hyung only just learned how to use a smartphone, there’s no way,’ to which you replied, and I quote, ‘Here is the recipe, be at my apartment by six a.m. or else.’”

“Wow, his memory is freakishly good and kind of weird,” Taehyung marvels. Jungkook preens.

“Well,” you begin, going around the kitchen to give each of them a tight hug, “I’ve never gotten a homemade cake before, so I am very appreciative and a little overwhelmed.”

When you reach Seokjin, you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. You’re the best and I love you.”

“Gross,” Taehyung and Jungkook say in unison.

Hours later, long after you’ve tried to figure out how to tackle the cake and how long it could conceivably stay fresh for compared to how much of it you could conceivably eat, and long after Jungkook offers to ‘demolish it right now’ and you make a Matilda reference and have to explain the entire plot to him just to explain who Bruce is, there’s a knock at your door that can only be your mom and sister.

You’re not dressed. You’re not even showered.

There are three chaotic vampires in your kitchen arguing over what to do with the cake.

This is not how you wanted Seokjin’s first time meeting your family to go.

But it works out all the same, just as it always does. The introductions are awkward only because of the state of the kitchen, but between Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jungkook, your mom and sister are charmed long before you pass your phone around to order food, because there’s no way any of you are going out now.

Another thing that’s easy. Another moment in which you find yourself thankful that Seokjin has nothing but time, because you think you’d be very happy to spend most of yours like this: surrounded by the people you love, ears ringing from laughter. Another memory in a span of months that’s jam-packed with new ones. Another slice of cake gone when your sister bravely volunteers to try one. Another sly look at her from Taehyung, because he’s been doing it all afternoon and doesn’t realize he’s not subtle.

Another round of hugs. Another birthday gone. Another mess to clean up once it’s just you and Seokjin left in the apartment, Jungkook halfway out the door when he calls out over his shoulder, “Taehyungie-hyung says he’s gonna bite the wrong person too and get kicked out of the clan so he can hook up with your sister,” just because he’s a shithead. Another punch to his shoulder.

Another time you look at Seokjin and think, I’m so fucking in love with him, I’d follow him anywhere.

Another author’s note: I wanted to leave the ending a little open-ended. I’m sure people have thoughts on turning, and it wasn’t something that I wanted to write into this fic but wanted to broach the topic of because that’s, like, The Thing about vampire/human relationships. My headcanon is that this reader does, just because I want them to live happily ever after forever, but I didn’t want to force that on everyone and dampen the reading experience.

As always, thank you for reading! My inbox is always open if you’d like to leave feedback. I’d love to hear your thoughts! ❤

#btsgoldnet #btswritingcafe #btshoneyhive #thebtswritersclub #seokjin x reader #seokjin x you #seokjin fanfiction #seokjin fic #seokjin fluff #seokjin smut #ksj x reader

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soolh1k · 10 months

Note

Can you write skz helping reader get over their fear of the dark

Skz helping you overcome your fear of the dark

notes: english is not my first language so apologies for any misspelling or grammar. i hope u like it !! :))) this is just the hyung line

type: narrated text

genre: angst w fluff

WARNINGS: a little bit angsty but some fluff at the end, let me know if you'd like to be tagged !! :))

.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀

ׂׂૢ Bang Christopher

As the day drew to a close, the golden rays of the setting sun bathed the room in a warm, comforting glow. But as the last sliver of light disappeared beyond the horizon, the darkness descended, bringing with it a surge of unease. You felt the familiar grip of fear taking hold, and your heart began to race.

Your boyfriend, sensing your unease, gently reached out and took your hand in his. "Don't worry," he said with a reassuring smile. "I'm right here with you."

He led you to a cozy corner of the room, where he had prepared a little fort of blankets and cushions. He arranged the blankets in such a way that it created a small, safe space, shielding you both from the darkness that now enveloped the room.

He switched on a tiny string of fairy lights that adorned the interior of the fort, their soft glow casting a warm, comforting ambiance. Inside the makeshift sanctuary, you felt a sense of security, as if the darkness outside could no longer reach you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. "Just take a deep breath," he whispered, his voice soothing like a gentle breeze. "Feel my presence here with you, and know that I'll always be here to protect you."

As you closed your eyes and focused on his steady heartbeat, the fear slowly began to dissipate. Your breathing steadied, and the darkness outside no longer seemed as daunting. With each passing moment, you felt more at ease, cocooned in the warmth and safety of your little fort.

He began to softly hum a soothing melody, his voice lulling you into a sense of calm. The darkness seemed to lose its grip, as you realized that you weren't alone in facing it. Your boyfriend's love and support enveloped you like a shield, and you felt empowered to confront your fear head-on.

Hours passed, and the night continued to blanket the world outside. Yet, inside the fort, you felt a newfound strength and courage. With your boyfriend by your side, the darkness no longer held power over you.

From that moment on, whenever the lights went out and darkness loomed, you knew that your boyfriend's love and unwavering presence would be your guiding light, helping you overcome any fear that dared to challenge your spirit.

.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀

ׂׂૢ Lee Minho

The rain poured relentlessly outside as the wind howled, the electricity flickered for a moment before plunging the room into complete darkness. Panic gripped your heart as your breath quickened, and your mind conjured up terrifying thoughts. You had always dreaded the darkness, and being alone during a storm only heightened the fear.

Suddenly, you felt a warm hand gently grasping yours. "I'm here," a soft voice whispered in the dark. It was your boyfriend, who had sensed your distress and rushed to your side. Minho carefully guided you to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Don't worry; I won't leave you," he reassured, his voice steady and reassuring. He then proceeded to light a few candles that he had prepared earlier, filling the room with a gentle, flickering glow. The sight of the soft light eased some of your anxiety.

He smiled warmly, sensing your lingering unease. "Let's face this fear together," he said, his voice filled with determination. Taking your hand, he led you on a slow and deliberate journey around the house. He pointed out familiar objects and described their positions so that you could visualize the surroundings even without sight.

With each step, your fear seemed to lessen, and the darkness felt less daunting. He continued to hold her hand, offering unwavering support and encouragement. Minho enveloped you in a gentle hug, allowing you to feel his calming presence.

As the storm roared outside, he softly hummed a soothing melody, drowning out the sound of the wind. You closed your eyes, focusing on his voice and the warmth of his embrace. Gradually, you realized that the darkness wasn't as terrifying as you had imagined. With him by your side, you felt safe, protected, and loved.

Time seemed to pass slowly, but eventually, the storm subsided, and the lights flickered back on. The once frightening darkness now felt like a distant memory. You looked up at yout boyfriend, gratitude and admiration shining in her eyes.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "You helped me overcome my fear."

He smiled tenderly and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "I'll always be here for you, no matter what you're afraid of," he replied softly. "Together, we can face anything."

.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀

ׂׂૢ Seo Changbin

It was a typical cozy evening at home. You were watching a movie on the couch, snuggled up together under a soft blanket, and the room was bathed in the warm glow of the TV. Suddenly, the power went out, plunging you into complete darkness. Panic set in as your heart started racing. You'd always been terrified of the dark, and being in pitch-blackness amplified your fear.

"Hey, it's alright," he said, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer. "I'm here with you, remember?"

"But I can't see anything," you stammered, trying to control your trembling voice.

"That's okay. Take a deep breath. Just focus on my voice," he reassured you in a gentle tone. "You're safe, and I won't let anything happen to you."

He guided you to stand up and led you carefully through the dark room, your hands interlocked. You could feel his steady presence, and it gave you a sense of security. You took slow and deliberate steps, avoiding any obstacles in your path.

"I'm going to turn on a flashlight," he said, rummaging through a nearby drawer.

As the dim light from the flashlight illuminated the room, your anxiety lessened, and you felt more at ease. You sat back down on the couch, still holding hands, when he put his arm around you.

"You know, darkness can be scary, but it's also a reminder of how much stronger we are together," he said, looking into your eyes. "You don't have to face your fears alone."

He was right. With him by your side, the darkness seemed less intimidating. You spent the rest of the power outage laughing and chatting, as the fear of darkness gradually faded away.

When the lights came back on, you realized that you had come a long way in overcoming your fear, thanks to his support and understanding. The experience brought you even closer together, and you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them as a team.

.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀

ׂׂૢ Hwang Hyunjin

It was a moonlit night, and the stars winked at you from the sky as you lay in bed. But the darkness of the room seemed to swallow everything, making your heart race with fear. You'd always been scared of the dark, but tonight, your boyfriend was determined to help you conquer this silly fear.

"Hey, don't worry," he said with a gentle smile. "I've got a plan to make you feel better."

He reached over to the nightstand and switched on a small bedside lamp. The soft glow cast a warm light, easing some of the shadows in the room. You felt a bit more relaxed already.

"See? Not so bad, right?" he chuckled.

He then took out his phone and played some calming music, filling the room with a soothing melody. As the music played, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. You could feel his steady heartbeat, and it comforted you.

"Focus on my breathing," he whispered. "In and out, just like me. Slow and steady."

You matched your breath with his, finding a rhythm that helped you feel grounded.

He continued, "And if you ever feel scared, just squeeze my hand. I'll be right here."

With his hand in yours, you felt a sense of security that you hadn't known before. The darkness seemed less menacing, and you could feel yourself drifting into a peaceful state.

"You're doing great," he encouraged, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Remember, I'm here with you, and we can face anything together."

As the minutes passed, you realized that you were no longer afraid of the dark. His presence and comfort had melted away your fears like a candle in the sunlight. You nestled closer to him, feeling grateful for his understanding and support.

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling tears of relief in your eyes.

"No need to thank me," he replied softly. "That's what partners are for—to help each other through the tough stuff."

.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀.⋅ ۵♡۵ ⋅.“❀

Tag list !!

@albaficaslover

@damselettism

#skz imagines #skz reactions #skz scenarios #skz x reader #skz bang chan #skz changbin #skz hyunjin #skz angst #skz lee know #skz fluff #skz smau #skz requests

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honeybrowne · 2 years

Note

Hiii if your not too busy could you write a blurb with some angst? Maybe Hotch forgets their anniversary and stays at work really late and when he comes home he sees like a card and a box sitting on the table for him (his present). Then when he opens it he realizes he messed up bad :(

i couldn't stop writing this once i started, so it turned out to be a bit longer than a blurb :,) i'll give you a little sneak peek of the full fic—it'll be up on wednesday (aug. 03). thank you for sending this in, i really enjoyed writing it!

——

"Sweetheart," Aaron said softly, gently rubbing your arm, trying not to startle you.

"Not in the mood," you murmured as you moved away, followed by a faint sniffle.

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that you spent all evening crying, which broke his heart. It was already bad enough that he had stupidly forgotten your anniversary, but to know he was the reason for your tears made him feel like the worst boyfriend in the world, and all he wanted to do was fix it.

"Baby, please look at me," he begged, refraining from touching you again.

Your breath was unsteady as you inhaled deeply, slowly turning around to face him. Even with the tiny sliver of light coming from the bathroom, Aaron could see how puffy your eyes were from crying.

"How was your day?" you asked quietly.

He sighed. "Don't worry about that right now. I want to apologize to you."

"Aaron, it's fine—"

"No, it's not," he denied. "It's not okay that I forgot our anniversary and left you here waiting for me all night. It's not okay that you went out of your way to make this special just for me to not show up." Tears began to well in your eyes again, and he tugged you towards him, cradling the back of your head as you buried your face in his neck to quiet your sobs. "I'm so sorry, baby."

#requested #sneek peak #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner scenario

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junghelioseok · 3 years

Text

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.

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tiens-letters · 3 years

Text

Oohh another request haha. I love this thank you and i hope you like it :>

were the bruises to your heart worth it?

Childe angst

You mulled over your sister's words for the nth time today. Her voice playing on loop inside your head, drifting in and out of a mundane daydream.

"why are you still with him?" you wondered as well as to why you still stuck with Ajax, all these days in 3 years of being wit him. Perhaps it was devotion, it was love to persevere even in the wrath of crumbling times and yet why does your heart ache a little more these days he's been far from you.

The days when he would come home, wounded and tired you were there to nurse him back. Back then it was something you'd do out of care and worry, which was until these recent days where it felt as if it were a job you didnt want to do as he would shrug you off instead and locking himself in another room. You barely remember the time where you both shared a quiet night basking in each other's presence, with limbs in a tangle and your forehead upon his beating chest, it was almost none existent as the home you both had felt so utterly desolate, void of the homey ambience.

Youve endured a month of his uncalled behaviour, breaking you even further as things slipped from your grasp leaving you empty and in agony. There were times you'd silently let tears fall as he slept so soundly beside you, unbothered by your pain. He's become more and more as the harbinger you forgot him to be and not your darling lover Ajax.

He never noticed your puffy eyes, sunken cheeks and dwindling weight yet he noticed all the small mistakes youve made. Where one day, left you with a bruise on the arm due his snake like grip after blowing up on you right after he came home from a long journey to sumeru.

You left.

Childe came home earlier than expected, once again tired and nursing a few minor wounds on his body. All he wanted was your touch on his skin as you lulled him to sleep only that to his utter surprise that the house was empty. Perhaps you went out for an errand or for another pot of your favourite flower that you kept in the small garden at the back.

Not giving it too much thought, he lounged on the couch awaiting your return, eyelids soon drooping as the soft pillow coaxed him to sleep.

As the grandfather clock swings its pendulum, the sound echoing through the whole room signifying the arrival of midnight, an eerie sound waking Childe back to consciousness. Groggy from rising he scanned the room only to find it darker than before, if it werent for the nearby lamp he switched open, he swore he couldve been swallowed by the darkness.

Were you not home yet?

A dreadful feeling washed over him as your presence was nowhere around the house. He called out for you as he rushed through the halls, a sliver of hope vanishing every corner turned and every door opened led to nothing but misery.

You always leave a note as to where you are going and yet it was another one out of the many abnormalities in his home.

"Darling? Please i hope youre not playing with me!" he calls out to no one in particular, denying the fact of your existence gone with the wind. Your clothes were all intact and so does your other belongings. He thought of every possibility of what couldve befallen his lover, mostly gravitating towards the worst of the worst case scenarious and may the archons forbid, he would never recover from the blow.

"Where are you?!"

Then it dawned on him after much pondering and pulling his falling parts together. The things he did, the words he said it all came flooding through him like a rushing cold river, hitting him fair and square in the chest and came forth an otherworldly pain and regret. He gasps, almost suffocating by the weight of his sins and he wished he had died right then and there in atonement for his crimes.

Soon his vision became bleary as eyes misted over with tears that fell freely from his ocean eyes. He ruined it. Ruined you.

And yet he could not let you go.

Days seemed to pass by so fast that it had already been 5 months of liberation from Ajax's presence. You were slowly building yourself up once again, the temple that was torn down by a single crack, slowly being rebuilt brick by brick.

Your love for Ajax, even if it left quite the bruise to your heart, it was still there, lingering in the air and a part of you missed him so. You wondered how he would be doing, you wondered if he looked for you just as you did when he didnt come home on the date set, you wonder if he wept when he couldnt feel you next to him, just as you did 150 days ago. You wondered if he ever called your name all the while giving a lingering kiss to the painting that hung on the foyer. You wondered if what you both had, had any significance to him at all.

"Stop doing that." you jolted from where you sat, the book falling off your lap as you met your sister's stern glare from across the room.

"Stop doing what?"

"You are thinking about Tartaglia again. Its been over 5 months and that blundering fool never made an effort to find you much less apologize for what he did when you were still there." there was anger in her voice as she recounted the day you came to her door, teary eyed and just utterly torn. Never once did she felt like murdering someone so bad, especially when it had you, her only family involved.

"Im sorry, I-i just--"

"Hush now." she came over in her elegant strides to take you in her arms, the familiar scent of your mother's favorite perfume stayed on her like second skin and you were so grateful that you had her. You let yourself cry in her embrace in quiet comfort.

Childe never stopped.

Secretly searching for atleast a tiny clue of your whereabouts wore him down to the bone and yet he never gave up. How could he? Even if he thought he was so undeserving of you he still pushed on to right what wrong he's made. The details gathered had been insufficient to serve as a lead making Childe more desperate in his attempt to search for you. Nights were spent on scouring places and information seeking and his work, only done in the daytime. He never wasted a wink on sleep as it was an obstacle to getting closer to you and even when his body collapsed due to exhaustion of overworking all he could think was you.

The search has led a certain fatui informant who works for one of the harbingers. With a note slipped in secrecy on a specific time containing an address on the small parchment. It was all Childe needed to fuel his buried hope as he took off towards snezhenaya.

He never imagined he'd arrive right in front of the iron gates that encased the whole estate atop a mountain. The wind bellowed stronger than before as the snow rained harder upon the place. Luckily, he was born in this region and had survived throughout.

He wondered why you came here, to such a dreadful place but then again, anywhere was better than right by him.

Trying to push open the gates only to be repelled by cryo magic, burning through his gloves and into his skin, leaving fresh burns on his palms as he gasped in pain. Whoever lives here clearly didnt want anyone trespassing much less had a fancy for guests.

He was starting to grow cold as his energy was slowly being siphoned by days of travel, it would only take a matter of time before he passes out.

He calls out, hoping someone inside would hear him.

And you did, only that it seemed like the wind but the time you looked outside the library window, you saw a person outside the gates. The familiar ginger hair tousled with the wind and as you strained your ears to hear and that was when it filled your ears, Ajax's voice. Something you havent heard in quite a long time.

As quick as lightning you stood, half running half gliding through the halways and down the stairs, there was no coherent thought, only him. He was freezing outside the barrier and you pushed yourself more to reach him.

Your figure stepping out through the door was almost like a dream to him. Your name oh so longingly leaving his bluing lips.

"Ajax!" you were in time as you caught his figure which seemed lighter than before. He clung to you, legs desperately tryinf to hold him up. You were here, right in his arms, alive and warm.

"Im sorry. Im so sorry. Please I love you." he rambles on, like a mantra he apologizes over and over again, sobbing and stumbling on his words as he held you so achingly close "Forgive me. Forgive me..."

"Step away from him this instant." your sister, Signora hisses from behind you, just as you were about to coax Ajax she already had a cryo dagger aimed at his head

"Sister please!" you plead, your panic growing as you saw Ajax huffing in labored breaths "Let him come inside or he will freeze to death."

Signora sees the urgency in your eyes and the undying devotion you still hold for the man in your arms. She dematerializes the dagger with a wave of her hand.

"Fine but if I see tears in your eyes then dont you ever dare stop me from what Im going to do to him."

"Thank you sister." you smile at her as she steps backs inside the house and you follow in after her with Ajax leaning on you for support. Once inside, you had him lay on the couch by the fire after helping him out of his winter garments and replacing it for a knitted quilt.

"Im sorry." bloodshot ocean eyes looked at you with so much guilt and a love that you almost forgot "I-i im so so sorry."

"Lets talk about this after youve rested." this time you couldnt look at him, the ache in your heart throbs from the bruises it still nursed. You stood before falling further only for him to catch your shaking hand with his equally shaking one.

"Dont leave." he whimpers, the fear of abandonment increasing as he pleaded for you to stay. instead, you let go of his hand and placed yours instead over his eyes making him uncharacteristically shriek surprising you even more, making you think what other worldly pain he was experiencing as of the moment. "No! No No. Please Its dark."

Ajax cries as he thrashed around because he feared that if he sleeps he would go back to the nightmare of you not by his side and that would leave him all cold and alone just like in the past. he didnt want to go back there, not now when he's seen you. As much as he'd hate to admit, he was truly and utterly terrified but you had to let him rest and with the help of your vision he finally succumbed to a dreamless, peaceful sleep. Only that he calmed down did you notice how much he's lost, where your once sunken cheeks, puffy eyes and weight loss now transferred to him and it made you sick to your stomach. your lips found his forehead as you wished him a good rest, you left the room after bandaging his burned hands to gather yourself for when he finally came to his sensible self.

when you thought it was going to take a full day for him to wake up only to find him stumbling about in the living room calling your name on his lips like a broken record. you immediately rushed down and burst into the room to find him clutching his head and gasping breathlessly. he looked crazed until he caught sight of you standing by the door, a worried look on your face was when he finally came to. he ran to you, clung to you like it was the last day of the world to live and sighed into your welcoming smell.

"are you alright now?" you ask him as you part in arms width

"Hit me." he tells you in all seriousness in his worn out state

"W-what?" you were certain he was still out of it until he grabbed your hand in an attempt to hit himself to which you stopped immediately

"Hit me! Scream at me all you want. Call me words Ive called you. Ive broken you! Do you not see that?!" funny how he couldnt see himself, he who's become worse over the course of the months . his tone rose and fell until it was only a whisper above his panting

"Just dont abandon me." he shuts his eyes, steeling himself for your judgment until he felt your hands on his face again, making soothing circles on his cheek

"look at me Ajax." you coax him and he did and he could see assurance and the love for him still remained and he wanted to cry again but tears have long gone abandoned him and left him in such a regretful state, he truly didnt deserve you and you never deserved to be treated that way. "Youve hurt me yes and nothing can change that but I wasnt planning on you leaving you. I couldnt as I love you too much that I wouldnt imagine life without you but Ajax, the things you did to me, to us, was painful."

"I know and Im so sorry." he held himself from rambling as the pain in chest grew even more burdensome, something he would willingly carry as he vows to himself to never hurt you and if he did then he would tear himself down "I love you"

"and I to you Ajax. Just promise me that when you are having a hard time, let us talk it out and not result to screaming and painful banters."

"I promise darling. on my life and everything in this world. I vow to never cause you pain like I did and to only give you love and care that someone like you deserve."

there he was, your Ajax. He was home.

#genshin impact #genshin impact angst #genshin impact x reader #ajax #tartaglia #childe #childe angst #childe x reader #childe x reader angst #childe request #angst #haha yes pain #Spotify

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ohbuckie · 3 years

Note

oo if you’ve got the inspiration for it, for angst would you be willing to flesh out the college bucky fight?? idc if it’s abt the crying/party drugs/not taking school seriously- whichever or even a combination! lov u 💞

wc: 1.1k

warnings: college!bucky x fem!reader, alcohol, drugs, angst, fighting

He arrives back home around two.

He’s loud—stumbling, stomping, sighing, knocking on the bedroom door to let you know he’s coming in—and he’s excited to see you, even if you’re half asleep and in no mood to take care of your drunk boyfriend. “Hey.” He whispers, but it’s useless, because it’s directly in your face and it’s outrageously loud.

“Hi, Buck.” You greet him, reaching toward him with a hand. He steps over to you, sheds his jacket, kicks off his shoes, leans down to press a kiss to your lips. It’s sloppy and wet, and he tastes like alcohol.

You grimace when you pull away. “You taste like beer.”

“Yeah.” He nods, and slips into bed beside you after letting his pants and shirt fall to the floor. “I was drinking.”

He left for a party just before ten o’clock, and you’re honestly surprised that you didn’t receive any drunk texts or calls from him before he got here. He’s always thinking about you, even when he’s messy and inebriated. He usually at least insists—selfishly, because you both know that he just wants to be with you—that you made a mistake when you decided not to join him.

A hand finds your waist, and he presses his chest flush against your back, nudging your hair away from your neck with his nose. “Missed you.” He mumbles, words slurred and movements uncoordinated.

“C’mon, Bucky, not now.” You protest, and turn to face him. “You’re drunk.”

He shakes his head. “Just wanna kiss you. Just a couple of kisses.”

You smile tiredly and carefully press your mouth against his, giving him his fix. He pulls away briefly. Sniffles, wipes his nose, leans back into you, captures your lips with his hungry ones again. You melt against him and wrap your arms around his neck, and you only break the kiss when his tongue slithers into your mouth.

He scrunches his nose and sniffs again. A sliver of light that creeps between the door and the frame harshly falls across his face, and reveals to you something you’re not expecting to see. You look between his eyes, only a tiny bit of blue peering out from behind his pupils, before you make the accusation.

“You’re high.”

He doesn’t skip a beat before finding his lie. “Yeah, just took a few hits off Tony’s–”

“No, Bucky, you’re really high. Off something real.” You let go of him and push his chest backwards, peeling the blankets from your legs and standing. “What’d you take?”

“Nothing, I–”

“Bucky, stop it. What did you take?”

He sits up, shoulders slumping as he faces his consequences. “Just did a rail or two.”

“Of what?”

“Coke.” He shrugs. “S’not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is. Why would you do that?”

“I really don’t understand why you’re so mad.” He starts to raise his voice, and finally gets on his feet, looking down at you and crossing his arms while he speaks to you.

“Because, I–”

“You’re not my mother, you know.”

You worry for a moment about Steve and Sam. They’re surely sleeping, and with your escalating voices, you’re on the verge of ruining their sleep, if you haven’t already.

“I don’t have to be your mother to know that going to some party and sniffing blow that you got from some stranger is a stupid fucking thing to do.”

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Wasn’t a stranger.”

“Oh, my apologies.” You reply sarcastically. “It’s fine, then, because you knew whose it was! That’s perfectly safe.” You feel heat creep up your neck, spreading to your cheeks and ears as you grow more upset.

“Maybe you should’ve tried some! You wouldn’t have such a huge stick up your ass right now!” Your jaw tightens, as if a physical restraint to prevent you from responding. You stay silent, grabbing a pillow and pulling the blanket from the bed, turning in the direction of the door. “What are you doing?”

“Couch. I don’t want to even look at you right now.” Hot tears threaten to escape your eyes, but you keep your composure.

He watches you walk with purpose down the hallway, and hears you shuffle as you set up your temporary bed. “You’re so over-dramatic.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.” You insist, and hope he’ll leave you alone until the morning. You just want to sleep.

“You’re such a fuckin’ bitch sometimes!” He spits, and your heart drops to your ass. He’s never called you anything like that before.

“Fuck you!”

Steve pokes his head out of his bedroom, hair messy and eyes half-lidded, to see Bucky half-naked and seething in front of him. “Hey, man, what’s going on?”

You breathe a sigh of relief, glad that Bucky will maybe start yelling at somebody else.

“I did a couple lines ‘n she’s freaking out.”

“Wait, you did what?”

“C–”

“No, I know what you’re talking about, I just...Why?”

“Jesus Christ, is everyone in this house a fuckin’ goody-two-shoes?”

Steve ignores the question. “Did you just call Y/N a bitch?”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’s being a bitch!” He shouts it because he wants you to hear it, and the tears finally fall down your cheeks. You bite the inside of your lip and maintain your silence, uninterested in returning the blow.

“I’m sure she’s just–”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“I can’t sleep when you’re yelling.”

“Well, this isn’t any of your business.”

“Just call it a night, Buck. You’re gonna have to climb out of this hole in the morning.”

Bucky shakes his head and disappears into his bedroom, slamming the door. Steve huffs tiredly and goes back to sleep.

You wake up to a plate of breakfast and a mug of hot coffee in your boyfriend’s outstretched hand. He sets them on the small table beside the couch while you sit up and stretch your arms.

“Morning.” He says timidly.

“Hey.” You grumble, unsure if you’re ready to accept whatever half-assed apology he’s about to give you. If there’s one thing Bucky is consistent about, it’s never admitting when he’s wrong.

“I’m really sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“I shouldn't've spoken to you like that.”

“You’re right.”

“I was being stupid. You were right.”

You nod, and take a pause before extending your arms to him, asking silently for him to come closer. You hug him tightly, kissing his head. “I was just worried.”

“I know you were.”

“Just be safe next time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan smut #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan fluff #bucky barnes angst #sebastian stan angst

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ellsbclls · 3 years

Text

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here.

Your secret hideaway.

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response. “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare.

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you.

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice. “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way.

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her? “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.”

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb. “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach.

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking.

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening.

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake.

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss.

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines.

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse.

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears.

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill.

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open.

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene — opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you.

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that.

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you. “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland blurb #tom holland oneshot #I CAN NOT BELIEVE I ACTUALLY FUCKING FINISHED THIS #the way this magically climbed from 4.7 to 9.5k in one day will never cease to amaze me #and i hope that this spawns a new love and excitement for country boy tom because i love arvin but #BOY does that man scare me a lil bit #this is more like a . . hart of dixie type of country #more apple pie! less homicide!#I ALSO DONT KNOW WHA THAPPENED TO THE SMUT THIS IS LIKE 40% SMUT #anyway i really do hope yall enjoy #mine*

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