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kikyoupdates · 4 months ago

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Tears of a Villainess ⭑˚🗡️⭑ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒: 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒

yandere!ocs x reader

yandere, reverse harem, isekai, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, slowburn yandere

Reincarnation isn't as great as it sounds, especially when you've been reborn as none other than the villainess. Fated to die if you stand in the heroine's way, you immediately resolve to distance yourself from the plot. As long as you have nothing to do with any of the relevant characters, surely, you'll be able to avoid an untimely death. But in a horrible turn of events, the heroine ends up wanting to get close to you. Are you really doomed to meet the villainess' tragic end? Or is there an even more sinister fate that awaits you?

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Nobody likes the villainess.

This is because in virtually every novel, anime, or game, she is designed to be the heroine’s adversary. She is given little to no redeemable qualities, so that people will sympathize with the heroine that much more. While people root for the heroine to succeed, they also root for the villainess to fail—and inevitably, she does.

The game you’ve just finished playing is no exception.

“Wow. The villainess died in this ending too, huh?”

You rub your eyes. It’s late, nearly halfway through the night already. You have a bad habit of getting sucked into the games you play and losing track of time. You’ll be dead on your feet tomorrow, but you suppose that’s nothing special. At least you managed to clear all the major routes. There might’ve been some secret endings you missed, but you’ll go back and find those another day.

A heavy yawn falls from your lips. You lean back and stretch your arms out before closing your laptop and standing up from your desk.

As far as dating sims go, this one wasn’t too bad. The plot was predictable enough, but the characters were a lot more interesting than you were expecting. The heroine was perhaps a bit more naive than you would’ve liked, but you enjoyed her dynamic with each of the love interests, and all in all, it made for a likable cast.

Except for the villainess, of course. Nobody ever likes the villainess.

You start washing up and getting ready for bed, thoughts lingering all the while. If only the villainess had more depth to her. It’s a common trend in all of these fantasy-themed dating sims. Like, you understand that she’s meant to be an antagonist, but she’s still human, at the end of the day. Isn’t she allowed to have any sympathetic traits? Anything that could possibly make the player understand why she behaves the way that she does?

It’s practically an unwritten rule that villainess characters are required to be devoid of any actual substance. Their purpose is simply to torment the heroine, and somewhere down the road, face penance for their crimes.

The whole trope has been done to death by this point. Just once, can’t they come up with a more realistic villainess, who isn’t pure evil and has the capacity for normal human emotion? It’s true that antagonists are meant to be disliked, but you would still be much more appreciative of a credible and well-developed adversary. It would definitely enrich the story.

If you were ever to be put in charge of the villainess character, you’d like to think that you would do her justice.

But, well, that obviously won’t happen.

You get into bed, pile on some blankets, then flick your nightstand lamp off. Darkness comes quickly, signaling your weary eyelids to fall shut. Exhausted from a long night, you fall asleep right away.

Blissfully unaware.

Shit… it’s so bright.

As always, it takes a while for your eyes to open, and they do so with remarkable reluctance. You would think that since you’re not at all a morning person, you would get into the habit of going to bed early, but no, you’re determined to make the experience as painful as possible every time.

“G-Good morning, Lady [Name]. It’s time to wake up now. Did you sleep well?”

There’s a voice in the room. There’s a voice in the room, and it isn’t yours, which is kind of a big deal, because you live alone.

You jolt upright in bed, suddenly wide awake. “The fuck?! Who are you?”

It takes a few seconds for the blurriness to fade from your eyes, but when it finally does, you find yourself staring at a young woman you most certainly do not recognize. She has a meek, almost fearful expression, and her shoulders seem to be trembling a bit.

Why does she look so scared? You’re the one who’s supposed to be scared in this situation. After all, you just woke up with a goddamn stranger in your room.

Except… is this even your room?

On second glance, you realize that this doesn’t look anything like your bedroom. It’s countless times bigger, for one, not to mention how extravagantly decorated it is. Rather than a bedroom for a debt-addled university student, it looks more like the kind of chambers a princess might sleep in.

“I-I’m not sure what you mean, my lady,” the woman stammers in response. “Please forgive my rudeness. I was told to wake you at this hour because your fiancé is coming to visit this morning.”

“Huh…?”

You’re still gaping from having looked around the room, which is without a doubt, not the same old crappy bedroom you’re used to. But now that you finally look back at her, you realize that she’s equally as strange as the surroundings you find yourself in.

“Is that a maid outfit?” you ask.

She blinks twice, then casts a quick glance towards her attire. Obviously, she must not understand the purpose of the question, because her brows knit together in visible confusion.

“Yes, it is,” she nods hastily. There’s a pause, and then she looks scared again. “Does it… displease you? You said before you didn’t like the previous design. I-I can run down to the seamstress and have her come up with a different uniform that’s more to your tastes. Please forgive me for upsetting you this early in the morning.”

She bows deeply, as if she’s seeking to be absolved for some grave sin. You still don’t understand what the hell is going on, but based on how she’s dressed, and the way she keeps referring to you, it seems unlikely that she’s here to cause you any harm.

Actually, what did she call you earlier?”

“[Name],” you repeat, pointing to yourself. The maid cautiously raises her head and looks up at you, and you proceed to point again. “When you say that, are you… referring to me?”

Once again, she looks confused beyond belief, but despite that, she nods in agreement.

Well, then. This is awkward. Because as far as you remember, that is not your name.

You’re not sure what else to do but jump out of bed, and you run to the first mirror you can spot. As it so happens, there’s a massive vanity in the room, and it quickly confirms your greatest fears.

“Holy fuck.”

This isn’t your body. For as many years as you’ve lived, you have never looked like this. Even your voice sounds a bit different than usual, but you initially chalked that up to morning grogginess.

Slowly but surely, it’s all coming together, and you can’t even believe just how absurd this situation is.

You know who you are now. Having gotten a good look at yourself, but not only that, having heard how that maid referred to you, there’s no longer any doubt in your mind.

[Name]. You know that name all too well.

It’s none other than the villainess from the goddamn dating sim you just played.

You pinch your cheeks, and much to your horror, you can feel the pain. All of this is far too realistic and far too lucid for it to be a simple dream. The more time passes, the more you become viscerally aware of that fact.

This has seriously got to be a fucking joke.

When you said you had a tendency to get sucked into the games you played, you didn’t mean it literally!

“My lady,” the maid mumbles hesitantly. You notice that she’s incredibly wary of you, and is mindful of keeping as much distance as possible. “Is everything… alright? I-I’m very sorry if I’m overstepping. I just worry that… you might not be feeling well. Should I call for a doctor?”

Now you understand why she’s so skittish around you. In the game, the villainess treated everyone around her cruelly, including the maids and servants who’d waited on her for years. She was a true bitch in every sense of the word, just like every other one of her villainess predecessors, but now, it falls on you to take her place.

This is a big problem.

Because as far as you know, the only fate that awaits you in this world is death.

“I’m fine,” you reassure, smiling for good measure. Right. There’s no sense in panicking right off the bat. You’re sure there must be a solution. For the time being, you need to come to terms with everything. “Um… I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name. Anyways, would you please step out of the room so I can change? I'm still a bit drowsy. I’ll feel better once you give me a few minutes.”

The maid tries—but fails—to hide her shock. Something about what you just said must have tripped her up. The part about forgetting what to call her, maybe? Or perhaps your overall demeanor is off. It’s true that you’ve been acting kind of crazy, like questioning your own name and whatnot.

Well, hopefully she doesn’t read into it too much.

While the maid scampers off and shuts the door behind her, you start pacing around the room. It’s massive, so it actually feels less like pacing and more like walking laps around a field, but that’s neither here nor there.

You’ve been reincarnated into a dating sim, as the villainess who is destined to die in all of the game’s major endings. No matter who the heroine ends up with, her happy ending will come at the expense of your life.

But that’s only if you actually adhere to the plot, right?

You don’t know how the mechanics of this universe function. Even though this is a video game, it feels every bit the same as living in the real world. Of course, this fictional world was constructed around the plot, and you have no way of knowing if the world will continue to exist should things go awry.

Still, you’re willing to bet that it should. After all, the villainess is just a bland, disposable character. Her only purpose is to create conflict and add pressure to the heroine’s life. If you deliberately avoid crucial stages of the plot, doesn’t that mean that the heroine will naturally fall in love with one of her suitors and get her happily ever after? There doesn’t need to be a villainess in this story. Or in any story, for that matter.

You turn back towards the vanity to get another look at yourself. It feels so strange to stare back into a reflection that isn’t truly your own. But you don’t know how you’ll ever get back to your old world, and if such a thing is even possible anymore.

For better or worse, you will have to live on.

Lady [Name]. The villainess who attempted to thwart the heroine at every turn, and who made it her life’s mission to bring nothing but misfortune to those around her.

That is who you’ve been reborn as, and needless to say, it’s going to take a lot of getting used to.

“...think she must have eaten something rotten last night,” you can just vaguely hear someone whispering. “She even said sorry to me! And she acted like she didn’t know her own name!”

When you step out into the hallway after getting dressed, you aren’t at all surprised to hear people gossiping about you. As you surmised, it’s the same maid from earlier, the one who woke you up, and she’s chatting up a storm to practically anyone who’s willing to listen.

However, everyone’s faces turn pale when they see you approaching, and the poor maid snaps her lips shut as if she’s a clam. It seriously looks like she just saw her life flash before her eyes.

The servants all seem to fear you, and rightfully so. In the game, even though nothing was ever shown from the villainess’ perspective, it was still common knowledge that she mistreated her housestaff. She was a pompous, spoiled brat who clearly thought she was above everyone else. That cruel attitude of hers naturally carried over to her treatment of the heroine, and to far greater extremes.

It’s true that you’ve been reborn as the villainess, but that doesn’t mean that you have to be a villainess. In fact, you think it would be in your best interest to turn your reputation around. Surely then, you’ll have no way of getting caught up in nasty business with the heroine. You don’t want anyone to take issue with you. After all, the more enemies you have, the more likely you are to be killed.

Besides, it’s also just common decency to not act like a bitch.

“L-Lady [Name],” the same maid blanches. She’s clearly horrified to have been caught gossiping, and she brings her hands together, already begging to be forgiven. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I just—”

“Don’t worry about it,” you dismiss, letting slip a chuckle. “I was acting pretty strange this morning, huh? I guess I just didn’t get a good night’s sleep. But I’m feeling much better now. Anyways, I hope all of you are having a lovely morning so far!”

You walk off confidently, feeling as though you’ve taken yet another step towards restoring the villainess’ horrible reputation.

It’s not going to be that easy, though.

“She must have been possessed by a spirit…”

While everyone is losing their heads due to your sudden change in demeanor, you take the opportunity to walk through the manor and familiarize yourself with your surroundings. From what you remember, [Name] is the daughter of wealthy, reputable nobles. Her father is an affluent man with many connections, and it follows that she would grow up to be incredibly full of herself, used to always getting whatever she wants.

Seriously. Can’t these villainesses ever have more inspired backstories?

You shake your head in disbelief. Well, whatever. Perhaps it’s better that you don’t come from a tragic background. If there’s one benefit to being transported to this world, it’s the fact that you at least don’t have any more debts or student loans to worry about.

Then again, none of that will matter if you end up dead. You need to remember that every decision you make from now on could end up impacting your future in a big way.

Amongst the chaos of waking up in a completely new body, however, you’ve forgotten a very crucial piece of information. Something the maid mentioned earlier, which has since slipped your mind.

“[Name]!” someone suddenly exclaims. It’s a woman you don’t recognize, but she’s dressed immaculately and bears a striking resemblance to you, so you assume she must be your mother.

“Good morning,” you greet. You’re not sure what the right etiquette is for whenever nobles greet their parents, so you curtsy awkwardly.

Your mother just stares at you, and the silence is palpable.

Looks like that was a swing and a miss.

“What’s the matter with you?” she then frowns, gesturing towards your general appearance. “Why do you look so unkempt? I thought I reminded you last night that your fiancé would be visiting today. He’s just arrived and will be joining us for breakfast. And you expect to greet him in such a state?”

“I look nice,” you say simply.

“You aren’t even properly zipped up in the back. And did you even put on any makeup? Good grief. Which incompetent maid dressed you this morning? I’ll need to have a word with her.”

You’d rather not get anyone in trouble, especially since that one maid in particular looked like she was fighting for her life.

“I dressed myself today,” you confess.

Your mother’s eyes widen. “What? Why in the world would you do that when you have countless servants to do it for you?”

“Um… I don't know. Just for fun, I guess.”

She proceeds to give you that same quiet yet judgmental look from earlier, but after a heavy sigh, she relents.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore,” she grumbles, fiddling with the zippers of your dress and adjusting everything in place. She fusses over you for a while, but finally, she appears satisfied. Well, somewhat, at least. “That will have to do. You wouldn’t want to keep your guest waiting. Come along.”

She gestures for you to follow, which is actually a lucky break, because you were pretty much lost before she showed up.

Your mother walks for a while, then stops before a large door.

“He’s already waiting inside,” she tells you. “Make sure to be on your best behavior. We want this arrangement to go well. Alright?”

You nod in agreement. You’re not sure whether the villainess was well-behaved or not, but surely it can’t hurt to have your parents’ approval. You’ll need their resources and support if you ever land yourself in hot water.

Thus, you step inside the room to meet with your fiancé. But you’ve been so caught up in all the craziness that you actually forgot exactly who that fiancé was.

Soon enough, he’s looking you dead in the eye.

“Good morning, [Name]. I’m truly fortunate to meet with you so early in the day.”

The young man bows politely, and when he raises his head, there’s a subtle, practiced smile on his lips. It’s the smile of someone who is well-versed in etiquette and knows how to behave around others, but it isn’t a genuine smile, and certainly not the smile of someone who is happy to see their fiancée.

After all, he has no interest in you. He will never have any interest in you.

He is Alistair Calderwood, and he is destined to fall in love with the heroine.

You don’t respond. His was the first route you ever played in the game, so you’d almost forgotten that technically speaking, he was the villainess’ fiancé to start. It was one of the main reasons she harassed the heroine. Because their engagement fell through.

“[Name]?” your mother frowns. She chuckles weakly, unsettled by your silence, then outright jabs you in the ribs. “What are you doing? Hurry up and greet him!”

Greet him. Right, you have to greet him. It’s the normal thing to do. You’re meant to greet your fiancé, then enjoy a nice breakfast together.

But if you stick to normalcy, to the way things are supposed to go, you’ll end up dead faster than you know it.

So, fuck being normal. You’ve already decided what the right course of action is.

“Hello, Alistair,” you say, responding to his bow with a polite curtsy. “It’s nice to see you too. Thank you for coming all this way, but…”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to finish your sentence, but nothing could have prepared him for what you’re about to say.

“...I think we should break off our engagement.”

Alistair’s jaw drops open. So does your mother’s, for that matter. Even the servant standing idle in the corner of the room lets out a quiet gasp and covers their mouth with the palm of their hand.

As for you?

You can hardly contain your smile.

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best-overplayed-song · 2 years ago

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Best Overplayed Song Bracket (part two) - round one

full playlist here

side A

dreams (fleetwood mac) vs here comes the sun

yesterday vs the sound of silence

old town road vs jolene

it’s tricky vs low

despacito vs smooth

some nights vs take me to church

stolen dance vs cigarette daydreams

every breath you take vs billie jean

tiny dancer vs hey jude

what’s up? vs dreams (the cranberries)

drops of jupiter vs over my head (cable car)

wake me up when september ends vs wonderwall

welcome to the black parade vs all the small things

somebody to love vs killer queen

californication vs santeria

escape (the pina colada song) vs margaritaville

roxanne vs brown eyed girl

sweet home alabama vs free fallin’

edge of seventeen vs you spin me round

american pie vs life is a highway

freebird vs stairway to heaven

everybody wants to rule the world vs don’t fear the reaper

we didn’t start the fire vs don’t stop me now

stacy’s mom vs we built this city

the chain vs we will rock you

immigrant song vs seven nation army

the final countdown vs eye of the tiger

sweet child o’ mine vs highway to hell

livin’ on a prayer vs i love rock n’ roll

one way or another vs zombie

side B

bubbly vs unwritten

careless whisper vs time after time

dancing queen vs september

everywhere vs little lies

get lucky vs boom, boom, boom, boom!!

hey, soul sister vs best day of my life

a thousand miles vs i’m like a bird

i want it that way vs oops!... i did it again

bad romance vs toxic

wake me up vs stronger (what doesn’t kill you)

before he cheats vs love song

firework vs born this way

i write sins not tragedies vs dynamite

poker face vs tik tok

tongue tied vs truth hurts

payphone vs fireflies

just dance vs ...baby one more time

like a prayer vs running up that hill

sugar, we’re goin’ down vs dog days are over

rolling in the deep vs ironic

pompeii vs centuries

thnks fr th mmrs vs ain’t it fun

love shack vs video killed the radio star

mr. blue sky vs hooked on a feeling

viva la vida vs paradise

total eclipse of the heart vs in the air tonight

feel it still vs pumped up kicks

YMCA vs 867-5309/jenny

blinding lights vs take on me

africa vs more than a feeling

View previous bracket here

#best overplayed song bracket #tumblr bracket

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thewulf · 11 months ago

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I Want To || Darrel "Darry" Curtis

Summary: Request - Can you do a Darry Curtis x Female Reader where she's pony's bestfriend bc they live in houses really close (greasers and all). She's always had eyes for Darry and he her but bc she was so much younger... Read Rest Here

A/N: For the sake of the story I made reader the same age as Soda (16 going on 17) BUT still Pony’s best friend because Soda is also Pony’s bestie. They’re all a buncha besties (including Johnny!!). Reader is v soft lol. Thank you for the request as always! Hope you like it :)

Pairing: Darrel "Darry" Curtis x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.7k +

TW: crying, shaking, panic attacks, angsty

Shivers racked down your spine as you realized the Soc boys were actually following you. You’d had a sneaking suspicion they were following you after your friends peeled away to their respective houses on their walks home. But you’d all but confirmed it when you purposefully took the wrong street to see if they were in fact following you. They were.

Peaking over your shoulder you shuddered seeing the Soc boys car creeping along behind you. They wouldn’t jump a girl would they? You didn’t think they would, but then again, ever since Pony up and disappeared not too long ago leaving one of them dead, Bob Sheldon, things had changed. They stopped playing by the unwritten rules between groups after Johnny apparently stabbed him, killing him.

Where was Dallas when you needed him to walk you home? It truly was the first time you had been alone since Ponyboy, and Johnny vanished four days ago. Soda made sure to walk you to school. Dally or Two-Bit picked you up. They weren’t taking an eye off you, no. Not after the comments Steve and Soda heard at the gas station from other random kids about the Soc’s revenge. Randy had a plan, and you were a part of it.

You continued walking trying your best to come up with a strategy. It was the damn blue mustang which meant you really had to figure this one out. Randy was following you. Bob was Randy’s best friend and if he was as crazy as you thought he was he might just try and kill you in retaliation for his own friends death. You wouldn’t put it past the man who thought he was above all else.

Without so much as a second thought you booked it across lawns, making sure to take every way but the road hoping to lose the creeping Soc’s. You didn’t have time for tears now, no. You had to get to the Curtis household. One of them would be home. If not one of them then surely Dally, Two-Bit or Steve was there. Somebody had to be there. It was home away from home, there was always a random boy there.

Fortunately for you, you knew the area a little bit better than Randy and whatever fool was in his passenger seat did. You full out sprinted towards the Curtis residence when you finally made it their street. You flew past your house knowing nobody was home to make sure they wouldn’t actually kill you.

You heard the tire screech of the blue mustang gun it as you made it towards the unassuming house just a few roads down from yours. You flew through the front door gasping for breaths before slamming the front door closed, locking everything you could in your field of vision.

“Darry! Soda!” You called out between heaving breaths and throwing your backpack on the ground in front of the door like it’d stop them if they came barging through. They wouldn’t though. They knew better than to fuck with the Curtis household. Darrel was a lot of things, but he’d never take getting attacked in his own home.

“Jesus Christ kid. You about knocked the damn door off it’s hinges!” Darry’s booming voice bellowed from the kitchen before he saw your shaking frame hiding away from the front door. He stepped closer before much more calmly asking, “Hey, what’s the matter Bubs?” It was rare for him to call you that let alone with that caring voice. It’s like he knew how frustratingly attractive you found him. But no, nothing could happen. You were his kid brothers best friend. Off limits or some stupid shit like that.

You just pointed towards the door shaking your head, “Randy.” He caught just how shaky you were. You must’ve been terrified he’d concluded. He wished Soda was home so he could comfort you. He prayed for Pony’s return, but he just knew it’d be a while before he saw that kid once again. But he knew. He knew Ponyboy would come home. He couldn’t leave his brothers. He couldn’t leave you.

He looked towards the front lawn through the windows before turning back to you and grumbling a quick, “Stay here.” He was out the front door faster than you could protest. You paced back and forth through the living room into the kitchen and back. You were nervous. Nervous for him. Nervous for Pony and Johnny. Nervous about it all.

He walked back through the door before shutting it, “They’re gone kid.”

You frowned at the nickname. It was like he was mocking you. You knew it was exactly right having a big old crush on your friends older brother. Your own friend. The man who grew up faster than he wanted too to help Soda, Ponyboy and you have somewhat of a normal childhood. The man you had admired for a long, long time. The woman he chose to marry would be one hell of a lucky lady you had concluded. The man loved harder than anybody you had known. He cared so deeply for those around him. He pushed people hard because he knew he could get the best out of them. He wanted more for you guys than he ever had a chance at. His life was decided for him fairly quickly once his parents had passed. He wouldn’t have changed it other than them staying alive.

You placed your hands behind your back to hide their shakiness, “Thanks for checking Darry.”

“You ‘lright?” He walked towards you giving you a once

“I’m fine.” You hummed looking at the ground instead of him.

“You’re shaking bubs.” He noticed. Because he always did. He noticed everything. There was nothing you could realistically hide from him.

You straightened under his gaze, “Adrenaline or whatever. I’m still trying to catch my breath. You know I don’t run by choice Darry.”

His eyes scoured over your body once more before smiling at you poking fun at yourself, “Alright. If you say so. Why were you walking home alone anyway? You heard Soda and Steve. It’s dangerous.” His tone tightened up after he knew you were okay. That was one of the things you had grown to adore about the man.

You smiled knowing that was much more like him, snapping at you for being so thoughtless, “I waited! Nobody showed up.” You tried defending yourself, but you should’ve known Darry wasn’t going to lose this argument.

“You could’ve called. I would’ve gotten you.” His eyes burned into yours as you had to look up to meet his stare. You certainly didn’t feel like his kid brothers best friend in that moment. You felt seen. So seen by the man you held so dearly in your heart. How were you supposed to go on dates with other greasers when they were such knuckleheads compared to the man you had grown to love and adore? It was pointless and a big waste of your time.

“I thought you were at work. Can you blame me? You’re always there.”

He rolled his eyes, “Soda would’ve came.”

“He’s working Darry!” You countered with amusement in your voice.

But he wasn’t amused. Not by your terrified glance towards the door. Not by the shaking that still had yet to subside. But he cooled it knowing the reason he lost Pony was because he blew up at him. He couldn’t do that to you too, “Look, kid. I promise I’m not yelling at you. I just need you to be careful. Randy’s out there looking for revenge. And I really can’t stand the thought of him putting a hand on you. So please, for our sake just be more careful. I can’t protect Pony right now, but I can you. Let me.”

You nodded up at him, “I can do that.”

His eyes looked from yours back down to your trembling frame, “You’re still shaking bubs.”

With the look that he was giving you it felt like you were going to confess all your feelings right then and there. Thank goodness you didn’t. Even though you had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly how you felt about him.

“I can’t stop.” You admitted knowing a lie would be too obvious at this point.

He walked over and grabbed a blanket from the couch, “Come here

You shook your head, “You don’t have to Dar. This is enough.”

He ignored you, instead ducking into the kitchen, “I want to. Coffee or tea?” He asked you once more.

“Tea would be great.” You answered him knowing he was going to make one or the other if you didn’t answer. It was his style, his love language. He wanted to take care of those he loved and you fell right into it.

“A little milk and sugar. Just how you like it.” He smiled setting the mug down in front of you on the coffee table.

You looked at the tea, then to him and then back to the tea with a flush coating your cheeks. You sure weren’t doing a good job hiding those feelings, “Thanks Darry.”

He took a seat on the couch next to you, “You got it, bubs.”

You grinned looking over to him, “Haven’t heard you call me that in years.”

He huffed looking away from you, “It fits.”

“I’ll take it.” You grabbed for the tea letting it warm your hands before taking a sip, “It’s better than being called kid.”

He looked over to you, “You are just a kid.”

“I’m almost seventeen, Darry. Momma’s already talking about sending me off to college.” You laughed at the ridiculous thought, “Like we have the money for that. I’m sure I’ll end up at the grocery store or gas station.”

He shook his head so fast you would’ve missed it if you weren’t already looking at him, “You’re meant for so much more. I’ll tell you what, since you’re almost seventeen or whatever I’ll stop calling you kid if you let me call you bubs.”

You smiled at the sweet sentiment, “I don’t think so Darry. I think I’m right where I’m meant to be. You know, not everybody wants to run away from this life. I wish I could take this burden from you Darry. But I can’t. I’m also not going to pretend I hate this life because I don’t. And I’ll take it. Bubs it is.”

He looked down feeling it all hit him at once, “You ain’t a burden. None of you are. I just want you guys to have a choice. I didn’t.”

You took a long pause not sure if you wanted to say it. But there was a reason Ponyboy had run away with Johnny. Maybe he needed to know, “Sometimes it feels like it.”

You heard him suck in a breath surely not expecting this conversation to go on between the two of you tonight, “’m sorry bubs. So sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You wanted him to look at you. He was so freaking handsome and God all you wanted him to do was look right at you. You wanted to reassure him. He was a good older brother. He was doing the right things even if he couldn’t properly express them to his kid brothers. He loved and he cared even if they couldn’t see it. You knew he felt like he was failing but he wasn’t. Ponyboy was just learning and growing.

He shook his head, “I don’t think you ever get mad.”

You laughed this time, “I get mad at Pony and Soda all the time. I just don’t get mad at you.” You shrugged setting down the tea knowing you had opened the conversation wide open now.

He gave you a curious glance as he studied your still trembling hands. You were doing a good job at hiding it, but he noticed, “Is that so?”

You grinned, “I guess it’s your old wiseness. How could I get mad at that?”

“Hey smartass. You want dinner?”

You laughed feeling like the weight had finally been lifted off your shoulders, “There’s the Darry I know.”

He scooted closer to you sensing something was off with you. It wasn’t like him to press but something told him he needed to, “I’m going to ask you one more time. Are you alright?” It wasn’t lost on you that he was looking at your fidgety form under the oversized blanket that framed you. How could you lie to him?

“I’m scared Darry.” Your voice wavered as you tried your hardest to keep the welling tears unshed, “I’m scared for Ponyboy. For Johnny. I’m so scared they’ll never make it home.” And the thought of it made you spill those tears right in front of his oldest brother. You thanked whatever lucky stars you had that Sodapop wasn’t home. You could only take this humiliation in front of one brother.

Without so much of a second thought he pulled you right into his arms. Which meant you were sitting right in his lap. He pushed your head down into the crook oh his neck while he let his hands run up and down your back. He felt your cries before he heard you. You were fighting with all your might not to break down in front of him but his softness towards you was making it all the harder.

“Shh, It’ll be alright sweet girl.” You felt him give you a gentle squeeze, pulling you closer into his chest before he continued, “You really think Ponyboy won’t come home to us? To you? That kid is so lost without you. He’ll be back. I can’t promise you much, but I can promise you that.” He rocked you back and forth in his arms in complete silence. The only sound coming from you muffled cries. He held you longer than he needed. You’d stopped crying into his chest nearly five minutes ago, but he simply held you. One hand around your back and one hand cradling your head. It was exactly what you needed. Dally always knew.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.” He whispered as he held you. You fisted at the denim shirt he had on grounding yourself into him.

You pulled back looking over his concerned face. Why him? Why did you have to fall in love with the one person who would never love you like you loved him back? You took a shaky breath, “Thank you Darrel. I couldn’t do this without you.”

He brushed the stray tears away from your face, “Can I tell you something? Between me and you?”

You nodded quickly feeling the shivers run up and down your body from his hand running up and down your back as if was second nature. You were wear for Darry Curtis and everybody knew it. He had to know, had to, “You can tell me anything Darry.”

He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “I think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Inside and out.”

Your eyes shot to his with a wide expression, “Say you’re serious Darry.” You couldn’t believe him. In all your years of pining. Of making it rather of how you felt about him. You never even caught a hint that he could feel the same for you. This was new and so wonderfully different than the Darry you knew. Was a major breakdown all you needed to break down his walls?

“’m so serious, bubs. When am I not?” He smirked knowing he had you beat there. He was the most serious guy you knew. Everyone knew it. Don’t mess with Darry Curtis.

“You got me there Mr. Curtis.” A laugh escaped you as you burrowed your head into his neck once more, “Can I tell you something Darry?”

He smiled looking down at you curled into his body. You were too cute clinging to him. He didn’t want to admit how many times he’d imagined something of the sort. How could he think of you like that? He knew you since you were six. You moved in down the street and were fast friends with Soda and toddler Pony. Pony was attached at your hip and the rest was history. You might’ve been two years older than him, but you treated him like your equal. He loved that about you.

“You can tell me anything pretty girl.” His smirk only grew as he felt you grinning into his chest. Darry had always adored the spit fire of a girl. You were a born greaser, through and through. You had a mouth, but you had hands to back it up. Darry or Soda had to step in on your behalf many times because the Soc’s refused to fight a girl. You’d been roughed up a few times to ‘put you back into your place’ but it never worked. Your mouth only got bigger. You’d become a staple in their life so seamlessly that Darry couldn’t imagine his without you in it. He didn’t know when he started to like you, nor did he know when he fell in love with you. But he knew it. By the way he wanted to comfort you. The way he craved to see you smile. How he wanted to rip Randy’s head right off when he saw your face of terror. He loved you. And he was tired of hiding it for his kid brothers sake. Like you said, you weren’t a kid anymore. They could handle it.

“You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” It came out with less confidence than you would’ve liked but it was out, nonetheless.

He gave you a squeeze, “Can I tell you one more thing?”

“You can” You nodded your head on his chest. Your heart rate rising at what he could possibly tell you.

“I love you.” He let out a sigh, “Yeah, I love you a whole lot.”

You pulled away from him for a moment. Shock taking over, “You do?”

“I do.” He answered back quickly trying to hinder any doubts you might’ve had.

“That’s great.” You smiled up him. Your eyes ran over his features as you really looked at him up close without any interruption. He was so handsome, so freaking pretty. It was unreal. Your finger ran over a curl that had made its way over his eye. You brushed it away so you could look into his light blue ones.

“Is it?” He smiled as he too looked right back into your eyes, relishing in the small touches you had given him. He shivered slightly at your touch as goosebumps ran down his back. Oh, he was a sure sucker for you.

You hummed while continuing to brush your hands thought his hair. He’d just showered, fresh from any of the greasy gel he’d yet to put in it. Your hand glided seamlessly over the semi-damp curls that framed his face so beautifully, “It is. Wanna know why?”

“Tell me.” He played along with you. Darry rarely had patience, but you seemed to be the exception. You seemed to calm him instead of aggravating him. You pushed his buttons in the right way. He knew a girl like you would never come around again in his lifetime. If he didn’t go for you he’d have to settle for somebody and wonder what his life could have become if he didn’t take the leap with you. He wasn’t going to let that happen though. No, he was taking his chance.

“Because I love you too.”

The words were something Darry Curtis wish he could have recorded to play back. You had loved him too. He was sure those lingering glances and longing stares hadn’t meant nothing.

He smiled, more than elated by your admission, “Let me take you out on a proper date then. Friday for dinner. What do you say sweet girl?”

You grinned at the newest nickname. How you’d gone from kid to bubs to sweet girl within a day should’ve given you whiplash. But you were more than happy for the change. It might’ve seemed oh so sudden to everyone around you, but it had been years in the making between the two of you. Pony never noticed a thing. Soda noticed everything. Darry ignored it for a while, until he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Sounds like a plan.” You brushed your hand along his cheek just wanting to touch him. You couldn’t help the smile that overcame you after seeing the trail of goosebumps your fingers left, “I’m not telling Soda though. That’s up to you.” You stuck your tongue out knowing you left him with the worst part of the whole ordeal.

“If that’s what it takes then I’ll happily tell that little grease head. And Pony too when he makes his way back. Serves him right for cutting out on us like that.” His smile grew as he saw your face light up in joy at his words. He was all in. He was fine telling them. He wanted them to know. He wanted people to know you were his. Certain assholes named Randy would back off. He could properly protect you without it being too overbearing. His heart nearly burst out of his chest when he saw your terror-stricken face not only an hour prior. He nearly broke down as you were sobbing into him, clinging to his shirt with your life. He knew it was now or never with you and he wanted to commit. He wanted you. He always had and now was the time to take.

You laughed at him making light of a situation that was already so hard for him. He was so strong for everyone. Especially for you, “It’s a date then.”

A sigh of relief left his throat as he pulled you in for another long hug, “Finally. I’m going to take you out to the nicest dinner.”

You shook your head, “You don’t have to do that.”

He chucked loving that you hadn’t moved from his lap. He could seriously get used to this. It wasn’t often he got alone time around here, let alone with just you. He needed to cherish this time with you knowing it came around few and far in between.

“Like I said,” He brushed a stray hair away from your face as you looked his over, “I want to. For you, I want to do anything and everything.”

Permanent Taglist (Message me or comment below if you want to be added!) : @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891

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interroblog · 9 months ago

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I started free writing last week and it tripled my daily word counts so I feel the need to evangelize 👀

I’m in the “figuring out what happens in this story” stage of plotting which is what it’s been really great for, but I can see it helping any time you need to solve problems or get ideas. Here’s the rules I use for myself, hopefully someone else will find it helpful

Write every thought. All of my free writing sessions start with a ramble about how I’m going to start free writing, then I write all the things I could explore until I latch onto one and go.

No thought is too undeveloped. Even if it’s a poorly written sentence fragment or idea about an idea… it might lead to something else, so it goes in.

Chase your ideas! If I’m writing about one idea and I suddenly get another, I’ll just immediately swap to writing about that. I can always finish that other idea later, but I know I’d forget about the new one. It’s easier to remember a half-written idea than a fully unwritten one.

Writing something doesn’t mean I’m going with it. I’ve written down ideas then immediately after added “But I don’t like that because (reason)”. It almost always leads me to writing about another idea that I like a lot more

Basically, it’s not about what you write. It’s about the ideas it leads you to. It’s so helpful for making me get out of my head and solidify thoughts so I can build on them. I’ll put three excerpts from my free writing doc under the cut to show off the different levels of “quality”

“there’s only one bridge into this area, it’s closed for flooding after snow melt. So that’s why they’re stuck in this area. Amp brings them back to his cabin? Doesn’t want to let a bunch of kids sleep outside. There’s two layers to his interactions, the truth that he would die for these fuckers because they are his family- and the lie he’s telling them. It’s the latter I’m trying to figure out.

they first meet him at the gas station, then later [note: here I skipped to the next line to follow a new thought I had, then never went back to finish this one because it connected back anyway]

They’re camping in the woods when they see something tall and inhuman. The moonlight reaches it and they see amp with a torch and a bag (torch??? Who am i) of food, fire starter, and a blanket (given to Saint, who then forces tab to share it with him because he feels awkward. Cuties)

He says he saw their car on the road, it’s march and he didn’t want anyone freezing to death. (There’s the hint that he didn’t just see their car but he knew to be looking for them. He didn’t just happen to have all that stuff on him, after all.)”

“time to free write 500 words real fast cause i wanna get to 2k. What are we working with. I think I’ve got some good stuff right now, it all just needs to fall into place. Let’s see how it goes, listing arcs.

There’s Saint’s arc which i still need to define more, it’s been changing a lot as the story develops which is good!! The goal!! I don’t want to solidify it too much, but it goes”

“let’s see… i really want it to build on itself, and the surgery stuff feels too out of place or like a regression, even though it’s literally the point of the story. Maybe it’s the fact they go home? I could try having the surgery take place in the underground with saint only thinking he’s back at a hospital- but that undermines a lot of the stuff with the parents if it isn’t real”

#mine #writing #writeblr #writing advice #wip: moon #this is for that one person that asked how I freewrite

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xxswagcorexx · 4 months ago

Note

Swagcore comes back from the war and gives Swagdoons fic recs....Please

hi! i'm going to be real i haven't been reading a lot of swagdoons fics as of late,,, (aventurine from hsr grabbed me by the throat and now i'm stuck in gatcha game hell) but! here's some i enjoyed for far :)

(and if you haven't seen it, here's a bunch of links to other swagdoons fic recs i've done 1 / 2 / 3 / 4)

On the open road by di_fairy

“Anyways,” he says, tugging slightly at the length of rope, “where are we goin’?” Because if Ash has decided to technically kidnap him to take him on a post graduation road trip, he at least deserves to know where they’re going. “No idea yet. Just go until we get lost.”

unwritten letters to a dead man by Fey_wilde

day 2: promises/betrayal

It’s like we’re married, Ash had joked, far more than once, shoving aside the stacks of notices with their printed red block letters screaming out their contents to the world, to instead fill the cups with diluted juice that tasted like the memory of summer fruit. To spread cheap jam onto bread that breaks their teeth when they bite into it, but it was sweet, and that’s what mattered. Now the cups are empty.

poorly written guide on how to fold an origami star by oneirogen

it's probably par for the course for you to dedicate yourself to this ultimately meaningless task instead of actually talking with your partner, but it's not like you've ever claimed to be good at this.

you're in the walls that I made with crosses and frames // hanging upside down by orioncataclysmic

Because Ash is the God of Nothing Good, of glitches and scams and trickery; things that show up quite frequently in the business world. It’s a good arrangement they have, especially on mornings like this, when Redd gets to wake up with a slightly-less-divine body next to him. They cut the whole holy appearance shtick short when Redd got tired of eye and ear and nose and mouth blood, and Ash got tired of healing him up.

MCYT aro week day two - loveless

TUSSLE! by starbamnk

“AUGH, RED-” “How d’you like that, bitch!” Red cheered as he struggled to find his voice again, fighting against Red's grip. “Red,” Ash managed, halfway between laughing and coughing, his face flushed from his lack of air. “Fuckin’ a- OW- asshole, you're choking me-!” “WHATTTTT-” - Spep misinterprets a situation, and Ash thinks it might just be the end of the world.

something stupid by starbamnk

'I love you.' Ash had to stop himself from choking. That's not how they were here. It ached, but that wasn't how things were.

"We should probably get up" by Anonymous

posters by draiin (orphan_account)

red forgets to take down some posters.

faith is not enough by swagin (reddoons)

Ash’s form of worship is one of sedentary and nothingness, a macabre monster of self-pity and self-loathing, all contained within his room. It is no place for God. Ash indulges anyway, the hope for something new in a day that blends in with all the others, monotonous and empty. It is the cold caress of a skeleton, nothing there in those eyesockets, staring back.

(yes i am aware that the prev. fic is most likely yours. also the next fic is casino quartet but you know. swagdoons is in it regardless)

four suits, one house by orioncataclysmic

“Yeah?” Ash asks, seemingly having learnt his lesson about looking anywhere other than forward. “How many people did you kill today, Clownpierce?” “A gentleman never asks about another gentleman’s body count, you rascal."

MCYT aro week day six - found family

and that's pretty much all of the fics i have to recommend :) now i will say that i make it a personal rule of mine not to recommend my own fics and, uh, considering:

maybe, if you want, i can make a separate post on my favorite fics that i've personally written because it feels a little disingenuous to include my own fics into a list of general fic recommendations, you know? (also the reason i post on anon is so people can judge the fics on their own merit and not because my name is attached to it LOL--but i've written a lot of these fics 1+ year ago so i think they've more than stood the test of time already)

#mcyt #no id #mailbox.core #reddoons #ashswag #swagdoons #asshole roommates #scam duo

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dlstmxkakwldrlarchive · 5 months ago

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(article) Guess Singapore Fanmeet talked about ONEW in his interview with Shin Min Daily News

'Recently, with the invitation of Faith & D Entertainment and HIT Team, I hosted Idol ONEW's Fanmeeting. Many asked me the same question 'How was ONEW like? Is he very arrogant? Does he act like he's on a high horse?' All questions I've expected. We always have a stereotypical image with regards to these international stars: they're probably very arrogant and hard to get close to. After all, these stars have outstanding performances in music, dramas, and variety, so it seems they just have the right to be arrogant.

But ONEW has completely destroyed this image. Both on and off stage, he smiled at the staff and was very friendly. He tried to be as cooperative as he could during interactions, and he never showed an 'I'm better than you, I will do whatever I want' attitude. He even approached me to ask if I wanted a photo with him after the show ended! Even though it might seem a small gesture, maybe even insignificant, in the entertainment industry, it's an unwritten rule to not ask for pictures with the artists.

The workplace is a place for professionalism only: the artist needs to prepare for their performance and staff need to focus on their tasks and shouldn't use their status as staff to get close to the artists, asking for pictures.

That's unprofessional. ONEW understood this and knew probably I wouldn't dare to ask him for a picture, so he approached me himself. Not only me, he approached other staff to ask if they wanted a picture too.

These warm actions are enough to show his friendliness and his attitude towards work and people. As SHINee's leader and lead vocal, ONEW has already been on the road of fame for more than ten years. His journey in music is filled with many glorious and touching concerts. The millions of fans and thousands of cheering audiences witnessed his talent in music and charming friendliness. Every time he steps on the stage, the loud cheers prove how popular he is.

Even during these glorious moments, though, ONEW still maintains his modesty. He has never forgotten his roots and never became arrogant. On the contrary, he uses his smile and sincerity to return his fans' enthusiasm. This attitude is really commendable. That's why, when people ask me if ONEW is arrogant I reply only one thing: 'No, definitely not!'

[...] Those who show their arrogance are usually the ones who aren't actually famous, only focused on going higher that they don't bother paying attention to the staff who seem to be a lower level to them. A truly successful start will never be arrogant.'

trans

#240807 #shinee #onew #lee jinki #jinki #wolsick era #articles #trans #jingkey #mentioned #daily update #team onew

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spindle-girl · 2 months ago

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Daybreak 1.x

Villains? Villains!

“Nice view,” Moose said, from the backseat.

wait, are these not the villain group that attacked Fume Hood? i am shit at predicting things lol. maybe next arc villains

Behind Moose and the truck was the gravel road that led up the hill, the gate checkpoint, and a ways below that, the simple settlement where most visitors would be made to feel unwelcome. One to two thousand people would be living there at most. “They built this place and situated it on the very edge of civilization,” Linc said, to round off his earlier thought.

hey, the far off towns are here. cool! i wonder if we'll hear about dragon-town

“The house. That’s what I’m gettin’ at. The guy was as nefarious as they get. He renovated the insides. He wanted to make a whole business of holdin’ people that needed holdin’. For ransom. Said he’d deal with ’em and clean up the mess if ransoms weren’t paid. Wanted to be a contractor for disposin’ of people in horrible ways.”

what a nice dream job

“More expensive too,” Velvet said. She was looking at the blackboard posted by the door, with prices. “Twenty dollars for a chicken sandwich?”

lol

also, i'm vaguely familiar with prancer and the others. in that i know they show up in ward and that's it. they feel like early arc villains tho

...She hangs around somewhere, and this dust collects, and she can telekinetically control stuff, more dust there is on it. It’s how she gets that fucking truck going again, when it refuses to move. She makes us sit there for five minutes and then gives it another try, and it works, and she’ll fiddle with it later and get it tuned up just enough it starts going.”

sweet of her passenger to help her out there. gotta keep the truck for roadtrip adventures

I get restless. The mover thing.

why does this guy know about power classifications?

“As yin-yang soulmate...

i can't wait for the line

“Just the way things were. Somewhere along the line, you know, I’m twenty-seven, she’s twenty-six, and I’m still boning boys and girls from high school. Still partying.” Moose’s eyes had widened. “Legal, mind you,” Prancer said. “But… sketchy, in retrospect.”

oooooohhhhhh. okay. i know this guy now

At his arrival, people across the room started applauding, from Ripcord to the people at the counter, to the white haired girl and the woman with the mask. Even the kitchen staff. The man in armor laughed, the sound mingling with the general applause.

this is honestly baffling. completely different vibe from BB

end notes:

interesting chapter. i'm guessing this alliance of the b-listers is going to serve as an early Breakthrough big fight. seems pretty comic-booky, the little guys coming together while the big wigs are doing background stuff and it gives the protag a moderate level group to go against

honestly i would have loved to see a chapter like this in worm. the closest we got was the somer's rock and that had a completly different purpose and vibe. it would have gone a long way to bringing up the unwritten rules and cops and robbers stuff. i'm glad ward can expand on it some more

#parahumans #ward lb #arc 1 daybreak

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boosoonhao · 1 year ago

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even death (bows before my feet)

vernon x reader 11k words supernatural au violence and death warning

You sigh, the puff of air visible as it leaves your mouth in the chill evening. The sun hangs low on the sky, a burning, orange orb hiding behind vibrant, green trees. Your heels clack against the concrete beneath your feet. Had your body been able to still feel the bites and nips of cold, you’re sure you would be freezing right now. As it is, it doesn’t matter. It’s only a matter of time before the boy is bound to show up.

Infamous softie Joshua Hong shows up in a loud car and with a jacket he almost seems to drown in. He stops a few feet away from where you’re standing, closes his car door with a lot more force than necessary when he exits his vehicle. You’ve heard rumors about him, about the man who rescues people and demons alike, who only kills in self-defense. Even your people hold some distant, quiet sort of respect for him. Leaving him alone is an unwritten rule.

Not so much for his companion. There’s not a lot of softness left on Joshua’s face now.

“You want to resurrect your friend,” you say by way of greeting. Small talk doesn’t seem like much of a necessity. You both know the purpose of your meeting. You both know how many rules you’re breaking.

“Can you do it?” He asks, sees as little a point in dawdling as you do. His hands are clenched at his sides, the syllables that drift out of his mouth stiff and tense. It’s a wonder, really, how much humans seem to care about mortality, considering their short, insignificant lives.

“No,” you tell him earnestly. Well– mostly earnestly. You can, of course, if you pull the right strings and make the right deals. You’ve made some sort of preparations, so to speak; found the dead boy’s location and made sure the wrong creatures do not sink their claws in him. You’d rather leave the rest up to someone else. Joshua opens his mouth, probably to complain about deceit and waste of time, but you silence him with a swift palm raised in his direction. “But I know someone who can.”

“And you’re sure this Hoseok guy is going to help?” Joshua asks, for the third time in as many hours. You tap a long finger impatiently against the fogged up window to you right, try not to let it show that you’re uncomfortable in your seat. You can’t really remember the last time you rode in a car, but you remember – quite vividly – where your reluctance to do so came from. Your whole body feels off-kilter, shaken and rattled by every hole in the road and by the ever present thrum of the motor.

“I’ve already told you,” you mutter, struggle with how thick and clumsy your own tongue feels in your mouth; nausea pushing at the back of your throat. The man’s fast and careless driving does little to alleviate your motion sickness. “He owes me one. He’s going to help.” The memory of a city in flames drift to the forefront of your mind, an unwanted sort of nostalgia tickling at your bones and pulling the edges of your lips down just a fraction.

Joshua hums. There’s something discordant and unpleasant about the sound, despite the man’s soft, low tones. “And you demons sure do love your debts, huh.”

There’s a sort of bite to his words that you deem wholly unnecessary, that makes you want to bite right back. For centuries, you’ve been content with letting the war between demons and hunters wage on without getting involved, only stepping in when it was asked of you and retreating as soon as your tasks were done. Somehow, you had not imagined that your re-entering into that feud would be on the side of the weak, temperamental humans.

“You should be grateful,” you tell him, try to keep the poison out of your tone. You might not be human, might not be bound by the same emotional whims as the man next to you in the car, but you still remember the sting off losses of your own, and despite your reputation you’re not an emotionless, unsympathetic creature. To some extent, you do feel sorry for the guy. “Our love of debts is in your favor this time, after all.” You hope the air-quotes you can’t find the energy to physically make is visible enough in your voice.

Joshua doesn’t respond, but when he glances over at your stiff form, his gaze has softened. You smooth your thumb over the scar along your thigh, and you swear you can feel the bumps of hastily done stitches that left protruding, circular scars on both sides of a thick, ugly line even through the fabric of your pants.

“We’ll see,” Joshua says, and you suppose you will.

“Well, isn’t this an unlikely duo?”

There’s something about Hoseok that never fails to make the back of your neck tingle. His voice might be pleasant and his expression might be bright, but there’s a distinct sense of mockery that never strays too far away from his lines and his octaves, and even as far as crossroad demons go, he might be the one who makes you the most uneasy.

The demon in question claps his hands together over his chest, red eyes glowing almost ominously in the pale light of the morning. The hints of a sunrise peeking through the trees gives his tangerine hair a glow that reminds you, uncomfortably, of flames.

“It’s been a while, Hoseok,” you curtly reply, keep your distance as you step out of the car on wobbly legs. Joshua follows suit, stands at your side. You wonder how the demon-friendly boy is feeling now, stuck between two red-eyed monsters. “I hear you’ve been keeping yourself busy.”

A grin spreads on Hoseok’s lips, slowly and sharply and with the distinct feel of threat reflected in his sparkling row of teeth. You remember when Hoseok was nothing but a simple deal-maker, when his antics were limited to fooling desperate humans. It’s apparent, by his square shoulders and his confident stance, that he enjoys his newfound infamy.

He waves his hand in your direction, a low, rolling chuckle slipping past his lips. “Oh please,” he says, without an ounce of humility. “We’re not here to talk about me, I hope.” Joshua shifts, takes a step forward. You quickly put a hand on his shoulder, try not to cringe at the way his entire body seems to stiffen. You can’t really blame him, you suppose.

“I’m here to cash in on that favor you owe me,” you tell the crossroad demon, taking great care not to let the uncertainty slip through your teeth and into the tones of your voice. Hoseok’s eyes seem to grow in intensity, and the air seems to crack as he disappears, reappearing right in front of you. His breaths fall against your nose, and somehow the demon smells like death.

“Ain’t that interesting,” he tall man whispers, leveling you with a searching gaze that feels heavy against your skin. “I don’t suppose that favor has anything to do with this charming young man’s deceased companion?” There’s a glowing glint to his eyes that makes it blatantly obvious that Hoseok already knows about your recent visits to the underworld. Your jaw tightens, and you have to force yourself not to fold under his glare.

“How do you know about that?” Joshua pipes up from your side, suspicion dripping from his soft voice. Your hand is still on his shoulder, fingernails digging into the fabric of his thick jacket. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers twitch.

“He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies,” you mutter, not without disdain. Hoseok takes it in stride, of course, a sort of wicked pride tugging at the edges of his mouth.

“I do love pie,” he supplies with a jovial shrug. He takes a step back, and your stance relaxes a fraction. You never liked Hoseok much, even before he got chummy with the scum of the underworld. “I’m surprised, though,” he continues, tilting his head to the side. “That you’d use your get out of jail free-card on this human boy.”

He’s fishing, you know, trying to dig into your head in that twisted way he does. Hoseok doesn’t just peddle in deals, and he is not above using your secrets against you if need be. You’re not about to give him any freebies, so you keep your mouth shut and in a thin line.

“But then,” he murmurs, his voice gentle in a way that makes you feel profoundly uncomfortable. “You always had an affinity for humans, didn’t you?”

You feel Joshua’s eyes on you. You ignore it. There’s complete silence dominates Hoseok’s crossroad, and it feels like the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. The crossroad demon’s lip twitches.

“Not in the mood for catching up, I see,” he says with a sort of sharp intake of breath through his teeth, as if to just accentuate the awkwardness of the silence. With a crack, he’s disappeared and reappeared back in the middle of his crossroad. A waterfall of flow-y smoke falls from between his long, pale fingers, and he produces an intimidating silver knife. He drags the steel across his own palm, flicks dark, almost black blood in your direction. It splatters across the ground, sizzles and burns holes in the asphalt.

“Twenty-four hours,” he tells you, dropping all of his playful pretenses and letting his true, low tones slip through his teeth instead. Somehow, Hoseok scares you less like this; seems far less threatening in his husky voice than in his fake pleasantries. “I hope you know what you’re doing, sweetheart.”

And, well– that makes two of you.

“I told you,” you sigh, breath fogging up the window as you lean your forehead against it, hands gripping at the plush of the passenger seat. “Twenty-three hours and you’ll have your boy back.” Joshua breathes harshly through his nose, keeps his eyes on the road. His hands grip at the steering wheel.

“Yes,” he observes, with considerably less enthusiasm than you’d expected. “You’ve certainly made some powerful friends since the last time I saw you.”

He addresses you as if he’s your father; as if he’s disapproving of your boyfriend or your new circle of friends. It’s strangely intimate for acquaintances, and you don’t really know how to respond to the accusation, such as it is. “I wouldn’t go that far,” you settle on, shifting your legs awkwardly in the cramped space of the car. “Anyways, I hope you didn’t have your friend cremated, otherwise this trip is completely wasted.”

You think about the few hunter customs that you know of, of funeral pyres and of drowning your sorrows in revenge and booze. Joshua seems to have forgone all of that, but then, he’s not really a hunter, is he? He taps his fingers along the rubber of the steering wheel, eyes squinting as if he’s looking beyond the landscape rushing by and into some distant memory.

“It was my fault we were at that river in the first place,” he says, as if he totally missed your jokey comment about cremation (which, to be fair, might have been for the best). You feel an emotional story coming, and you brace yourself. Joshua Hong might not be your least favorite human, but this trait that humans seem to all possess, this need to share, you could be without. “We were on our way to visit his sister, and I just had to stop and look for fucking rocks.”

You blink at that, mystified by the nonsensical notion of stopping by a river to look for rocks, until you remember that the boy had, the last time the two of you met, had a collection of small, colorful stones in the pocket of his jacket. He had told you at the time, with a needle sticking into the skin of your thigh and a bottle of vodka on the ground next to him, that he needed something to collect, something to keep him grounded in all the crazy he was surrounded by.

“He was gone before I even managed to pull him out of the water,” he says it with the sort of detachment that only someone who has spent too much time agonizing over a tragedy can manage. No wonder he looks like he hasn’t slept since; you’ve seen river spirits before, know how violent and ravenous they can get. People give demons and vampires flack for killing without a reason; water spirits kill for sport, feed on the look of pain and fear in their victims eyes.

Truth be told, you’re not sure what to say. You’re not sure why you’re even still with the boy, why you’re enduring yet another horrid ride in his vehicle from hell. The young man had given you a sort of glare that seemed to tell you to get in the car when Hoseok had disappeared from the crossroad, and for some reason you’d just followed along. He’s lonely, you figure; desperate for interaction after the loss of his friend.

“There’s no use in obsessing over it now,” you tell him, for lack of a more comforting thing to say. Joshua hums, as if that’s just what he expected you to say. His hands grip a bit tighter around the wheel, but his face remains unchanged. “It’s fixed now anyways, isn’t it? You corrected whatever mistake you think you made.”

Joshua hesitates, looks like he wants to argue, but ultimately he settles on chewing on his bottom lip and muttering a sort of quiet and demure ‘thank you’, and the rest of the ride passes in silence.

You’ve never seen anyone awaken from the dead before, though you have heard the horror stories. Most of the time, they involve vampires, and their semi-barbaric ritual of making their ‘newborns’ claw themselves out of their graves as sort of a test to see if they’re strong enough to be accepted into the coven.

The graveyard is quiet, bathed in a soft, orange light that illuminates on top of shimmering gravestones. Birds hum in the distance and despite your inability to feel cold, goosebumps erupt along your forearms. Then again, maybe that’s just the tension from what’s about to happen.

‘Hansol Vernon Chwe’ the gravestone reads; elegant, golden letters against smooth, grey stone. The sound of dirt being shoveled distracts you from being too caught up in the solemn mood of the place, and when you level your eyes squarely on the growing hole in front of you, you see that Joshua seems to have finally hit the casket.

“Fancy funeral for a hunter,” you remark, forget to even take into consideration that humans tend to be a lot touchier about death than demons are. Joshua stops digging, gazes up at you from his deep hole. It’s actually a bit impressive, how competent of a grave robber the pretty boy would’ve been, had he not had such a spotless moral compass. He squints up at you, and you grimace. “Sorry. Graveyards make me uncomfortable.”

“His parents didn’t know,” he supplies, kneeling down to dust dirt and pebbles off of the surface of the casket. You take a step closer to the edge of the hole to look down. Even the wood of the casket looks expensive, you muse. “They think it was some freak accident.”

You wonder if that’s really true, or if it’s just another case of humans pretending to believe things because it’s more convenient. Whatever the case, you choose not to voice that suspicion, deciding to instead address an equally important question. “What’re you gonna tell ‘em now, then?”

Joshua exhales through his nose. It’s a long and exhausted sound, the kind of elongated sigh that sounds like it strains the lungs. When he looks up at you, a thin layer of sweat covers his forehead. “Well, you’re called the memory stealer, aren’t you?”

A muscle in your jaw twitches, and you have to fight back the urge to bite your own tongue just to keep yourself from coming with a scathing remark. You hate that name, hate the implications of it, hate that someone as soft and careful as Joshua Hong knows about it. Most of all, you hate that you can’t deny it. You don’t respond. It seems he doesn’t need you to. He pushes back up into a standing position, massages his own neck with a dirty hand and glances at the watch strapped around his wrist. It looks almost like he’s regained some gusto you didn’t know he possessed, his movements more energized, more confident.

Humans tend to need some sort of purpose, you suppose, some goal to work towards. No wonder he’s been so obsessive in his quest to revive this ‘Hansol’.

“I need you to help me open up the casket.”

A lot of things seem to happen at once. You take hold of the roof of the casket, feel the wood resist against your pull. The clock is ticking, and by the time you get the top of the casket off, the wood creaking in pain at the forceful handling, twenty-four hours have passed.

The boy emerges from the soft, plush inside of his not-so-final resting bed like an abused animal from a cage that’s just been opened. He flings himself over you with a force you’d be impressed with had you not been so caught surprised by it. He brings his fingers – bony and stiff with inactivity – around your neck, knocks his long, skinny body against you and makes you fall over against the walls of the hole. Dirt and grime drizzles down your face, your body, and once you’ve got your head straight again, you raise your hand to blast him back.

“Vernon,” Joshua half-whispers, half-yells from somewhere in front of you, his voice coated in something that sounds like a bizarre mix of relief and panic. You spot the man as he puts his hands on your attacker’s shoulders, his knuckles whitening with the forcefulness of his grip. “Stop, you’re safe. You’re back.”

His grip loosens, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, fingertips still digging into the base of your neck. That, at least, is a good sign; that he at least still have some semblance of sanity left. He stares you down, breathes so rapidly and loudly that it sounds like it must hurt his throat. Recognition flashes in his eyes. His hair falls down his forehead, pale brown and greasy against his skin.

“I know you,” he says, and his voice feels like being hit in the face; too low for his pretty face and too raspy for his smooth features. He lets his arms fall from your neck to hang stiffly at his sides. Joshua shoots you a suspicious glare. “You were there.”

He doesn’t even call it by name, doesn’t need to. The mere mention is enough to send shivers down your spine. It runs through your body, makes you feel the flames lick at your skin and the screams of pain echo in your head. At least he doesn’t look as ragged as he had done down there. You wonder if that sense of victory that blooms in the pit of your stomach is anything like whatever possesses Joshua to keep doing what he does.

“What the fuck is going on, Josh?” Vernon twists his head and upper body to face his friend, the detached, almost angry tone of his voice making the other man frown. There’s a stiffness to his body that you don’t think comes from having been dead, and you think back to the stories you’ve been told about people being brought back to life. About the man who lost his daughter, who sold his soul to get her back, only to discover it had been to late, that her sanity had been broken months ago and all that was left was a body. Not even a demon, or a ‘zombie’. Just a rabid, scared little girl.

Hansol – or Vernon, as Joshua had called him – doesn’t seem to be quite there, but he does seem to have lost something, still. There’s a lack of an inflection when he speaks, a robotic sort of tenseness to his movements, small as they are. You wonder if, if you strip him of his black blazer and his neat, white shirt, you can still make out the wounds and scars from the razor sharp, metallic whip that the demons of the underworld seem to favor.

“I’ll explain everything,” Joshua promises, puts his hand securely around Vernon’s upper arm. “But not here. Not right now.” His voice is hard, echoes with authority. You’re starting to realize that Joshua’s reputation as a soft, peace loving pacifist might not be completely accurate.

He did, after all, just disobey one of the most basic laws of nature.

Joshua clumsily helps Vernon out of the hole, both of their outfits getting smeared in filth in the process. The sun is starting to rise dangerously, and the time until they’re undoubtedly caught digging up graves is closing in on you all. Usually, you’d take this risk as your cue to leave, but somehow the blank, disinterested look on Vernon’s face and the low, terrified tones of Joshua’s voice has you hesitating.

“Go back to the car,” you tell them both, cracking the muscles in your fingers as if to warm yourself up. The art of manipulating time and space is not an easy thing, never a pleasant experience even for you, who has all the practice in the world at it. “I’ll take care of this mess.”

It seems to dawn on Joshua, then, that he had not thought things completely through, that he didn’t really have a plan for covering up this particular mess. You try not to roll your eyes, settle instead for a raised brow and a knowing look. Cleaning up after humans seems to be a byproduct of dealing with the species. Joshua nods, and you turn back to look at the mess. You inhale. And then you work.

Getting the dirt and the soil back in it’s original place is no task at all, truly. Just a matter of some levitation and a bit of willpower; even the newest, less experienced demons with an ambition in time and memory work could do something as simple, something that basically comes down to gardening. The fact that the grave was new, fresh to begin with works to your advantage, no need for grass to sprout on top of the soil once it’s put back in it’s spot.

Changing the inscriptions on the tombstone is a bit harder, makes the back of your eyes prickle as if someone’s poking you with needles. You replace the name with the first name that comes to mind, a name that never got a proper tombstone or a proper burial. You pretend to convince yourself that the sting in your chest comes from exhaustion.

The last part of the spell – as people has called it – the part that fills your mouth with a coppery taste and that has blood dripping out of your mouth, is the lingering, long lasting field of manipulation around the grave. You can’t completely erase Vernon’s existence, nor the actuality of his death, but you can confuse people coming to his grave enough to distract from it.

“Neat trick,” you hear from behind you, the voice so unexpected it makes you jump. You’re faced, unsurprisingly, with Vernon’s distinct features and tired eyes, his gaze not focused on you but on the tombstone behind you. “So do I just not exist anymore or what?”

You frown, twist your hands around to loosen the tension in your wrists. “Don’t be silly,” you tell him, more than a little bit uncomfortable with being alone with the dead boy walking. “For that I’d have to eat the heart of a newborn.”

Vernon blinks, but his face remains otherwise blank. For a moment you’re not even sure that he’s caught on to the fact that you were joking, and you suppose that’s on you for trying to crack jokes over the grave of a boy who’s been alive again for a whopping ten minutes. “Funny,” he supplies at last, but his voice is devoid of emotion. He shifts on his feet in clunky steps, looks back as if to make sure no one’s listening in on your conversation.

“Are you going to do that to my family as well?” He asks, and normally you’d be able to gauge what response someone was looking for by the way they asked the question. Having lived as long as you have, human behavior becomes sort of predictable, after all, but Vernon doesn’t move, doesn’t raise his voice, and all you really manage to do is nod. “Good,” he mutters, and that’s that. You wonder if he’ll have the same opinion on the matter once his emotions return – if they ever do.

“Did you tell Joshua? About Hell, I mean,” He goes on, surprisingly talkative for someone so dull and rough around the edges. There’s a raspy quality to his voice that you doubt is supposed to be there, and when you tell him that no, you haven’t talked to Joshua about Hell at all, Vernon looks the most relieved that he’s done since coming back to life. “Don’t. He doesn’t need to know.”

You don’t tell Vernon that you hadn’t intended to anyways, that you’d rather not talk or think about the underworld ever again. That’s not their business, just like Vernon’s decision is not yours. Vernon turns back to retreat towards Joshua’s car, and after one lingering glance back at the masked tombstone, you follow. You swipe your hand at the drying blood right above your lip, and you brace yourself for phase two.

(The mind is a fragile thing, vulnerable to impressions and attacks in all forms. This is true for all sentient beings, even those who dabble in memory curses and manipulation. For as easy it is to shape the mind as you want with your skills, it’s dangerous, not to mention draining, taking much more energy out of you than connecting made up memories to a place or an object. It’s a risk every time you do it, and you suppose that is how it has to be.

Which is why you tell Joshua to join you as you stop the car in front of Vernon’s parents’ house, why reluctance bites at your skin as you get out of the car. When you turn to look back, Vernon himself is staring unblinkingly at you from his seat.

His family is just what you’d expect from someone with such a bright and warm home, from someone who cared enough to put so much money into their son’s funeral. They greet Joshua like he’s one of their own, gentle hands and tight hugs making the both of you uncomfortable. They do not ask questions, do not put you on the spot, and for the first time in many years, you feel a pang of genuine guilt at what you’re about to do.

Stealing memories from a person feels sort of like sucking all of the air out of the room and into your own mouth. There’s a taste to it, in a way, a flavor of longing and love and pain tickling the roof of your mouth with each emotion, each thought that fills your body and occupies the space in your head. You can’t remove Vernon’s existence completely, not when there are so many objects that tell of his presence in his family’s life, but you can remove the hurt, the death and the funeral. That doesn’t make it un-happen, doesn’t make the pain erased from the world, only moves it somewhere else.

Your heart is heavy with each thought, with the memories of black clothes and high pitches crying that forces itself into your mind, and though you do not know the boy more than you know of his presence in the car right outside, you mourn his passing as if you’ve known him since birth. You want to cry, you want to yell and throw things around, and distantly you feel a sort of self-loathing for things unsaid, words that aren’t even your own but that feels undeniably true in your heart.

The last thing you recall before the spell is complete and you fade into unconsciousness is a strong, overwhelming thought of ‘why couldn’t it have been me instead’. And then everything goes black.)

When you wake up, you’re in an unfamiliar room, lying in an unfamiliar bed. The remnants of emotions and memories that aren’t yours linger in the back of your mind, makes the hair at the back of your neck stand. Your vision is foggy, your body hot and cold all at once.

”You’re awake,” comes the easily recognizable, raspy sound of Vernon’s voice from next to you, and when you twist your body around to follow the sound, you’re met with red cheeks and plump lips, pale brown curls that look a lot less lifeless after – you assume – a thorough shower. He looks down at you, looks considerable more alive than he did when you first un-buried him, but his gaze is still, for the most part, blank. That much is to be expected, but somehow, with the new surge of memories connected to the boy, it hurts to look at him.

”Joshua’s grocery shopping,” he explains, rolls his shoulders almost as if he’s uncomfortable. You hum, let your gaze follow the lines of his face and the arch of his neck before you sit up and stretch. Outside, the sun is high on the sky; you must have been out for at least a few hours. “We’re at a motel. He said you needed rest.”

”So you’ve just been creepily staring at me while I was sleeping, then?” you mutter, fingers clutching at your tense shoulder, nails digging into skin. Vernon exhales through his nose, drags a hand through his hair. He leans back in his chair, head slightly tilted as he watches your movements.

”Joshua’s acting like I’m gonna burst into flames any moment,” Vernon says without really looking at you, seems to fall further into the plush of his chair. “It’s driving me crazy.” Somehow, you’re not sure if he really understands how unsettling that sentence is, considering. “Besides,” he continues, leaning a fraction closer to your spot on the bed. You feel strangely exposed, put on the spot by the sudden closeness. “I feel less dead when you’re here. Why is that?”

The confession, blunt and careless as it is, sends a shiver through your body, makes you feel off-kilter in a way that’s both completely too familiar and strange all at once. It makes you mourn for him, in a sense, to know that he still feels dead after being resurrected. It’s one of the prices you have to pay, you suppose, when you play around with something as important as life and death. It’s unfair, really, that he had to pay it, as little as he had to do with the resurrection itself.

”I don’t know,” you tell him, leaning back on your arms for support. Your shoulders feel heavy, weighed down by the intensity of Vernon’s glare. It’s apparent that the boy’s not as easily swayed and endeared to dark creatures as his companion is. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Vernon hums, a surprisingly soft sound that vibrates through his closed lips as he turns his gaze to the open window at the end of the tiny bedroom. “Isn’t it kind of funny? You’re the demon, but I’m the one who seems less human.”

He doesn’t sound like he finds it funny at all. The inexplicable need to ease up the lines of tension in the lines of his face makes your fingers itch.

”If it makes you feel any better,” you start with uncertainty coating your tongue and making it feel awkward in your mouth. You’ve never really been good at comfort, never been put in a position where you’ve felt like you have to consider your words and mind your tones. Vernon looks fierce, looks strong; his jawline sharp and his features more defined with the hours he’s spent back above the earth, but somehow his presence feels fragile, like a string pulled too thin. “I ripped open a casket and defiled a tombstone. As far as humanity goes, I think you’re still in the lead.”

Vernon’s lip twitches, tells in low whispers of a secret sort of smile that almost breaks out on his face. It’s a start, if nothing else. “It doesn’t,” he murmurs, with a distant sort of warmth to his low tones. “But thank you for trying.”

The floorboards creak in the hallway, and when you snap your gaze in the direction of the barely open door, you see the flash of a figure disappearing from the opening.

It’s hard to care about the fact that Joshua’s been eavesdropping when Vernon’s eyes shine as bright as you’ve seen them.

(The third night of your stay at the motel, you hear a garbled sort of scream coming from one of the connecting rooms. You jolt up in your own bed, sit up with your hands clutching at the sheets and your eyes squinted in an attempt at looking around the room. Your first thought is that someone’s found you, someone who does not approve of Joshua’s attempts at playing God.

The aforementioned man himself appears in the doorway to your room, hair sticking out in every direction and face coated in a mixture of sleep and panic.

“He’s having a nightmare,” he explains, and the organ in your chest relaxes a fraction; at least that means no demons or monsters are knocking down your doors yet. “I can’t–” he cuts himself off, a layer of shame taking over his expression. “I can’t wake him up.”

There’s a tinge of resentment there, but underneath it you can hear the underlying tint of a question he’s reluctant to ask. You inhale, drag yourself out of the bed. Inexplicably, embarrassment burns at the back of your throat as you follow Joshua out into the hallway, the screams increasing in volume, it seems, with every step you take. Joshua pushes open the door to what you assume to be Vernon’s bedroom.

The boy lies in his bed, knuckles as white as the sheets his fists are clutching to, and his skin shimmers brightly with a thin layer of sweat. You shoot Joshua an uncertain look, only moving into the bedroom when the man nods, presses a gentle hand to your shoulder blade. You chew on your bottom lip, approach the screaming boy and put your hands on his face. His skin feels like fire.

“Vernon,” you murmur, realizing only after the fact that it’s the first time you’ve said his name out loud. He tries to wrestle his face out of your grip, but even in his sleeping panic, he’s got nothing on your inhuman strength. You dig your fingernails into his cheeks, force his face in your direction. You repeat his name, louder this time, more authoritative and with the barest tint of persuasive power slipping through your lips. “Wake up,” you tell him, more a command than anything else.

When he obeys, it’s with a sharp intake of breath and a jolt as if he’s been struck by lightning. He stares at you as if he doesn’t quite recognize you, and for a moment you worry he’s about to start hyperventilating; his chest rising and falling a tad too rapidly. When at last he murmurs your name, it’s with a softness that makes you feel off-kilter and strange; not entirely an unpleasant feeling. You hear the door close behind you, and then it’s just the two of you in the darkness.

“It was just a nightmare,” you tell him. A presumptuous statement, considering you know first hand how real dreams can turn out to be. Vernon grimaces, and when you make a move to remove your hands from his face, he moves quickly, hand coming up to grip at your wrist, keep your hand there.

“Was it, though?” He asks, eyes hooded. You feel the vibrations of his voice against your palm, and it almost makes your breath hitch.

An affinity for humans, Hoseok had said. You thought you’d ridden yourself of that quality ages ago. The warmth that spreads through your body as Vernon sleepily leans against your palm tells another story.

“You should sleep more,” you tell him, opting to ignore his question. He lets the hand that’s holding onto you fall, but does not loosen his grip, making your own arm fall against the mattress with it. “It’s still dark outside.” You hope he doesn’t notice the uneven quality of your voice. He falls back against his pillow. When you try to push yourself back up from your kneeling position next to the bed, his grasp around your wrist tightens, nails digging crescents into your skin.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything, but somehow his eyes tell you everything you need to know; fear and shame battling for domination in his expression. You sit back down against the cold floor, lean your back against the side of the bed, and only then does he let go of your wrist.

You spend the rest of the night listening to the discordant song of your heart beating in your chest, almost, sort of in tune with Vernon’s breath as it evens out and he falls back asleep.)

A long time ago, when you had a companion of your own, you were often told of how you carried yourself as if you were a cold, cynic being of the underworld, but that underneath you hid a myriad of too strong emotions. You used to vehemently deny this accusation, scrunch up your nose and make some sort of scathing remark.

But now, weeks into your new companionship with a makeshift doctor for demons and humans alike and a recently dead boy, you can’t really find it in you to deny it anymore.

Vernon is starting to act more like a human being again, chuckles at your throwaway jokes and chides Joshua for his hovering with true emotion coated in his voice. He still has nightmares, still clutches at your skin after every one of them. You’ve started renting only two bedrooms at the motels you stay at. Joshua looks at you with suspicion in his otherwise gentle face, but he says nothing.

“Sometimes I still feel the lashes across my back,” Vernon whispers, his breaths hitting your face with each syllable. Joshua might keep quiet, might keep his emotions masked and his true thoughts unheard, but Vernon– Vernon talks like he’ll cease to exist if he doesn’t. He tells you about his nightmares, about how he can’t be sure whether they’re just that– dreams, or if they’re suppressed memories from his time in the underworld. You want to assure him that they’re the former, want to reach out and smooth out the wrinkles of stress on his face, but somehow the sight of him steals away your ability to move and all you can do is listen.

You’re not sure if he even notices how touchy he becomes once he’s grown used to your presence next to him; his fingers running absentminded lines and shapes over your exposed skin, pressing into your flesh when he recalls something especially uncomfortable. It’s a strange shift, when he goes from that unintentionally restrained nonchalance that drifts over him sometimes during the day, emotions seemingly not the default setting in his brain, to that wide open, vulnerable and genuine being he is when the sun disappears behind the trees.

You think Joshua might be jealous that Vernon somehow feels more comfortable opening up to you than he feels towards his oldest friend. You want to tell him it’s just because he wants to spare him of the gruesome details. It’s easy to think, with just one glance, that Joshua is the protective one out of the two; the truth is that the boys seem to share a bond that’s so genuine and so fiercely loyal that nothing even comes close, least of all you, the newcomer.

So maybe, then, you’re the jealous one.

“I want to try something,” Vernon says quietly, voice barely above a whisper and almost not loud enough to pull you out of your train of thought. When you focus your gaze back up at his face, there’s open hesitation visible in the soft lines of his face. His fingers stop at the edge of your shoulder, plays with the hem of your t-shirt. You can’t be sure if the way his gaze drops for a moment, seemingly lingering at the bottom of your face, is a trick of the light or an actual thing. Whatever the case, it makes you heart do a weird sort of jump in your chest. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” you whisper, try to keep your voice steady. The exhale that leaves Vernon’s mouth if nothing if not relieved. And then he’s shifting on the bed, his hands coming up to rest against your cheekbones in a scene at almost perfectly mirrors the one that had started your shared living situation in the first place. At first you think that might be all he wants to do, to press his fingertips into the flesh of your cheeks and rub his fingers along the edges of your lips, but then he’s leaning closer, his eyes falling shut, and you forget how to breathe.

You’ve been kissed before, of course; by multiple people and in multiple circumstances. Some of them were slow and meaningful, others just a means to seal a deal. None of them felt quite like this. Vernon clutches at your face as if his own actions terrifies him, as if he’s not wholly sure that he should be doing what he’s doing. He breathes through his nose, sharp huffs of air against your skin, and for a moment all there is to it is a press of lips against lips. It’s nothing, all things considered, but somehow it feels like it’s everything. His pulse feels like a drum against your skin.

Somewhere between the tenth and the fifteenth beat of your heart, he seems to gain confidence, pulling at your face as if he wants to consume you, lips moving just enough to make your own hands grasp at the front of his shirt. Every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire; the feeling too much, too overwhelming, too pleasant for you even to consider what that means. When Vernon pulls his face away from yours, something that sounds partly like an exhale and partly like a giggle escapes his mouth, and your heart literally soars.

“Did you figure it out?” you ask breathlessly, head swimming and skin itching. Your lips feel cold, wet without his own pressed against them, and an impulse you barely manage to fight back urges you to lean after him. Vernon swallows thickly, his hands not leaving your face.

“I’m not sure,” he says with a sort of wonder coating the tones of his voice. He sounds more like himself, like the image of him that you stole from his parents, than he has ever done before. His gaze falls back down to your lips and he murmurs, “I think I should try again.”

You put your fingers gingerly at the back of his ears and you pull. You let him try again. And again. And again and again until you can’t even remember what the purpose of it all was in the first place.

More weeks pass, and somehow you fall into a routine. The routine consists of you telling yourself to withdraw yourself from the previous duo of two human boys, to leave before things get messy, followed by doing the exact opposite. You let Vernon tangle his fingers with your own in quiet, unnoticed moments, let him trail kisses along your jawline and press his fingernails into your hips, and you pretend that you’re not getting completely swallowed up by a boy who’s still learning how to feel again.

(Joshua, on the other hand, does not pretend not to notice, though that would’ve been the – in your opinion – more polite, less annoying thing to do.)

When two weeks pass without incident, without nightmares, you tell yourself you’re going to stop sleeping in the same bed as him. Joshua squints, glares intensely at you when you interrupt him at the counter of the next motel and tell the manager that you’ll need three bedrooms rather than two. Vernon almost doesn’t look nonchalant.

He comes into your room later that night, whispered words of apologies and worries eager to tumble out of his mouth. Has he done something wrong, he wonders. Has he made you uncomfortable, forced his intimacy on you without caring about your wishes? He’s careful not to speak of feelings, but there’s a distinct undercurrent of the thing, nonetheless.

(”Listen,” Joshua says, pulling you out of your clouded mind and troubled thoughts. When you look up to meet his gaze, there’s a sort of hardness to his expression that makes you feel oddly put in place, even before he’s opened his mouth. “We need to talk about you and Vernon.”)

“No,” you tell him, truthfully, with a heart that hammers too hard, feels to exposed. “I just thought, you haven’t had any nightmares lately. Figured you’d want to try sleeping on your own again.” You’re careful not to talk about your own wants, or your own wishes, scared of something you’re not ready to voice slipping through your gritted teeth.

“And if I don’t?” He asks, as if it’s a challenge, as if he’s revealing his cards just by virtue of the question. “Will you keep sleeping with me, then?” The phrasing catches you off guard, makes your skin feel hot and your palms sweaty. His own eyes widen, his face clearly reddened even in the darkness. He mutters, almost reluctantly, “You know what I mean.”

(”What about me and Vernon?” You ask, as if the notion of the two of you put together in a sentence is absolutely ludicrous. Joshua’s gaze sharpens, and somehow you think you’ve said the wrong thing. Unfortunately for you both, you’re not known for folding against a challenge. You put your chin in the palm of your hand, stare back at him with venom that mirrors his own harsh expression.

“Vernon’s still learning how to be alive again, he doesn’t need you confusing him,” Joshua says, and at least you can give him credit for putting it bluntly and not beating around the bush. The accusation stings, more than you expected it to, and for a moment you can’t muster up any sort of response. “I don’t mind having you here, but if you’re just playing games, you should leave.”

There’s finality in his tone, and for a second you entertain the idea. He’s right, of course, in that you should leave. Hanging around humans clearly isn’t good for your mental health, and certainly not for your reputation. But the sight of Vernon’s smile, still awkward and kind of uncertain, drifts to the forefront of your mind, and makes your breath come out as a shudder.

“You have to stop babying him, Joshua,” you murmur, attempt to make your voice as soft and smooth as possible. “Vernon’s more resilient than you think.”)

The smart thing to do, you think, is to tell Vernon to go back to his room, to get used to sleeping alone. There’s no need, really, for the two of you to share quarters anymore, and you’re sure that the reason he’s so reluctant to do so is that he’s gotten used to the shared warmth of two bodies in one bed. You tell yourself this, force yourself to believe it, because any other line of thinking undoubtedly only leads to heartbreak. But the mind; the mind is such a treacherous thing, and the thing that comes out of your mouth instead is:

“Of course.”

You move over, make space from him on the mattress, and when Vernon climbs in with something that sounds too much like a relieved sigh, lies down and pulls you against his chest, you can’t do anything but chastise yourself for letting yourself so wrapped up in the boy that refusing him seems like such an impossibility. His arm feels heavy over your waist, his feet cold as they tangle up in your own, but somehow, sleep has never come more easily.

The first time you sleep with Vernon, it’s an accident. Sort of.

You’re both more than a little buzzed, empty cans of beer littered over the floor and air hot with tension. Joshua has disappeared off to god knows where – something, you notice, he seems to do a lot these days – and the two of you are, more than ever, alone.

Vernon’s eyes are hooded, but his gaze is full of intent as he stares in you direction on the other side of the table. You try not to feel scrutinized, busy yourself with finishing off your beer. He reaches for your free hand where it lies with fingers spread over the brown wood of the table, intertwines his digits with your own and pulls. “Come here,” he murmurs, voice laced with the uneven notes of someone who’s had a tad too much to drink to be completely sharp in their pronunciations.

You comply, pushing yourself to your feet and walking around the small table to stand in front of his own seated form. He stares up at you with a sort of twinkle you can’t be sure if comes from the dim lights in the roof of the room or from something else entirely. He snakes an arm around your waist and pulls, wraps his legs around yours and presses the side of his face to your stomach.

It’s somehow both an oddly innocent and intimate action all at once, his fingertips slipping past the hem of your shirt to lightly skim over the skin of your back. He exhales, the sound stutter-y. When he speaks, the words vibrate against your stomach and you place your hands at his shoulders, if only because you think your feet might give out if you don’t.

“I somehow imagined a demon to have cold skin,” he tells you, affection blatantly present in his voice as he presses his fingertips along your spine. He twists his head, his nose poking against your ribcage. The feeling makes you squirm, but it’s not wholly unpleasant. “You’re warm,” he whispers, voice muffled by the fabric of your shirt. “You have a heartbeat, too.”

You clutch at his sweater, try to stop yourself from shivering as you look down into his mess of curls. You could tell yourself it’s the alcohol that makes your heart rate speed up, that makes you want to press your thumb against the pulse in his neck and lean down to hide your face in his hair. But in this; in this honest and semi-drunken moment of intimacy, you allow yourself to be candid, if only to yourself.

You really are falling for this silly, strange human.

“It’s just the benefits of a human host,” you murmur, not without humor, tangle your fingers into his hair, massaging his scalp in a show of affection you’ll probably berate yourself for later. Vernon hums, and you feel the upwards curve of his lips against your stomach even with the layer of fabric between your skin and his mouth. You wonder how it looks, feels a bizarre need to see how each and every sort of smile paints his face. “There’s still a scary, dark creature hiding underneath my skin.”

“Interesting,” he muses. Then he’s staring up at you, chin pressing into your stomach. His fingers inches upwards along your back, scrunching up your shirt as he goes.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” he confesses, cheeks red with more than just alcohol. The moment feels heavy, life-changing, somehow. His fingers inch higher, plays with the strap of your bra. “Like you’re just indulging me because of the whole… being dead thing.”

You feel like if you were ever going to admit that you often feel the same way, that you fear that you’re abusing the soothing effect your presence seems to have on him, it would be now. That if you were going to confess that your heart seems to skip a beat every time he as much as looked your way, this would be the opportune moment.

But you never were the most courageous of demons, so instead you tell him;

“As if a weak human boy could take advantage of a powerful demon like me.”

Vernon laughs at that; a true laugh, a laugh that starts in his stomach and erupts out of his mouth as if it can’t help itself. It makes his mouth spread in a smile that is too wide, that makes his upper lip nothing but a thin line and that shows off a beautiful row of white teeth. That makes your heart do a strange wallop and that makes unbidden words curl your tongue in your mouth.

Vernon stands up, his face light with humor and your shirt inch even further up your body. He takes a few steps, his face tilting slightly to angle itself against yours. “Is this okay?” He asks, pulls at your shirt as if to emphasize. You take hold of the bottom of your own shirt, pull it off in one swift movement, and once the garment is discarded, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into perhaps the first kiss between the two of you that you’ve initiated.

He exhales through his nose, digs his fingers into your skin and blindly guides you in the general direction of the bed in the other end of the room. You both fall down on the hard mattress, the air knocked out of you for more reasons than the impact, and when Vernon situates himself between your legs, grounds his pelvis against yours in such a forceful, needy motion that it makes your breath catch, you can’t even muster up the will to feel bad about your choices.

(The pendant you always wear around your neck – a gift from a friend from a long, long time ago – is nowhere to be seen when you wake up to an empty bed the next day. It reappears, though, around Vernon’s neck when you find him outside chatting with Joshua. He looks at you like you’ve hung the bright, yellow sun in the sky and you can’t make yourself ask for the piece of jewelry back.)

“I want to apologize to you,” Joshua says, seemingly out of nowhere, while the two of you raid the dairy aisle at the local 24 hours mart near the newest motel. The sincerity in his voice makes you pause, squinting in his direction as if you could decipher what he’s talking about if only you stared hard enough.

“What for?” you relent at last, unable to summon up some sort of mind reader abilities out of nowhere. Joshua shrugs, grabs a carton of milk from the nearest shelf, looks around as if he’s about to reveal some big secret.

“For what I said about your thing with Vernon,” he tells you, and the mere mention of your… ‘thing with Vernon’ makes your face heat up. Suddenly, the laces on your shoes become intensely interesting, and you can’t quite look up from the floor.

“Yes,” you reply, dragging out the vowel and making your tone carefully blank. You take care not to play into the confession you can tell he’s trying to drag out of you, responding instead with your natural instinct; to make a joke out of it. “I was sort of offended that you doubted my nanny-ing abilities.” Even to your own ears, the quip falls flat, and you grimace, grateful that you can’t see the look on the man’s face. Joshua hums, as he so often does whenever you’ve said something he finds interesting or telling for some reason.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he allows, a sort of playful edge to his voice letting you know that he does not fall for your attempts at dodging the subject. He clears his throat, shuffles on his feet, and you can tell, without even looking at him, that he’s about to spout some typical human sincerities at you. “I see how the two of you look at each other. I’m sorry for misjudging you, that’s all.”

You’re about to reply, to follow up with another obviously dodgy joke, when Vernon appears from somewhere behind you, carrying a basket full of beer and snacks. He stops just a step too close for comfort following the conversation you’ve just had with Joshua, and when he presses a hand to the small of your back your neck tingles almost uncomfortably. “What’re you guys talking about?”

Joshua, to his credit, seems to catch quite quickly that you’re not wholly inclined to indulge more into the subject and lifts up the carton of milk instead, shaking it lightly with a pleasant smile on his face. “Milk,” he says, his tone so ridiculously bright that it must be the most obvious lie in the world.

“Riveting,” Vernon replies, his thumb traveling along your spine in a slow, almost tantalizing line. Joshua rolls his eyes, strides past the both of you with a knowing look sent in your direction.

“Let’s get back to the motel,” he says, and then he’s walking towards the cashier as if he can’t get out of the store quickly enough. Once he’s out of sight, Vernon stares you down for a moment, before pressing a quick, casual kiss to your lips. It’s the sort of kiss you imagine couples must share; an afterthought more than a statement, but meaningful nonetheless. It makes you think about Vernon’s worries about taking advantage, about your own thoughts in that direction.

You’ve dawdled too long, you conclude, watching the two men’s backs as you all retreat out of the store and back to the car. You barely even feel sick when you ride it anymore. Unease grips at your bones as you make a decision.

It’s time to go back to your job as the memory stealer. Somehow you didn’t imagine you’d ever be your own client.

You find Vernon at the top of a hill a few days later, head tilted back and with a beer in his hand. Once you step closer, you see stars reflected in his wide open eyes, his expression relaxed and neutral as he taps absentmindedly against the metal of the beer can. Your heart feels heavy, head buzzing with exhaustion and pulling at the frayed edges of reality; it’s already hard to distinguish what is real and what isn’t.

“I need to tell you something,” you say by way of greeting, stopping right next to him and making yourself comfortable on the grass. The vibrant, green strands tickle against your skin, but somehow the feeling just makes you heavier. Vernon turns his head to the side, looks at you with worry in the creases between his brows.

“Something wrong?” he asks, and not for the first time you’re impressed with how far he’s come in terms of reading the mood. It’s easy to forget that just a mere two months ago, he barely even knew what a joke was, could not sleep without being overwhelmed by night terrors. You shrug.

“There was a boy once,” you start, deciding to just jump right into it. You try remembering when you told this story last, when you muttered the name that now resides on a gravestone that used to read ‘Hansol Vernon Chwe’, but you come up empty. “His name was Jihoon. He was a human, too.”

Vernon watches, his mouth pulled into a tight, carefully blank line. He does not speak.

“We were kinda like you and Joshua, I guess; companions on the road. He hated me at first,” there’s some nostalgia there, some fondness hidden beneath all the hurt. It had been an unfortunate – not to mention ridiculous – curse that had brought you together at first, that had forced you and the temperamental, small human to travel together. By the time you found the cause of it, a bond had already formed. You tell Vernon this, explain your whole history in short, stunted sentences.

Your words start cracking once you get to the part with the vampires, with Jihoon begging you to let him die, to make sure he didn’t turn. To the part where you disregarded your friend’s – because you do not call Jihoon your lover, even if that might have been the more accurate term – wishes out of your own selfishness. “I haven’t seen him since.”

“Sounds like you cared about him a lot,” Vernon says, his voice somewhere between understanding and something far less pleasant. He brushes his fingers along your knuckles, seems to hesitate with really touching you. “Where’s this going?” You frown, take a deep breath. No point in stalling the inevitable, you suppose.

“I’m a curse,” you tell him, fingers grasping for strands of grass as if you need something to keep you grounded. Vernon makes a joke about being surprised that demons are superstitious, and had the mood not been so somber, you might have been proud that he seems to have adopted your penchant for cracking jokes when things get too serious. You take hold of his face, make sure to keep eye contact. “I’ll just get to the point. I’ve made Joshua forget about me.”

Vernon’s already large eyes widen almost comically. He tries to wrestle his face out from between your hands. It’s a futile attempt, of course, but you applaud him for his effort. “What the fuck?” He sputters, his fingernails digging into your wrists forcefully enough to hurt. You wince.

“You don’t need me anymore,” you tell him, and suddenly you wish you had some sort of pre-rehearsed speech ready. The absolutely horrified look on Vernon’s face makes you feel sick, makes you want to disappear. “And I wasn’t supposed to stick around this long in the first place.”

It’s a lie, of course; nothing but a shallow, selfish excuse. The truth is that you’re scared. That you haven’t felt something as strong as whatever it is you’re feeling for Vernon since Jihoon, decades and decades ago. And at this point, you’re not sure if it would be worse if he reciprocated those feelings, or if he didn’t.

“What the fuck does need matter?” Vernon hisses, his voice almost poisonous in his growing anger. He tries, once again, to force your hands away from their steel grip on his face. “I want you here. Joshua wanted you here. You have no right to fuck with our memories.” Your eyes feel wet, and you ponder at how long it has been since you last cried. This part, you prepared for; this part you have a response to, cruel as it might be.

“Just like I had no right to fuck with your parents’ memories?” you bite back, every word feeling like a dagger to your own chest. The scandalized look on Vernon’s face does little to help the situation. But still, you keep going. “There’s no moral high ground in these matters. This is my job.” There’s heartbreak open and visible in the lines of Vernon’s face, so genuine and so real that you almost believe in it.

“I’m so stupidly, irrationally in love with you,” you tell him, press a dry, simple but undoubtedly meaningful kiss to his down-turned lips. You feel a strip of something wet run down your cheeks, feel the taste of salt at your bottom lip. “And I can’t stand it. I have to go.”

Vernon’s eyes turn blank, and you know that the continuous force of energy you’ve forced upon him has finally taken effect. You give him simple instructions, enough to make him get back to Joshua and the motel, but not enough to make his brain go haywire.

And then you leave, disappearing in a cloud of smoke. For the first time in decades, you feel the taste of ashes on your tongue.

(The necklace Jihoon gave you used to be that one thing that anchored you, that made you feel real when memories tried to overtake you. The only thing you feel now when you put your hand up towards your neck is the bone at your collar and the distinct feel of loss. I love you I love you I love you echoes in your head, forceful as a punch to the face.

It doesn’t echo in your own tone of voice.)

Six months later, you get your first customer since your prolonged leave of absence.

At least, you assume it’s a customer, because only someone who comes to your new house with the right code in the form of four precise presses of the doorbell knows who you really are; The Memory Stealer.

You’re sleepy, dizzy as you push yourself off of the couch and take the mandatory steps towards the front door. Your back complains in the form of a stinging pain with the less than ideal position you’ve been sleeping in these past few months; somehow you can’t quite get yourself to sleep in a bed.

All of that is completely forgotten when you open up the door, a familiar face greeting you on the porch. There’s something more human about his features than you’ve ever seen before, something more innocent and questioning, but the person standing in front of you is undoubtedly, heartbreakingly none other than Vernon Hansol Chwe.

“Hiya,” he says, his voice light and airy and unlike anything you’ve ever heard before. He smiles in that way you’ve preferred to remember him; his lips stretched too thin and his teeth almost blinding. For a moment, you falter, stuck in your own lingering emotions. But then he says; “You’re the one they call the memory stealer, right?” and the bile in your throat seems to soothe, the pain in your chest lingering, but not overwhelming. ‘Right’ you murmur in response, and then he’s pushing past you, entering your home with all the gusto of someone who doesn’t know what fear feels like. It’s as heartwarming as it it frustrating.

Vernon twists his head from side to side, takes in the empty walls and the non-decorated home you live in. He turns back to look at you, tilts his head in a way that reminds you of precise kisses and whispered words.

“You sure took a long way to track down,” he tells you, fiddling with the hem of his own jacket. You try not to lean into the pleasant tones of his voice, try not to remember how much you’ve missed Vernon and his soft, plump mouth.

“Is that so?” you reply, the question detached and not really a question. “What did you come for?”

Vernon stares at you, sizes you up and down as if he wants to fight. Then he’s grasping at a thread around his neck, and a pendant you recognize all to well appears from underneath the neck of his sweater. “Do your recognize this?” he asks, and all at once your body seems to shut down; your legs wobbling and your breath hitching so loudly and so quickly it rasps against the walls of your throat.

“I’m so mad at you,” he says, taking a few measured steps to end up right in front of you, staring you down. He cups your face, and only then do you realize that your cheeks are wet. Vernon’s thumbs rub against the innermost parts of your cheekbones, and you feel so holy, so heavenly that you fear you might actually burst into flames.

“You’re lucky I’m so stupidly, irrationally in love with you,” Vernon says, and his smile is wide enough, bright enough to put the sun itself to shame.

#svt fanfic #seventeen fanfic #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios

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