#originally wrote this for Halloween

[twstyuna]

Scary Night

Characters: Skully J. Graves, Yuu, (brief mentions of the Pomefiores)

Summary: In the depths of Tartarus, a Phantom prepares for Halloween.

Notes: Intrusive thoughts go brr anyway the mystery of Skully being an invisible ghost plagues me to this day. This takes place during the Tartarus Descent. I forgot to post it here after ao3.

Warnings: Well Skully's dead. So that. Also delusions and questionable likely non-canon Phantom Lucidity. I would say this fic is bittersweet but you might say I'm chugging poison

Ao3 Mirror

. . .

. . .cold. . . it's cold. . .

. . .it's dark too. . .

. . .that's not right. . .one must to keep vigil, during times like these. . .keep a lantern lit through the night. . .keep it bright in the midst of darkness. . .

. . .there is noise, beyond the room, beyond the cold, cramped space he is in. Is it not a room? Why is it so-

Sounds, again. Noises, again.

One should be silent, on Halloween night, to let terror and dreads seep into one's bones. 

How bothersome. How disrespectful, to cause a ruckus.

He cannot stand for it.

He stretches, something breaks, and the noise and light pierce his skull-

Terrible. How terrible, horrible, unacceptable-

Isn't it enough? Hasn't there been enough of this? Could he not have a moment of peace? To have just one Halloween for himself, dark and solemn as it once was? Hasn't he done enough? 

The room is red and bright and dark shapes scurry all about, clawing at the walls, and making noise and it is wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong-!

Unruly. Ungrateful. Ugly, inconsiderate hoodlums!

He crushes something beneath his hand, something like pleasure drips into him. It's a little more quiet now. And how lovely! There is black paint here already. He can fix it then. He can-

He cannot change what he has done. He cannot extinguish the flames he has set throughout Wonderland. He cannot ruin all that joy and revelry-

But here-

Oh, here he can have it again, if only for a moment! The Halloween he loved and still loves. . . the one Jack Skellington began. . .his Halloween, simple and solemn, eerie and elegant, the one he-

New traditions have eclipsed the old. Even so, he can enjoy that darkness, that old custom, that old love, even if he must do it himself.

Glass shards bite into his palm, but there is so much to cover and so little time to find a brush. What useful little bugs these are, so full of such lovely, pitch-black paint. They fall apart like bruised fruit, and make themselves useful upon the walls.

It's a lovely thing, his Halloween. Those comforting shadows, that flickering lantern flame through the night. The quiet company, as one remembers what has passed and what is to come. He never stopped loving it, not once. Of course he loved it. He never traded it for the new, the bright, the sweet and dazzling. Is it so difficult, to hold many loves in one's heart? He could love the new and old. He loved that Halloween, the first. He never meant to. . .to. . .

How could he? 

He couldn't have murdered it with own two hands.

How could he?

He couldn't have. He never meant to. He only wanted others to love Halloween. To love a different way, if they had to, so they could delight in it as he had. It didn't mean he ever thought poorly of the first. 

Who could ever despise their first love?

. . .so why? Why would nobody care for it, anymore? Why was only he alone gathering black paint now? He could understand lands and towns beyond preferring the festive they saw first, but even in his own home. . . did no one care anymore?

The noise, the lights-

They were beautiful, but wasn't there beauty in the dark and silence too? In a solitary lantern rather than rows of them all about? In the intimate dark of a room than the open night sky? There is a time and a place for everything. . . that's what he told himself when he began. So why couldn't there be a place for his Halloween too?

Thank you, they said, smiling like ghouls. For what you've done. The old Halloween was-

Dull!

Unfashionable-

Dreary           

Boring!         

Morbid-

But what was wrong with that? 

This new Halloween is so much better.

But it wasn't meant to be better, just different. Just- just another way, not the only way, he never meant to-

He can fix it. Let them have their Halloween.

A room. Just a room. Just himself. He can fix this much. Let him have his own. Just by himself, as before. As he had, before, only his room alone would be dark. Only he would truly be alone, now-

That- he could be alright with that. He could live with that. 

He would love his Halloween, and he would honor its death by mourning it with itself. He had to. He has to, he can't let it die, because of him-

But he needs a room first. A dark room, the walls inked black. He could make a lantern, later on. But first, the paint-

Red light pulses in the chamber. An eyesore. There is plenty of paint to use though. Boxes and boxes and boxes stacked up high. Some vials are so eager they open themselves up! And the silence is so, so lovely, every time he-

. . .he cannot help but pause, at this sound, even though he knows he must hurry and have the room painted black-

"Skully. . .?"

There it is again. A soft noise. A soft voice. That sound. . .it's important, isn't it? He knows that sound, that word, that name-

A vial skitters towards the noise, screeching-

But he is faster, his reach longer. 

There is that satisfying crunch, and he looks at his hand. It looks odd, but no matter. It drips black. Right. He must paint the walls, to have his-

"Skully." 

Oh. That voice, again. That was. . .rude, of him. . .to ignore. . .Skellington was a gentleman, a gentleman should-

"Skully, is that you?"

. . .is that him? Is that his name? There's something delightful about the thought, how his name might sound even a little bit like his idol's.

There is a hand against his face then, and it feels so small. The voice is so small. Should they be this small?

"Oh Skully, what happened to you?"

. . .what happened to him? Did something. . .? 

Oh. Why are they crying? Crying should come later, during the vigil, the reflection. If they cry all those tears now-

"Yuu, get away from-! "

L o u d . 

He turns-

But they- Yuu - they're faster.

They turn and they hiss, they shush, despite wearing the same robes as the others, and something flutters in his chest.

"You're. . .you should be quiet. Halloween's supposed to be quiet right?" Their own voice is quiet, so soft he has to lean closer to hear right. "Is that what you're doing here? Painting the walls black. . . you're preparing for Halloween. . ."

. . .they know. They know-

Oh he wants to embrace them, but his hands are just so messy. He lowers his head instead, to kiss them, to see them better, to keep this one's face in mind, but his head's so much bigger and heavier than he remembers, he can't feel his lips and it's like his thoughts are sloshing about. He has to kneel to get close enough-

Yuu throws their arms around his neck.

"Potato, what are you-"

Yuu turns their head and shushes. It's louder than it should be, but they have the spirit.

"Go," they say.

"Trickster-"

"Yuu, yer -!"

They hiss, and the two fall silent.

"Go," they whisper. "I'll. . .I'll catch up. . ."

"Yuu-"

"Please, Vil."

Vil. . .something about the sound. . .like Yuu, it-

Yuu turns back to him, and smiles. "Do you need help? I'm sure you're capable, but it seems like a lot of trouble to do, by yourself. . .not to mention, you've missed a bunch of spots down here. The problem of being too tall I guess. . ."

They're right. There are small spots left unpainted, lower than his line of sight. 

How clumsy of me, he wants to say, but he can't find the words. His throat is clogged with syrup. Must be from all the sweets.

Yuu pulls at their sleeves and gathers its cords until they hold the tassel of their robes like a brush between their fingers. They swipe at the wall, smearing the spaces he neglected. He makes a pleased hum at the sight, even as the others leave noisily, as one makes a sound and drops something before the door.

"Like this?"

Yes, just like that! He can't quite kiss them still, he can't feel his lips, but he can bend low, and press his head against theirs. He hopes they can feel his gratitude. How lovely to have someone to help-

Yuu makes a sound, soft and sad, despite the laugh of it. Their hand shakes.

"I promised. I promised I'd try it- your Halloween."

He can't form their name, though he wants to call it. He shifts to see their face, and oh dear, those tears again-

"I'm sorry, Skully. I'm so sorry I forgot."

Forget? What did they forget? They're the only other one not to forget.

Yet they cry, and the tears drip into the ink. His useless mouth won't open, only gurgles rise from his throat. He wants to touch them, but there is so much broken glass-

They wipe their eyes. They smile at him.

"Do you remember Grim?"

Grim. . .something small and warm. Fluffy. A mischievous little creature, he vowed-

"You said you'd be his hands and feet, a long time ago. Do you remember?"

. . .something like that, he said something of the sort, yes-

"Could you do that again, please? Paint for him? He hates chores. He ran away, you know. I'm looking for him now. I'm looking for a switch too. It will stop this room from being so red. You'd like that, right?"

. . .yes, yes, the room ought to be black-

"I'll go turn the lights off then. And I'll go get Grim, he can light a lantern, and we'll have a nice, proper Halloween together. How about it?"

That sounds splendid, Yuu, but he must have been so passionate in his painting that the stuff got in his mouth. He can't tell if he beams, but Yuu certainly does.

He feels their arms about him again, their lips against his face-

"I'll be right back, okay Skully? "

He hums. It's a delightful thought- sharing his lovely Halloween with someone lovely enough to appreciate it-

Yuu pulls away too soon.

They head for the door.

So do some fiendish, blabbering things. He crushes them, before the beasts can follow Yuu. They have something important to do. Yuu is going to help darken the room, and they're going to find Grim. 

Such a noisy thing, silencing is. Yuu turns back at the commotion and he feels almost ashamed.

But Yuu only smiles at him, so terribly teary still.

"Thank you, Skully," they say.

They press a card to the door, and the brightness beyond swallows them up.

. . .red light flashes, in this horrid room. There is so much to paint, and so much to silence. So much to do. It is worth it though, as the room turns dark and quiet. . .

The room is perfectly dark now. Perhaps Yuu found a way to do away with the light. Perhaps they found Grim too, and are hurrying back this very second-

Oh, but the lantern! He's forgotten all about it. Will Yuu bring a pumpkin? He can make one, certainly, but he doesn't want to use them for it. 

His hand flies to his head, to tap at his chin, but isn't that strange?

His other hand rises, and he'd laugh if he could. How silly of him, to wear the lantern like this. No wonder he couldn't feel his head.  No wonder Yuu was crying. What a sight he must have been. 

The room is ready, and he's only waiting for Yuu and Grim for a fire. He can light it all on his own, but he'd like to share it with them. It would be rude to start early, but he ought to have the lantern ready as well.

He makes sure he has a good grip on the pumpkin on his shoulders.

He pulls, and pulls, and he must be smiling.

He feels so very light, as he sets it down, as he waits in the dark.

He is so glad, he must be smiling. 

After all, it will be simply wonderful to have a proper Halloween again.  

[hersurvival]

Blood drips between us

Between your fingers, down the wrist

A blessing, the embodiment of desire

The two of us bound with red thread

[mrsjellymunson]

If You Go Down to the Woods Today…

Summary: Strangeness occurs in a forest

WC: ~2.4k

CW: Suitable for all. Implied threat, very mild innuendo, food mentions and consumption.

A/N: Okay this is a total departure for me because this is not Eddie or ST-related, but I thought it would be fun to share a little Halloween tale that I wrote for my small offline gaming group. Before I stumbled into this place I would never have imagined I would write anything, let alone an actual sort-of original story, and much less share it, but here we are, and it’s all thanks to you guys. Happy Halloween!!! 🎃👻🦇🤍💀🖤🍄🧡🕯🕷🌲

Background (please read so it makes even the smallest amount of sense 😆): This is a medieval murder mystery. The characters have been thrown together to investigate, and have recently met for the first time in a tavern. Flavia is a low-ranking soldier who’s been unexpectedly promoted to de facto mission leader. Blossom is a chef and knife enthusiast who has a penchant for ‘charming the gentlemen’. Amelia is an inquisitive, rational alchemist with limited social skills and an intelligent/trained rat companion named Pancetta. The orphans, Ursula and Urchie, are two young street urchins who have recently become acquainted with the party. The story is wielded and guided by our Games Mistress/GM. The group is discussing heading into the forest, parts of which are said to be dominated by the mysterious Fae, to commence their investigations.

The noise and general clamour in the tavern steadily increases as the afternoon wears on, as more and more soldiers, guardsmen and assorted military types finish their duties and seek refreshment and relaxation.

Amelia is feeding Pancetta some small pieces of cheese, sharing the remains of their lunch, and Blossom is cutting up more cake, the others wondering quite where she’s managing to keep it all stashed. The latter comments, as nonchalantly as she can,

“So, does anyone have any thoughts about these forest people rumours?”

Flavia hefts her new weapon in her strong hands, feeling the weight and inspecting the workmanship.

“I think it’s just old customs. Tradition, y’know? I heard something about hangings, and a few most likely over-embellished stories regarding…” She clears her throat and tries to say the next two words as quickly as possible,

“blood sacrifices. But I’m sure it’s all gonna be fiiine.”

She spreads her arms wide, forgetting for a moment that she’s still holding her sword. Amelia ducks, narrowly avoiding receiving an accidental haircut, and the alchemist eyes her companion sideways, before stating,

“I do hope you’re right. One really shouldn’t undertake potentially dangerous investigations without at least a modicum of accurate information.”

Blossom speaks through a mouthful of cake, spraying crumbs across the faded tablecloth.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s all bluff and bluster. They’re just trying to keep outsiders away from their villages, that’s all. I’d be the same if people wanted to study me, or saw me as some kind of… curiosity.”

Flavia and Amelia eye each other briefly, before eventually nodding in agreement.

The three continue their discussions as Pancetta hops off Amelia’s forearm and makes her way to Blossom’s side of the table. She gathers the largest of the abandoned cake crumbs before settling into a crouch near the cruet set and beginning to feast with gusto, squeaking happily.

— — —

Myths forgotten and wheelbarrow packed, the investigators make their way into the forest. It goes reasonably well at first, barring unfortunate altercations with some shepherds, a boar (which did, advantageously, provide the party with a welcome addition to their rations) and the much-mourned loss of said wheelbarrow.

The intrepid band bed down for the night under the forest canopy, after a good meal of roasted boar meat and foraged berries.

A light mist is rolling in, chilling the air, and Amelia and Blossom offer to shelter an orphan each to share body heat, Ursula curling up with Blossom and Urchie lying next to Amelia, with Pancetta snuggling between them. All the blankets are put to use to help keep the party dry, and Flavia piles the fire high with wood to keep them warm overnight.

All is initially quiet and uneventful, save the snuffling of a few diminutive woodland creatures and the hooting of nocturnal birds.

But then, there’s some peculiar and unexpected noises.

Rustling.

Giggling.

The shuffling of feet.

Flavia rouses first, her finely tuned soldiering senses alerting her to the peculiar changes in their surroundings.

She’s quick to rouse Amelia, however, when it becomes clear that they’re not alone amongst the shrubs and trees.

The alchemist awakes from Flavia’s shove to the sound of low laughter and screeching and she sits bolt upright, taking the blanket with her, much to the disgruntlement of a grumbling Urchie.

Blossom is the next to rouse, blearily rubbing her eyes and absent-mindedly pulling a piece of cake from her tunic and starting to munch lazily as she murmurs,

“Woss goin’ on? Is it breakfast already?”

The noises continue. More shuffling, more giggling, rapid footfalls.

The adventurers glance between themselves, as Amelia states as assuredly as she can,

“Now, everybody just stay calm. I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.”

Her voice is steady, but the furrow between her eyebrows and the speed at which her eyes are flicking around their surroundings belies her rational and confident exterior.

The shuffling seems to come closer, and Blossom, ever one to state the obvious, mutters,

“It’s… it’s getting louder…”

Amelia’s eyes are wide as she clutches the blanket, Pancetta now taking refuge beneath it. Her pouch of alchemy supplies is just out of reach, but she reasons she could feasibly lunge for it in an emergency. Flavia fingers the hilt of her sword, and Blossom's palm rests instinctively over her tied roll of kitchen knives. Ursula and Urchie seem more intrigued than troubled, the others surmising that their years of living on the streets in the city was likely quite often scarier than this.

Suddenly, the form of a bipedal figure darts past, illuminated just enough from the firelight to momentarily be seen. It looks like a small creature with a pumpkin for a head, and it’s laughing maniacally.

Following it, there’s a slightly taller figure, covered in what appears to be blood, screaming and pursued by two others brandishing a carving knife and a small hatchet. Yet another figure is covered in fur from head to toe, has raised, clawed fingers, and is growling.

The small figures head in all directions and seem to encircle the small camp. Some are dressed in black with tall hats, others are in rags, yet more are wrapped in what look like torn sheets.

They move towards the camp and begin to chant, low at first but building to a disturbing crescendo,

“Trinkets or Trunks. Trinkets or Trunks! TRINKETS OR TRUNKS!!”

Suddenly, everything stops.

In the silence, and much to her embarrassment, Amelia lets out a small,

“Eep”.

Someone else lets out something different. It’s silent, but deadly…

One of the figures is the first to speak, and in a discombobulatingly light and high voice, asks,

“Come on, it’s Galloween! What’s it to be then? Trinkets? Or Trunks?”

Amelia sits stock still, unmoving, and Blossom takes another nervous bite of cake. Flavia’s communication skills are on top form, as she mumbles,

“Errrrrrr..?”

Two of the figures move closer, striding confidently into the firelight.

The taller of the two states quite matter-of-factly,

“You know, Galloween! Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it?”

It’s Amelia’s turn to attempt language now, as she looks between the two small figures and mumbles,

“Ummm…?”

Blossom swallows her mouthful of cake, and, suddenly the most eloquent of the three, murmurs,

“Erm, is this a forest thing?”

The smaller figure speaks with the voice of a small boy, as he shifts happily from foot to foot.

“Oh, so you’re not from around here? Now it makes sense! It’s All Gallows Evening of course, where we celebrate all The Outsiders that we’ve put to death on the gallows!”

He cackles and claps his hands, dancing in a small circle, and a few of the other figures cheer.

The taller figure, apparently an older girl, steps across and shoves him lightly on the shoulder.

“Shh, Bobbin! We don’t do that anymore. Do we?”

The boy looks suitably chastised, and clasps his hands in front of him.

“No, Mumpkin. Not anymore… But we still like to have fun! And we shorten it to Galloween now because it’s easier to say.”

Various other figures step forward now, and the party sees that they’re mostly, if not all, children. They speak over each other in a rush to explain.

“Trinkets means you have to give us something fun.”

“Like a toy, or a bell.”

“Or a nice rock.”

“I got a hat once.”

Some of the younger children pipe up,

“Or a scone!”

“Yeah, a scone!”

”Especially one with fruit or bugs in… mmm.”

All the children hum in agreement, and there’s much chatter amongst them all about who’s received the absolute best Trinket prizes.

Ever the inquisitive one, Amelia eventually asks,

“So, what about Trunks? What’s that?”

The small boy, Bobbin, speaks again.

“Well, if you don’t give us a Trinket, we get to take one from your trunk! Or, we hit you with a stick. It used to be tree trunks, but they’re way too heavy to carry around, so these days we just use sticks. See?”

He pulls something from his belt and brandishes a not-very-scary-looking tree branch, swishing it in front of him, making it whistle through the air. The other children ooh and aah, glancing at the boy’s twig like it’s a deadly weapon.

The three adventurers consider this for a moment. Sure, a stick like that could probably do someone a mischief, depending on how close it came to an ear or, especially, an eye. But generally speaking, none of them feel terribly… threatened.

Smirking at each other, they decide to play along.

Amelia screeches, voice comically high-pitched,

“Oh, brave sir, don’t be waving that in our direction!”

Blossom interjects,

“Gosh, I’ve never before seen one quite that big…”

But the pièce de résistance is Flavia, who, still dressed in her amour and imposing military finery, throws herself onto the ground in a shivering crouch and pretends to cower, shielding her face and head with her arms and whimpering,

“Oh, never have I faced such a formidable foe! Please, please, small guardians of the forest, take pity on these weak and lowly travellers. We shall choose Trinkets, and hope and pray that you will allow us to spend just one night beneath your mystical and protective canopy!”

The boy with the stick looks at it aghast, and his friends cheer and clap, one or two slapping him on the shoulder, and Flavia’s performance garners chuckles and even a smattering of applause from both the camp and the conglomeration of figures.

Discussion turns again to trinkets, and Flavia decides to make something, searching the undergrowth for a sturdy stick and using her dagger to whittle a simple pattern on its surface by removing some of the bark and exposing the pale wood beneath.

As she works, Amelia roots in her satchel, pulling out a small, semi-opaque stone. Its internal facets are slightly iridescent, and the children marvel at the multiple colours and the way it reflects the dim light. She spins an improvised tale about it being gifted to her by a powerful alchemist master, and that the children should be careful not to awaken its devastatingly powerful magical aura, to which they nod furiously, taking everything very seriously indeed.

Blossom offers a small object carved from bone. It looks like it could be an animal, possibly a horse, although it’s not entirely clear how many legs it has. Nobody asks and nobody comments, reasoning that only having kitchen tools available for such artistic endeavours not only limits one’s dexterity, but also allows the creator access to myriad forms of weaponry, should any offense be taken. The children don’t seem to mind, and immediately begin racing it up and over each other's shoulders and across the moss-covered rocks, making a variety of similarly unidentifiable noises.

Tension entirely dispersed, Amelia spends some time talking to the children and making notes about their costuming and customs in her leather-bound book. There’s much chatter as Pancetta feels brave enough to come out and perch on her shoulder, and the children delight in sharing some of their already-accumulated treats with her.

Flavia finishes her crafting by carving a smooth divot into the top of the piece of wood, turning it into a thumb stick, and Bobbin, still holding his twig, casts it aside without a thought as she offers it to him. She explains that it’s not for hitting, but rather for walking and trekking and going on journeys to make great discoveries.

He beams so hard it splits his face in two, and he stands up straight and marches around the clearing as if he’s leading a grand expedition. Some of the other children stride behind him, swinging their arms and chanting some variation of ‘hup, two, three, four’ but in a language none of the three women have heard before.

The children seem more than pleased with these simple offerings, passing them amongst themselves and cooing. Even Ursula and Urchie have been accepted into the throng, laughing and dancing and making animal noises along with them. The three travellers look on fondly, wondering quite how long it’s been since they’ve behaved like this. Like children.

As Bobbin strides past once again, he huffs, slightly out of breath,

“Next year you’ll have to come back to the village and have some special Galloween food!”

Blossom perks up significantly at this, and the children are excited to tell her all about the spread that awaits them. There’s candied turnips, mashed swede, onion and honey sweet biscuits, and if they’re especially lucky, squirrel burgers.

They explain that there’s also a special drink made from rotten fruit that only the grown ups are allowed to have, the children commenting that it smells weird and ‘makes them all dance funny’.

It all sounds delightful, and the three investigators decide there and then that wherever the next year takes them, they’ll reconvene to make a special journey this time next year. They’ll bear trinkets aplenty, and are already planning to justify it to their various superiors as a fact finding mission and cultural exchange.

As the children are winding down their antics and Ursula and Urchie are beginning to tire, there’s a bellow from within the forest.

“Gracie Groggington and all the rest of you Grogglets, you get your backsides back to camp this instant!”

One girl in an especially pointy hat gasps loudly as all the other childrens’ eyes widen, and they all leap to their feet as Amelia questions,

“Who’s that?”

Mumpkin explains,

“That’s Jiemme, she organises our playtimes, but we kinda went off track a little bit tonight…”

Bobbin adds,

“She’s good fun though. Comes up with all sorts of cool adventures for us.”

Another boy interjects,

“Yeah, she sometimes takes our Trinkets off us, mind you.”

Mumpkin continues,

“Well, to be fair Old Man Groggy did give Tiny Pete a flick knife for his third birthday, soooo.”

Bobbin nods knowledgeably.

“Yeah, you usually have to be at least 4 to get one of those.”

He turns and begins running into the darkness of the forest, waving as he goes.

“It was fun meeting you, and thanks for the Trinkets!”

The other children follow suit, and soon the clearing is as quiet as it was before, the only evidence of this most unexpected of shenanigans being some packed earth bearing small footprints, and a moderately impressive twig discarded off to one side.

Just as the weary adventurers are settling back down into their blankets, there’s yet more rustling from the foliage, and the exhausted team are almost too tired to care, assuming it's one of the children coming back to find a lost possession, or perhaps to play a practical joke.

Until there comes the disturbing rumble of a very loud, very guttural belch…

Afterword: this leads on to another adventure where we meet a drunken NPC with digestive issues… 😉

As always, I’d love to hear what you think of this. Especially as it’s so far removed from what I usually share 😙

Tagging my general list (open), but feel free to ignore if this doesn’t interest you 🤭 @joejoequinnquinn, @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @sassidykassidy @richter-raccoon @1deverland @bettyfrommars

[mci-writing]

Warmth (Midoriya Izuku x Reader)

Warnings: Obsessiveness (near the end), implied major character death, reanimated corpse (it’s Deku), necromancy, Deku is the equivalent of Frankenstein’s monster kinda, a little ooc, mentions of pain, descriptions of skin burning (not exactly but yeah idk how to explain it)

Kofi

Viridian irises glance over the form laid before them, a longing sigh passing through chapped lips and landing on deaf ears. Fingers, cold to the touch and tinted blue from lack of flowing blood and oxygen, slide across the small expanse of exposed (s/t) skin, the thumb stopping just under a closed left eye and softly, lovingly, tenderly rubbing the area. It leaves the warmest goosebumps, so warm it should ache, dulling once the contact is distanced.

Whispers of ‘patience’ sound through the air, chilling down to the bone and causing him to pull away out of instinct. The reactions of those around him tell him that they aren’t really there, but he can’t help his response after being told such for so long. For so achingly long.

“Deku-kun,” He feels himself straighten at the voice beside him, a hand setting itself at the small of his back. The thumb rubs small, circles in an attempt to soothe his worrying, “If you keep tugging at your lip like that, you’ll rip it off.”

He becomes self-aware of his habit after his companion points it out, cheeks warming as he quickly lets it go. He wets his lips with his tongue after, teeth grazing over the bottom one as they pop out. He’s unable to stop the awkward chuckle that follows or the way his eyes flit from those around him to the body on the table.

“I’m sure (L/n)-San wouldn’t mind reattaching it once they wake, Uraraka-San,” Todoroki stands near the door, his eyes never straining from beyond the frame as he speaks to them. It’s hard to miss his tense demeanor from where they’re placed, one of his fangs pointing past his lips.

Izuku feels himself sweat at that, a wobbly smile forming on his face as he brings his full attention back to the other members of their group. The best he can manage out is a small “T-Thanks, Todoroki-San” as his hand connects with (Y/n)’s and laces his fingers through theirs.

Silence fills the room again after that. Midoriya can hear his heart racing and feel (Y/n)’s faint pulse. They pump in tandem together, like always. Yet, it does nothing to ease his fears. He knows that spell they cast was powerful, but they’ve been out for a few days now. The only reassurances he’s received of them still being alive was the small noises they’d make as they rested, the way their hand tightly holds his each time he holds it, and the addictive burn he receives with each touch to their skin.

The book of necromancy did say that some spells would be harder to cast for users with less experience, but Midoriya didn’t realize that translated to needing to rest for so long to regain the little strength of power (Y/n) knew how to use. He would’ve tried harder to suggest something else for their escape.

“Oi, Deku!” The rough voice of his childhood friend wakes him from his thoughts, his thumb and forefinger making themselves known on his lips as they tightly squeeze from the small jump he makes. He’s being side-eyed by shades of crimson, but not many would catch the soft worry behind them, “Me n Shitty Hair’s got the ship waiting at the dock. Cargo truck’s outside.”

Emerald eyes meet the fiery shades, an understanding spoken between them that only their little bubble could process. Without a beat, Bakugou comes forward and lifts the end of the slab they're laying across and Todoroki is quick to grab the other end. They load it into the cargo truck's trunk, careful to ensure they're strapped down in the back before Todoroki hops out. Midoriya watches on, eyes longing for the warmth he’s just lost.

~~~~~

The car only holds four people, debatably three if you wanted to argue whether or not Midoriya could still be counted as human in his current form. He was undead, that much he could confirm from the way his body had been stitched together and the ice cold feeling of his skin when he wasn’t within a certain proximity of (Y/n). He was something like Frankenstein, but the context seemed less science fiction and more fantasy. He had no clue why he had been brought back to life, just that he had been. (Y/n) and Kacchan always avoided the question when he’d ask how he’d died.

That’s another thing, it’s always the three of them. Even now, only Kacchan and (Y/n) were going to board the boat with him. Kirishima was only here to take them there and back.

His gaze pans away from the passing scenery outside to the body pressed against his. His cheeks warm as bright a red as they possibly can at the proximity, yet he can’t force himself to move away from the burning sensation of their skin touching. It hurts in the nicest way possible, making him feel way more alive than he thought possible. It’s why he thought he had just woken from a long sleep instead of immediately thinking he’d come back to life, the warmth too comforting for him to question anything at the time. Both of his companions joked about it being out of character for him.

He takes in the low rise of their chest and the serene look of their face. It’s one of the very few times he hasn’t seen them worried out of their mind since being brought back to life. He’s tried not to keep count of their smiles, one of his favorite aspects about them. If with their lips held in a neutral shape, he’s fighting the urge to kiss them until they swell.

He feels himself warm more at the repeated thought of laying a kiss on their unconscious form. He should be ashamed, but he’s been wanting to be intimate with them for a while now. It’s gotten so bad he gets a little jealous when he catches them and Kacchan away from him, whispering between themselves in a bubble of their own that he feels he won’t fit in.

That thought sours his feelings a little, especially when he knows he could never take them from Kacchan and he could never take Kacchan from them. The idea of them moving forward without him, leaving him out, and further pushing him away from the picture he'd perfectly fit in before his current state, gives him a deep pit feeling in his chest that he doesn't enjoy dwelling on for too long.

But right here… Right now…? He could just give them a quick peck and pretend it didn’t happen. No one would know… Unless they woke up from it or something…

He weighs his options, emerald eyes measuring and tracing the outlines of your lips. He has vivid memories of the one time he managed to get a kiss from them, in the dead of night when the only witnesses aside from themselves were the twinkling constellations. He doesn't remember how long ago it was, but he can perfectly picture the sight of them shyly smiling, their face warm, and (e/c) eyes dilated like a super moon. Their lips fit perfectly against his, slated and locked like they were meant to be attached for eternity, and delectably soft like fresh baked goods straight from the oven. He'd press his lips against them as much as he possibly could, suffocate against them even.

The cons would be them waking and beating the shit out of him... Or Kacchan catching him and beating the shit out of him...

Midoriya leans forward, hand burning as he cups their cheek. He rubs his thumb against their skin as his lips finally meet theirs again. It feels like home, his lips feverishly sucking against the plump flesh like he'll never be able to do so again.

He pulls away once he realizes he's being too greedy, too desperate. He sucks in a deep breath, the butterflies rising to his chest as his heart pounds against his ribcage. He can feel the warm honeydew in his cheeks, worsening when his eyes dart up and meet a certain pair of crimson ones. They stare at one another for a moment, but Midoriya can't read what Bakugou is thinking at all. Bakugou sends him a small smile, or something close to it. His lips quirk upward on one side before he turns back to the road. Kirishima is talking about something, but he's obviously not paying attention.

"'Zuku?" The soft call of his name has him looking down, meeting the dazed stare of (Y/n). They're still relatively exhausted from their overuse of magic, a bit of light missing from their pupils. They press their cheek into his hand, the bags under their eyes heavy, "Are we... heading there?"

"We're going to the dock right now, (Y/n). Kacchan's in the front seat and Kirishima's driving us there," Midoriya informs them, voice low as to not cause them any discomfort. He knows they typically suffer from headaches after too much use of their necromancy abilities, "I'm sure you should be able to rest a bit longer-"

"No, no," They begin to sit up, getting a grip on his shoulder and using it to push themselves up. They let go and force themselves to sit up on their knees, getting in a position where they can easily look out the window, "I have to check that... we're not... Not being..."

Their voice trails off as they grab their head, another splintering headache racking their body from the sudden movement. Midoriya is quick to grab hold of them, leaning their body against his. Gravity lays them back across his lap, their face pressing into the fabric of his shirt while they close their eyes. Out of instinct, he presses his fingers against the nape of their neck, slowly sliding them upwards to press at various spots in the back of their head.

"No one's following us, (Y/n). We made sure of that..." He murmurs, pushing their hair out of their eyes. His hand eases down the side of their face, fingers hooking under their chin and pushing it up so they can see him better, "Get your rest."

"Izuku...," They stare at him for a moment, different emotions flashing through their (e/c) eyes. One of their hands reaches up for his cheek, the flesh feeling as if it'll catch on fire at any moment. They pull away too quickly for his liking, the same stricken look reaching their eyes like every other time they touch him and they're reminded of their afflictions. He's heard them apologize to him in the late hours before.

With little thought, he grabs their hand and presses it back to his flesh. He feels just a little closer to being human again at the touch. He nuzzles into their hold, keeping eye contact with them and watching the confliction beyond their irises. He doesn't care about the way his body screams to flinch away from the heat, pressing more into it as opposed to as opposed to running from it. He tightens his hold when he feels them try to tug away from him.

“Izuku, stop. You’re hurting yourself-,”

"No, it's okay," He responds too quickly, leaning into their touch. He presses his ear to their chest, listening to the steady beating of their heart and the movement of their breathing in their chest. The heat isn't as excruciating, simmering to an addictive warmth adjacent to bodies entangled in a hug. It crawls over his skin and wraps around him like a blanket, "Everything is okay..."

He never wants to leave from (Y/n)'s hold, (Y/n)'s warmth, ever again. He doesn't know how he could ever live without it, especially not now when the cold is even colder than before...

[astranauticus]

A thrilling and horrific tale of 5 strangers caught up in a mysterious supernatural conspiracy, will they uncover the secrets of the peculiar artefact bestowed upon them or will they fall to what lurks in the shadows? Find out in Curse of the Amulet, coming to a theatre (heh) near you this Halloween season!

[carnivorousghouls]

From The Perspective of a Monster

You’re different.

You scrub your skin rough, digging into yourself, hoping to see blood. You bathe yourself in different, pungent, floral-scented soaps. People hold their breath when they pass you.

Your face is a mass of repugnant bumps, expansive blotches of burgundy creeping beyond them, swallowing your features. No one even knows the colour of your eyes.

You were born from grime, the kind you find caking the cracks of shame and repulsion. 

There is a river that passes through the city and makes its way, twisting and churning, until it reaches your neighbourhood. It flows past open septic drains reeking of rot and disease and under bridges blocked by lines of traffic, motors running and oil tanks leaking. It flows alongside peak hour traffic filled with bleary-eyed, early morning road rage and empty, dark-stained coffee cups flying from windows.

Stretching beyond where it should end, as though it gurgles and rolls to spite those who must look upon it. An ugly, jagged scar across the map. Even when sight of it is lost you can be certain it is still there, running beneath your feet along uncleaned sewage pipes, long discarded by government services. There is a spot, three blocks from your house, where the river expands, creating a soft, squishy, acrid bank. Scummy, parasite infested water meanders under a sheen of foul smelling muck, ribbons of algae dance against the rise, intertwining themselves into dark clumps creeping up the rocky incline, threatening to infest the world beyond the river. Folks of nearing homes often request council services to do something about the ill-favoured bank. They never do.

It is here, where it is as though you were created.

Someone had scooped up the mud, muck and scum and had tried their unskilled hand at sculpting. You are their unsightly, malformed creation. They wrapped you in tight cloth, binding you together, holding you steady, to hold you as you rose from the disgust that birthed you. That creates you. You pathetically limp your way through what could be considered a life, just dull enough, adequately unassuming, that no one notices you’re not like them, that you don’t belong.

It is when they touch you, their hand clasping you in what they intend to be a comforting gesture, they notice. Their fingertips pressing into your flesh, nails tearing through the fragile, deliberately placed cloth. 

Cloth gives way. 

You begin to seep through the tearing, bubbling up to the surface. Beads of nauseating black filth swell and grow. Their fingers sink into you.

You are devouring them - they fear. You are contaminating them.

Their face contorts, there is no flurry of emotions, no confusion or hesitation. Their wide eyes lock with yours. The eyes that once looked at you with familiarity, with friendship look back at you, disgust painting the space in their mind where you once occupied. 

Apologies rush by the hundreds, hammering at the walls of your mind, begging to be heard, threatening to tumble out. You won’t let them. You cannot apologise. 

You will not.

They pull away, taking hurried steps back as the rest of what once held you together falls away, you having seeped through, your bulging, distended form only growing. There is no turning back, they know what you are.

A monster.

[gummiix]

I’m almost done with my biiig ol comic page :3333 can’t wait for you guys to see it. I’ll prolly show it in pencil and not pen though because I’m not too confident in my inking skills (and don’t know if it’ll be ruined)

[lamuradex]

Short Story: Mercenaries

(Thought I'd start with a spookier one because it's Spooky Month)

Title: Mercenaries

Wordcount: 3000 Words

Commander Aberdeen must lead his men through the jungle after a mission left them with a lot of loot and a long way to carry it home.

But when something starts whistling out in the woods, they realise they might not be as alone out here as they thought.

Mercenaries

Entry 1: Day 1                                                                         03/04/08

Personal log of Commander Aberdeen of Wraith Company. Honestly, it feels strange to report my own name. Strange even hearing it. Most people I know just call me Commander. Mercs know their place and know respect when someone’s paying for it. I’m keeping a log here because I’ve always found it safer to have a record, in case there are issues later or inquiries, and because it’s something to do in the evenings. We’re here in the jungle, I won’t specify where, to raid a supply convoy of some rather vital and expensive things aboard. I won’t specify what either. If someone captures us and reads this, they can just ask our employers, whoever they are.

The raid went off without a hitch. Well, almost. We had intended to capture the trucks and drive them out, but Everett got a bit trigger happy and one of the gas tanks went up. We lost all three trucks, but saved the cargo. It was a steal or destroy op anyway. Just as long as this stuff doesn’t get where it’s going. Still, this stuff should be worth something, so we’re heading back with it.

It’ll take a while though. Between dodging local authorities, militia, and having to heft this stuff through the jungle, we’re estimating two months before we reach the airstrip. Not a problem. We’re in no hurry. Supplies are on sleds, and we’ve got a couple of ATVs to drag them. Six of us, including me. That’s me, Everett, Michaels, Cally, Gorman and Jameson. Those are just my codenames for all of them, by the way, in case we’re captured.

Two months to go. Just need to keep a low profile.

Entry 2: Day 3                                                                                 05/04/08

Been a little while since the first entry. Everyone’s staying well behaved. Almost throttled Michaels earlier today though when I thought he was whistling. Was about to call him out when I realised he wasn’t making a sound.

It’s coming from the jungle. Might be a bird or something, but now I’m not so sure. Thought I saw someone out there. Just a glimpse of something moving in the green. Thought I saw some eyes. Maybe just some locals, but we’ll keep watch. If they report to someone, we could be in trouble.

Entry 3: Day 7                                                                               09/04/08

Four days now, but the whistling finally stopped. It warbled like a bird, but then Everett whistled back. He always was our little musician. Moment after he did, the whistling stopped. Whatever was calling got its answer. Glad it’s gone.

Nonetheless, I had Cally double back to check. He says he found tracks. Couldn’t say if they were animal or human. Not really a concern. We’re armed to the teeth and in the middle of nowhere. Who’d hear a gunshot out here?

Entry 4: Day 14                                                                                16/04/08

Jesus Christ. Something happened today. It’s been about a week since my last entry, but I’ve got to get this on record.

We’re down a man and one bullet. Jonathan “Cally” Wilks, deceased. At least, we hope he is.

A couple of days ago, Gorman started to get a bit jumpy. He thought we were being followed. We kept an eye out, and others agreed. Then this morning, before we could pack up, something came running through the treeline. Gorman jumped and opened fired. The intruder fell dead.

It was bloody Cally. Gorman almost fell apart when he realised. But when we looked at him, Cally was a wreck. He was mud soaked, covered in scratches, and looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week.

Thing is though, he didn’t look like that yesterday. Cally slept in the tent next to mine. I heard him snoring. One of the men saw him that morning, clean shaven and fine. Everyone’s wondering if we’ve had an imposter with us this whole time, or if maybe the dead man’s the imposter. Either way, the “other” Cally is nowhere to be found. His stuff’s still here, but he isn’t.

The men are pretty shaken. They boxed up Cally and put him on the sled. Best thing is we take him home. He was a good man.

On another note, that whistling started again.

Entry 5: Day 19                                                                                21/04/08

 That damned whistling. It’s driving the men mad. Still, everyone knows to keep a cool head. We’ve already lost one out here. We don’t want another.

Thing is, I don’t think we’re alone out here. I was on patrol, shorthanded with Cally dead, when I saw something. A figure in the trees. It was pretty far out, but there was definitely something. A dark figure, peering at me.

Now, I’m not some idiot who’s scared of black tribal villagers. You work in jungles enough, you meet your fair share. Even traded with a few. So when I say this man was dark, know that I mean it. Skin like charcoal and piercing white eyes.

Then he was gone. I sent Gorman and Michaels to look and they found a boot print in the mud. It’s the same brand that’s part of our uniform. I had Jameson check the supplies, but we’re not missing any, and Cally still has both of his. Gorman says the boot print was messy. Says there was viscera in it, that’s how Gorman put it. We’ll be more careful with our night guards from now on.

Entry 6: Day 23                                                                               25/04/08

The whistling stopped again. No more sightings of the man with bloody boots. There is certainly someone out there though.

We keep coming across strange totems. Hanging off trees, buried in the ground. They’re made with animal bones, most still covered in blood. Might explain the boot print. Jameson says this region is uninhabited, but the rest of us are worried we’re walking into tribal territory. Even so, I think we can handle ourselves. So far we’ve seen one guy, at most. We can deal with a lot more than one guy.

Entry 7: Day 27                                                                              29/04/08

We found another boot print today, bloody as the first. Gorman almost stepped on it. I know we’re moving slow, but the idea they’re in front of us is unsettling. Still, it’s not my current concern. My current concern is Michaels.

When we found the footprint, everyone gathered round like it was a spectacle. But Michaels is silent. Now, I know I haven’t described him, but Michaels is a bloody chatterbox. It’s why I thought he was the man whistling, him or Everett. Everyone else is having their say about the footprint, but Michaels is just quiet.

He just got back to work without saying anything. I’m gonna find out what’s bothering him. I’ll beat the information out of him if I have to. Now’s no time to be keeping secrets.

Entry 8: Day 28                                                                             30/04/08

I’m not sure what to make of today.

I confronted Michaels, but he refused to talk till we were alone. Then he finally told me, and I wished he hadn’t. He’d recognised the boot print.

The most recent one was different to the others. There was a cut across the heel. I’d just thought a twig or insect had crawled through it, but then Michaels tells me this story about Everett. The idiot stepped on a serrated blade two tours back, and only missed losing his heel because Michaels kicked his foot. Still has the boot to prove it though.

First I was unnerved by this, then I was angry. I decided to confront Everett. I marched up to him and called him out in front of everyone, thinking this was some big prank. Turns out the others had words to say too. Everett had been acting strange. One man said he’d been staring at Cally’s coffin.

Everett never answered. Something changed in him. Even now, I couldn’t put a finger on what, but suddenly it wasn’t Everett anymore. It was just something that looked like Everett. “Everett” then opened its mouth, screeched like a goddamned banshee, then sprinted off into the jungle. Michaels drew his gun and took a shot, but we’re sure he missed.

A couple of hours later, the real Everett appeared, battered and muddy, like he’d been missing for a week. He was also missing an eye.

While Jameson, our medic, looked him over, Everett told us what he remembered. He’d heard one of us calling him in the woods, and stepped away to see. After a few minutes he couldn’t find anyone, so turned back. We were mid transit, so he wasn’t too alarmed when he couldn’t immediately catch up. When he couldn’t catch up after a day, he started to get worried. When he finally had to rest and fell asleep, he woke up the next morning with an eye missing, not bleeding a drop. Then he found us later that day.

He doesn’t remember finding his boot print. He even still has his scarred boot. By his report, he vanished sometime after we’d seen the first one. He’s been missing for about a week, but swears up and down it couldn’t have been more than three days.

On top of everything, Jameson gave his report. Everett’s eye wasn’t removed surgically. It was torn out. Until we can get to proper hospital, Jameson has taken a sports team badge off his uniform and given it to him for an eyepatch. For all the horror of the situation, Everett doesn’t half look silly with a Bolton Wanderers patch tied to his face.

Entry 9: Day 30                                                                            02/05/08

I’m glad I’m keeping this record, or I might think I was going mad. The whistling started again, and I’ll admit I felt goddamned scared. I’ve given a standing order to the men. No one leaves the camp without a direct order from me, given eye to eye. Not that they would. More and more, they’re reporting seeing the dark figure. Charcoal skin and watching us. It only occurred to me earlier today that the whistling could be multiple of them communicating. We just need to get out of this jungle.

Entry 10: Day 36                                                                            08/05/08

The whistling stopped. I don’t know if that’s more unnerving. Either way, I gave the men a new order today. No one travels alone. Not for a second. I don’t care if you need to use the bathroom, you have another man watch you do it. I’m not having any “I only turned my back for a second, then he was gone.” We are not losing anyone else.

Entry 11: Day 40                                                                             12/05/08

We found more boot prints today, with a noticeable bit missing near the left toe. Everyone hurriedly checked their shoes to see if they matched. None did. Then Jameson decided to check Cally’s in his coffin. It was a perfect match.

Entry 12: Day 43                                                                              15/05/08

We found a body. It was barely recognisable and at first we thought it was another totem. Then we saw its face. It was Jameson. This was doubly strange, as Jameson was standing beside me at the time.

Immediately guns were drawn. We all expected to hear that same banshee scream, but “Jameson” just pleaded with us, so we put up one of the tents and dragged him in. This one is talking, and we’re getting answers. The tent is so the others don’t have to watch.

I’ve only briefly stopped to write this. I need it in case I start to question myself. Jameson is an old friend. It’ll hurt torturing something that looks like him.

Entry 13: Day 43                                                                             15/05/08

Another man is dead. Eric “Gorman” Jenkins, deceased.

It’s a good thing I forgot to write that for Jameson.

Me and Everett set to getting information out of “Jameson”. He never broke. He kept saying he was the real deal. I wished I’d believed him.

Then we heard this godawful noise. Screaming and gunfire. We ran out and found Gorman ripped in half. Michaels was sitting nearby, bloodied, terrified, and clutching his gun. Jameson’s body was gone. When we finally got some sense out of Michaels, he told us what happened.

Him and Gorman had been listening to us work, when one of them realised they better box up Jameson’s body. It had been sat out there in the heat, and neither was looking forward to it, but it needed to be done. When they got there, they both saw something odd. A wild dog had found the corpse in their absence, but it just walked up, sniffed, then snarled and ran away. When they looked closer, there wasn’t a fly or a maggot on the corpse. Not a worm or a beetle. Lines of ants seemed to be threading their way around it.

They found this strange, but blamed whatever had killed him. They set to move the body when Gorman suddenly froze and went damned pale. He just pointed and Michaels moved to look. He was pointing at a Bolton Wanderers patch on the corpse’s shoulder. The same one Everett had been using as an eyepatch for the last week.

Gorman tried to radio us. Before he could, the corpse moved. It got up and turned into something. Michaels describes it as looking like one of those totems, just bigger and with more teeth. It grabbed Gorman and ripped him along the middle, then turned on Michaels, but he shot it twice and it ran off into the trees. Then we arrived.

We’ve let Jameson out of his restraints and boxed up what was left of Gorman. There are only four of us left.

Entry 14: Day 45                                                                              17/05/08

Michaels is not doing well. He’s doing his job, but he is not well. He keeps grabbing a patch on his arm, as if to remind himself he’s still him. It’s a logo of some indie band he follows. Told me once he met his girlfriend during one of their concerts. I’ve always like the logo honestly. Looks military enough for a uniform. Better than Bolton Wanderers, anyhow. It’s a pair of arrows crossing each other with a plane behind them. Maybe if we get through this, I’ll make sure to buy them both tickets. Whatever the case, I think this might be Michaels’ last tour.

Entry 15: Day 46                                                                              18/05/08

I saw the dark figure again. He was in our camp this time.

After everything, I was loathed to sleep. Everyone else was wired, but with two standing guard, two of us could sleep. I had to. The last few weeks have been more than I could bear. I slept fitfully, but got a few hours. I awoke in the middle of the night and decided to trade off with someone.

And there he was. Charcoal black skin that almost looked burnt, crouching on the balls of his feet by the fire. He was staring at Michaels’ tent, eyes wide open, unblinking.

It took me longer than I’d like, but I drew my gun. Before I could get it out of my holster, he turned, looked me in the eyes, and sprinted off into the trees. I raised hell, but no one else saw hide nor hair of him. Where he had been crouched, there were two footprints in the mud. They were both caked with long dried blood.

Entry 16: Day 50                                                                             22/05/08

We are finally through. We reached the airfield yesterday and we’re finally going home. No one is comfortable though. We’re all looking at each other with uneasy glances. I think everyone is thinking the same as me.

I’m scared it’s still with us. I’m scared of what might happen if it follows us back to civilisation. I’m scared of how little we understand about what happened.

Entry 17: Day 50 – Final                                                               02/05/08

I’m writing this from the plane. Just as the plane arrived to take us and the cargo home, I turned for one last look at the jungle. Then I saw him. The dark figure, standing barely behind a tree. He stood watching me from the treeline, then he smiled. A mouth filled with huge, pointed teeth. He grinned, then carved an image in the tree bark with his fingertips. When he was done, he pointed one finger at the plane.

He’d drawn two arrows crossing one another with a plane underneath. I remembered that it had been Michaels and Gorman alone who had seen what happened with the fake Jameson’s corpse. Only Michaels had survived to tell it. I turned and saw my men boarding the plane. I followed.

I’m not scared anymore. I know what needs to be done.

Accident and Recovery Report: Mountain Rescue                                    Dated: 04/05/08

Investigator: Edward Palmer

Two days ago, we received a report of a plane crash in the mountains. Mid-flight, the pilot was communicating with local stations when there was the sound of gunfire and the line went dead.

The plane was located, crashed in the snow. There’s presently believed to be a single survivor from a crew of eight. Evidence indicates two or more may have been dead before the crash.

Reports indicate Commander Aberdeen and his men were travelling home, when Aberdeen drew his pistol and shot one his men and the pilot, causing the plane to crash. Many of the bodies are burned beyond recognition, and their identities mostly unknown. Recovered pages from a damaged mission log name the individuals by codenames, and it is believed that “Michaels” and pilot Walter Philips were shot. The body of “Michaels” cannot be recovered, having apparently been jettisoned from the vehicle during the initial landing, and is currently lost in the snow. Commander Aberdeen refuses to explain his actions, and has been remanded to police custody.

There are reports that there may be another survivor however, possibly injured. Rescue workers reported seeing an unknown figure standing in the snow some distance from the crash. When they pursued to try and talk to them, the person fled, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints.

End Report.

[shironoegakite]

And so it begins...

Next

[akinosenoragami]

Illustration in question. I busted my ass for 3 days. It's a spotify album jacket for my first ever original song [Flying skeletons and cookie nights.]

Vocals, lyrics done by me and instrumental done by K3NN, who is a fellow member of my uni's music club and also on the cover of this jacket. this has been in the works for a very long time. and hopefully I can put it out soon. Damn mv is gonna take even longer. I'd estimate around 2 weeks.

[purpleqilinwrites]

glitter, glitter.

a/n: this is my piece for red zone: volume iii (horror) zine! i just realised that i haven't posted this hahaha, so here it is! please check out my fellow contributors' works here (link to download!).

genre: horror / general

info: -

warnings: mentions of alcohol (the sister is drinking); implications and mentions of cannibalism; implications of hurting children; descriptions of gore

synopsis: your sister wants to eat, and you want to watch.

word count: 1.1k

The sound of a can opening summons you from behind the bedroom door left ajar. You emerge from your room to squat around the corner from where your sister reclines, legs tucked close to her torso as she sits by the left couch armrest. There is the sting of alcohol hanging in the air, and you know your sister's having one of her episodes. You watch, fingernails settling into the crescent slits in the wallpaper from the last time you were there and pressing down against the vinyl lining within.

Your sister's back is facing you, but you know what she's looking at from the laughter that bursts from her, turning pages between sips of local beer. It's her diary from elementary school, a Christmas gift from her father but not your father, the leather binding now patinaed and cracked. You wonder if she's writing a new name on the mostly blank pages with her favourite glitter pen. If she's doodling a new face that speaks to her peculiar hungers.

She almost tasted success with the last person who caught her eye. You will make sure that she has all the help she needs with this new person she's after.

It was an incident that shocked the entire town.

Cannibals were supposed to be unheard of around these parts. Everyone believed that only those far-off places with names too effortful for the common townsperson to spell were where creatures like cannibals existed. Nobody wanted to believe that there was one such creature living in the row of houses by the creek the town was named for.

Your sister cut the picture of the perpetrator's face from the newspaper when he was caught after stalking the local cemetery in the week of Halloween. There was a dark, sticky smear across his cheeks and gristle at the corners of his lips in the mugshot. She glued it lopsided on the first page of her newly unwrapped leather-bound diary and framed it with stickers and hearts in glittery ink, but not before puncturing his eyes with the plastic tip of her safety scissors.

"It's him," your sister says, blowing on the surface of her mulled wine. "He's in my diary." You tear your eyes away from the disturbed wisps of steam to fix them onto the head of the boy holding his mother's hand at the mouth of the market.

In the distance, the boy senses you and your sister both watching him.

There's no apprehension on his soft features when he turns, sees the two of you and waves. Your sister wears a smile and waves back with more gusto, which the boy easily reciprocates as his mother pulls him away from the market and into their family car.

You don't wave. The boy doesn't pay you any mind, still waving to your sister behind the tinted windows as his mother drives away.

Your sister's watching cartoons with the boy tucked into her side again.

It's their routine during this time of the year when his mother's busy picking up extra shifts at the strip mall. They watch cartoons until you come back from your own shift at a convenience store down the street. Occasionally, they're sprawled across the floor in front of the TV practising their cursive with your sister's glitter pens. You heat the ready-to-eat meal packets that your manager sends you off with. They come to the table when you call them, and the three of you sit down to a late dinner.

Your sister tells you that his mother doesn't like what you feed him after the boy gets picked up from your porch one early morning. That the money she's paying the two of you to watch her son is more than sufficient for a 'proper meal'. Your sister shakes her head in disapproval after she impersonates the boy's mother.

"As long as he eats," you say, and your sister laughs, nodding.

Some nights, you come home with a family-sized tub of ice cream nearing expiry. Always, you sit across from the boy at the table to watch him gleefully empty the plastic tub in his hands. You don't leave the table until he's done. The boy seems to know this, smiling and easy.

Your sister's a mess from digging around in her closet for something to wear, now sweaty. She huffs, and you get up from the bed to smooth out her hair beneath your palms.

"It doesn't have to be now," you say, plucking several bobby pins from your head to keep your sister's painstaking attempt at an elegant bun where she put it. "You have next Halloween."

Your sister bristles. You cup her face in your hands. She eventually relents, slumping forward into you with a sigh. "He'll be too big to steal away next Halloween. He's already eight," she says, angling her head to better regard her reflection in the mirror of her vanity.

She preens, taking in the way the glitter in her makeup catches the warm light overhead, and you watch.

The second face that your sister added to her diary was also a mugshot.

This time, the perpetrator looked clean, smiling at the camera with her teeth showing. It was someone from a town with a name neither of you recognised. You remembered seeing the word 'cannibal' for the first time from the article where the woman was featured.

Can-ni-bal. Can-ni-bal.

Your sister didn't embellish the page with stickers or doodles in glitter pen, so you reached across the table to tap on the empty spaces. She frowned, swatting your hand away.

Instead, she flipped open a stamp pad and gouged her thumb into the centre. You watched as the red ink sputtered and pooled around the point of contact, before your sister pressed her still-dripping thumb across the woman's smile.

It is a little after four in the morning when you return home with your sister from a stop at the creek.

She struggles to shrug off her coat with the large bin liner in her arms. You offer a helping hand, but she bristles, tugging the bag behind her back and away from you. It sloshes with her action, its contents moving with her. You're not interested in her leftovers, so you head to the kitchen to wash your dirt-caked hands.

"Wipe your mouth and wash your face before you go to bed," you say, over the sound of running water. Your sister doesn't respond.

When you peek into her room from the bedroom door left ajar, you find her taking a selfie in her vanity mirror, smiling.

[sailorsoons]

Hello, Darling (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

WC: 21,558

AU: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

GENRE: Smut, Angst

RATING 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Under the cut

❀ A/N: This was an original request fill for my Haliween event on my first blog for @eoieopda. Thank you for letting me write you 20k+ of this Vernon :)

A/N 2: I AM NOT WRITING A PART 2 TO THIS ON PURPOSE. IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE AMBIGUOUS.

Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader.

MASTERLIST | ASK | PERMANENT TAG LIST | READ THE SEQUEL

WARNINGS: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

ADDITIONAL WARNING: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

COOL WIND TUGS AT THE PAGES OF YOUR BOOK, THREATENING TO FLIP THEM OVER. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.”

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by ?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hims, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom

PLEASE NOTE: IF YOU DO NOT SEE YOUR TAG HERE, TUMBLR WOULD NOT LET TAG YOU AND YOU'VE BEEN REMOVED FROM THE TAG LIST.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Andrew Gold - Spooky, Scary Skeletons 1996

Andrew Maurice Gold was an American multi-instrumentalist, singer, songwriter, and record producer who influenced much of the Los Angeles-dominated pop/soft rock sound in the 1970s. Gold performed on scores of records by other artists, especially Linda Ronstadt, and had his own success with the US top 40 hits "Lonely Boy" (1977) and "Thank You for Being a Friend" (1978) (which was later used as the opening theme for The Golden Girls), as well as the UK top five hit "Never Let Her Slip Away" (1978). In the 1980s, he had further international chart success as one half of the new wave duo Wax. During the 1990s, Gold produced, composed, performed on and wrote tracks for films, commercials, and television soundtracks.

"Spooky, Scary Skeletons" is a Halloween song, first released on Gold's 1996 album Halloween Howls: Fun & Scary Music. It was one of nine original songs on the album, released to fill a void of availability of fun and scary Halloween original songs according to Gold on his 1996 liner notes. He produced, mixed, sang and played all the instruments on the track. It prominently features a xylophone to represent the sound of skeletal bones rattling.

In 1998, Disney included the song on their VHS tape Disney's Sing-Along Songs: Happy Haunting: Party at Disneyland! (which was released on DVD as Disney's Sing-Along Songs: Happy Haunting in 2006). They paired the song with the 1929 animated short film The Skeleton Dance by Ub Iwerks. The video has garnered over 31 million views since it was recreated and uploaded by a Youtube user. On October 31, 2013, the Youtube band The Living Tombstone created an electronic dance-like remix of the song with a faster tempo than the original. Their upload of the remix to YouTube has garnered over 102 million views. By 2022, there were over 5 million TikTok videos featuring the song. “Spooky, Scary Skeletons” was adapted into a children's picture book by Random House Children's Books featuring the lyrics to the song on August 27, 2024.

"Spooky, Scary Skeletons" received a total of 90% yes votes!

[kitsuneplushie]

locked onto you⭑.ᐟ

what happens when your outfit is just a tad bit revealing?・suggestive content below! everything is mostly implied, sorry i'm too nervous to write actual smut. minors please don’t interact!!

˙ . ꒷ 🤍. 𖦹˙— a/n: sorry if this is a bit ooc, i haven’t written anything in so long that the original concept of this (it was supposed to be like revealing halloween costume) long passed AND this paragraph has been rewritten thrice. i struggled with these so bad if i’m honest bc i wrote half of it while being half asleep and my notes were sOOO BAD. i hope you enjoy nonetheless!! i love you all mwah

any pov but mentions of reader in a dress・not proofread

⌗ rafayel ⭑.ᐟ

“did my bodyguard get flushed down the drain or something? what’s taking you so long?” rafayel whined, shaking the doorknob impatiently. you brushed him off, regretfully staring at the mirror. the model in the ad wasn’t this exposed… right? you sighed, running your hands down your outfit, in hopes that you could make it just cover a bit more of you. “hellooo?” he continued to pout.

“okay okay.. stop your whining! i’m coming out.” you replied defeated. there was nothing more you could do. you had to face him, you were nearly running out of time. you slowly slipped out of the bathroom, meeting rafayel’s gaze. you both stayed silent, staring at each other. his ears and parts of his face shifted into a bright red hue. "weren’t you just in a hurry to go? why are you just standing here?" you teased, crossing your arms.

"well, maybe can just skip-"

"you're seriously not suggesting we cancel last minute, right?" you interrupted. “especially since this exhibition is for you specifically. you can’t just cancel! it’d look bad on both of our parts.” you continued lecturing him. you ushered him along.

on the way to the party, you noticed how handsy he was with you. especially when the driver tried to make conversation with you. rafayel pouted, leaning against you. his fingers brushed against your thighs at the very moment you arrived at the venue. you gave him a glance as you got out. he wasn’t this open with pda usually. there was something… off.

thomas catches you two up on the exhibition. as he does, rafayel is absolutely not listening. his attention is on a strand of your hair. he gently toys with it. you smile and nod in response to thomas, ushering rafayel along. “hey. earth to rafayel? c’mon you need to focus on. potential clients can approach at any moment!” you whispered to him. he deeply sighed before pouting at you. you opened your mouth to lecture him more but before you got a world out… people started approaching.

one person became two. two people became five. and so on. “mhm. oh! actually, i have to meet with my manager for a moment. excuse me. miss bodyguard? will you escort me?” rafayel quickly smiled. you squinted your eyes at him for a moment before accepting. wasn’t like you had a choice. rafayel led the way, taking you to an empty part of the venue. it was separated from rafayel’s exhibit. he sat down on a bench, letting out a soft sigh. you stood in front of him, crossing your arms.

“rafayel, what are we-“

he pulled you closer to him. he leaned his head against your stomach, looking up at you. you felt your face start to flush. “i just want a moment alone with you. you’re too distracting in that dress.” you’re head started to buzzed from the compliment. not to mention how close he was. you felt his hands rest on your lower back as he continued to lean against you.

“we really should get going..” you uttered, placing a hand on his arm. you know you should push him away, but you couldn’t find the strength in you. he whined.

“please?” he asked. “it’s hard to focus. help me…” he pouted. he leaned back on the bench, inviting you to sit on his lap. you ran your hand through your hair as you looked down at him. as much as you should’ve just said no. you gave in, sitting on his lap.

“you’re lucky you’re so alluring, idiot.” you whispered, kissing his neck. “now be a good boy and stay quiet.”

⌗ sylus ⭑.ᐟ

“didn’t take you for being someone who likes to be fashionably late.” sylus said from outside the door. “i think we want to get there when there’s still a party going on kitten.”

you rolled your eyes at his remark. ‘why would they throw a party at such late notice. especially with a dress code.’ you silently cry to yourself. you’ve been dressed for a bit actually. it’s just… this dress is way more revealing than you could of thought. is this just normal for the N109 zone? you let out a deep breath. this was your only choice.

“easy for you to say! you really expect me to show up like this?” you whined, swinging the door open. you look up to see sylus. his gaze was completely on you, his eyes looked you up and down.

“hm.” he replied moving closer, inspecting your outfit. he stayed silent still, walking around you. goosebumps spilled throughout your body as you felt his gaze fixated on you. "on second thought. stay here a moment." he finally stated, walking back out of the room. you let out a deep breath, as you walked back towards his bed. you patiently waiting for him to return. you expected him to be gone only a few minutes. but he sure was taking his time. right after he teased you about it. you roll your eyes and head out to find him.

you walked downstairs, seeing him talking with luke and kieran. they both peered their head over sylus. to glance over at you. they both slightly tilted their heads before focusing on sylus. "i take it that you two understand?" he asked. they both nod and quickly head off. "you as well mephisto." the crow cawed in response, stretching out it's wings. it flew in the direction of the pair, quickly catching up.

"now who's fashionably late? didn't you want to leave while there's still a party?" you teased, walking down towards him. sylus chuckled, turning around to meet you. "i thought you were going to get me a different dress."

"don't worry about it kitten."

"you really think i should go out like this? i... don't know. i think i'd draw too much attention and-"

"you're really stressed about this, huh?" he asked, tracing the strap with his finger. before you could reply, he started walking up the stairs. he looked at you, and tilted his head upstairs. you sighed and followed him. you didn't know what he had planned but was there even an other option. as soon as you reached his room again, his hands returned on you. "you look gorgeous in the dress though. i don't know how i'd feel having anyone else see you like this." he rested his face in the crook of your neck, facing you towards a mirror. his lips soft brushed against your neck.

"sylus... i can't." you mustered, dodging your reflection. "this information is very crucial. i can't afford to miss getting it."

"i know, i know." he softly replied. he brushed a stray hair from your face. his other hand softly grabbing on your hips. "i sent luke and kieran in our place, along side mephisto." he placed another kiss on your upper neck.

"sy..." you uttered, pulling away slightly. you gave him an concerned look. "we should've-"

"do you trust me?" he asked, leaning closer towards you. your breathing hitched, as you bit your lip. you slowly nod. your eyes locked with his. "i can assure you they'll get all the information you need and more." sylus pauses for a moment, tracing his hand down your jaw. "will you allow me to be selfish, just this once? it's hard to resist when you look this stunning." he tilts your head, showcasing your neck to his lips. he effortlessly leads you back to the bed, gently sitting you down. his kisses gently trail down. your eyes flutter, catching a glimpse of his hand greedily wrapping around your thigh. "lay back, i'll make it all up to you kitten."

⌗ zayne⭑.ᐟ

your doorbell chimes as you fidget with your hair, trying to make sure you look your best. "i'll be right there!" you called out. you looked over at the mirror once more, double checking yourself and your outfit. you sigh and quickly grab your things. you couldn't tell if you were underdressed or overdressed. however you didn't want to keep zayne waiting. you open the door, giving zayne a soft smile as he glances over you. "i hope i'm adequately dressed.." you nervously let out, stepping out of your apartment.

"you look beautiful, no need to worry." zayne reassured, ushering you to the elevator. "besides. it's just a little holiday dinner party that akso throws." his words comforted you, until you actually arrived to the party.

"i thought you said this was a small party? why would we need a venue of this size?" you uttered, as the two of you were ushered in. you were assigned to sit along with other employees in the cardiology department.

"we wouldn't be able to have room for all the departments if it was any smaller. and they have a live band during dinner." he uttered. a chill ran down your body as you felt him lean towards you. he placed his hand on your lower back, guiding you through the crowds. he stopped once he found a group of some of his fellow collegues. he introduced you to a few of them who weren't familiar to you. before talking about various topics. you mostly listened, but contibuted here and there.

“ah! doctor zayne! can i steal you for a moment, i need a bit assistance with setting up the other tables for the dining room.” a waiter asked, halting in front of us. zayne gracefully accepted, leaving you with his fellow colleagues. you left them be in their own conversations while you people watched. you sipped on the champagne they were handing out, just being in your own world.

“do my eyes deceive me? is that you miss? it’s an honor to finally meet you!” you turned around, seeing a complete stranger in front of you. you looked behind you to see if you were mistaken but he was talking to you. he smiles as he approaches you closer.

“and you are?”

“i’m sorry, i forgot that this is our first time meeting. excuse my poor manners.” he chuckled. he introduced himself and his position at the hospital. “you’re quite the talk of the town. you’ve saved plenty of our patients. we can’t thank you enough.”

“oh. it’s nothing. just my job.” you smile politely. you felt your nerves rise. you didn’t anticipate this type of interaction. he continued to praise you and get closer. his hand reached for your arm as he invited you for a drink.

“she already has plans for tonight.” a voice sternly spoke from behind you. zayne pulled you closer to him, leaving the man’s hand still in the air. “excuse us.” he glared, walking pass the man. you just looked at him with wide eyes.

“wait… zayne? the party? why are we heading to the car?” you asked, turning your head back. he showed no sigh of stopping, dead set on his objective.

“we made an appearance. that’s satisfactory enough.” he uttered. “it wasn’t mandatory anyway. we were just being polite.” zayne’s attitude usually wasn’t this stormy. it was hard to read him, but it was clear that something was pestering him. you stayed silent until you reached the car.

“hey, did something happen when-“

“no. i just didn’t like the way he was looking at you. i should’ve stayed with you.” zayne interrupted, looking at you. again, your eyes widened. he was never like this. “ah… i apologize. i don’t know what came over me.” you turn your body so you could face him.

“were you jealous?” you softly smirked, leaning towards him. you cupped his face. “it was pretty attractive…” zayne raised his eyebrow. he placed his hand on your seat, causing you to lean back into your seat. he was practically towering over you now.

“was it now? did you enjoy it?” he smiled, sliding his hand down to your thigh. “because i have no intention of sharing you, sweetheart.” you breath deepened as you felt him lean against you. he quickly pulled the leaver of your seat, pushing it all the way down. he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your lips, purposely missing. you whined, grabbing on his tie. “should i make sure every man knows you’re already mine?” he asked, whispering into your ear. you continuously nodded as his hand slowly made way to your hips.

⌗ xavier⭑.ᐟ

you glanced over at the mirror. you nervously tried adjusting your outfit. was this too much for an casual job party? you really couldn’t tell. you did yet another glance in the mirror before your doorbell rang. you let out a breath before heading to your front door. you opened it to see xavier. “oh! look who’s finally back!” you smiled, opening the door enough to let him in. he slowly walked inside, taking in your appearance.

“are you heading somewhere?” he asked, ignoring your statement. he leaned against the arm of your couch, with his full attention on you. your heart raced as you ran your finger along the edge of your dress.

“unicorns wanted to throw a small office party.” you replied, walking a bit closer. your face started feeling warm. you couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or being flustered by xavier. “it’s a bit much, huh? the outfit? you know maybe i should change into something else.”

before you could step a single step, xavier pulled you into his arms. “you’re thinking too hard. you look lovely.” he replied, nuzzling his head into your shoulder. his arms rested around your waist. you stayed silent for a moment, indulging in the moment.

“xavier, i need to finish getting ready.” you softly say, slowly pushing his arms off. he readjusted his arms, resuming his grip.

“stay with me, for a moment. you have time right? i missed you.”

you let out a hum, as your thumb swept across his arm. you could spare a moment, surely. “fine, just a moment. but can we sit at least? standing here isn’t-“

with that xavier basically swung the two of you onto the couch. he cuddled against you, once again nuzzling into your neck. “was that really necessary?” you giggle, placing your phone onto the coffee table. xavier mumbled in response, placing a kiss on your neck. your body melted with a simple kiss. you slightly move away from xavier, now turning to face him. you cup his face with your hand, brushing your thumb along his cheek. he followed it up with a kiss, pulling you in. you deepened the kiss, feeling his hand grip your thigh. his hand trailed up to your hip.

“mm.. xavier.” you uttered, pulling away. “i got too ahead of myself. i really need to get ready now.” as you were about to get up, your phone rang. you swung your hand over, quickly grabbing it. “hello?”

“did you forget about your best friend tara?” a voice says over the line. “you’re still coming right? you weren’t answering my messages so i thought to call and check up.”

xavier slightly pouted, seeing your attention diverge from him. he pulled you closer, slowly placing kisses down your neck to your collarbone. you mouth at him to stop, your mind buzzing at the feel. he looked at you deviously, moving his hand to your lower back. now pressing himself against you. you let out a gasp, gripping your phone.

“are you okay?”

“oh. tara. i… i’m fine. i just.” you pause, trying to compose yourself. xaiver softly nips at your neck, really testing your ability to be quiet. “i just feel a bit u-under the weather. i’m sorry.”

“oh no! please get some rest! i hope you feel better soon! i’ll send some soup on your way.”

“ah… yes. i’ll see you.” you quickly replied, hanging up. you attempt to place your phone back on the table but completely miss. it didn’t matter, you mind was occupied on something completely different. “you’re such a little devil, you know that?” you gasp, raising your leg over his hip. he doesn’t even respond but goes in for another kiss, while holding onto the bottom of your thigh.

[angelbarelywritesslashers]

♡ slashers scenarios | first meeting

info;

♡ fandoms; The Boy, House of Wax, Halloween, Hannibal, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, slashers (general), DBD

♡ characters; Brahms Heelshire, Vincent Sinclair, Micheal Myers, Hannibal Lecter, Thomas Hewitt

♡ reader; gender neutral

♡ cw; mentions of blood/violence

The most random array of characters. All 5 are my bfs tho. Also this is written very very informally because it was originally just for myself lol.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Brahms Heelshire//

> approximateplotofthe movie. jpeg

> honestly you mind your own business once you realize it’s a doll but assume there’s cameras so mostly behave

> you find yourself naturally coddling his doll like a real child when you’re bored, speaking to him constantly

> even though you’re not doing much to upset him, weird things do start happening around the house

> he mostly wants attention

> you leave a note one day

> “dear brahm’s ghost; i’m sorry if i’m not doing a good job as a nanny. i’m really trying my best. I hope we can be friends”

> he scribbles a smiley face on it and you’re a little freaked out / excited

> when he finally shows himself you’re really stunned. but it makes more sense than a genuine ghost

> you’re in such shock that you just. keep going with the evening and make dinner.

> but even once you come to your senses, you end up more sad than scared

> “…they left you all alone. I’m so sorry.”

> he gives you puppy eyes

> “…I won’t do that to you. I promise. I’m staying.”

> he’s even more in love with you than he first thought. even if you’re going to make him shower six times before bed.

> to his chagrin you don’t help him bathe

> but you do kiss him goodnight

Vincent Sinclair//

> bo brings you to him

> at first he’s making some big deal, “special delivery” and all that

> you’re cute

> really cute

> and bo clearly knew you’re the kind of person vincent would like

> but he’s still got a job to do

> damn it

> “h-hey- wait- i can help you—?”

> that makes him hesitate

> “i’m an artist too. i can help with the sculptures. “

> …

>“i’ll be good. promise.”

> he didn’t need much more convincing than that

> bo is surprised he kept you but makes damn sure you’re not escaping

> but you don’t even try because you just feel so deeply for vincent, and he’s so gentle

> you weren’t lying about being an artist so you’re genuinely helpful

> he falls madly in love when you help him resculpt his mask

Micheal Myers //

> Meet because you wrote letters to him

> Not to interview him or as an obsessive fan

> At first out of curiosity, then as a sort of way to vent, because he never responds

> But as it turns out your letters are the only ones he keeps or even opens at this point

> So his psychologist wants you to meet him to see if you can get him to open up- of course there’s a cash incentive

> He doesn’t say a word from the other side of the glass.

> Obviously.

> But you treat it like a normal visit to a friend and just chat mindlessly a while

> And you’re so much tinier and cuter in person

> He wants to stab you so much

> But realizes that if he killed you, he might miss you

> Ew that’s a scary thought

> Still wants to make you scream tho uwu

> He escapes

> Because he’s Micheal Myers that’s what he does

> After his spree he finds himself in your house, bloodsoaked and honestly not all that sure what he’ll do when he sees you

> You don’t even scream, just give a tiny ‘eep’

> “…Micheal?”

> He regrips his knife so he can get it over with. You’ll just tattle

> “Oh gosh- you’re soaked from the rain. And all that blood-let’s get you a shower? I can get you some fresh clothes too,”

> He’s staring down at you in disbelief

> “…what? You thought I’d try and call the cops? I like talking to you.”

> There’s something very wrong with you

> It’s kind of hot

> He puts him knife away and follows you

Hannibal Lecter//

> you’re his patient lol

> at first he doesn’t have much interest in you outside of work

> but god, you’d be such a perfect subject to manipulate with that little authority figure problem you have

> and even though you’re young

> you do recognize some of the finer things in life

> mostly his artwork and cooking. you’re really good at inadvertently stroking his ego

> he starts diving into darker subjects in therapy

> you’re a bit of a morbid person under the sunshine-y exterior

> perfect

> he’s still chipping away at something big you’re keeping from him

> he could do some digging online and through your files but where’s the fun in that

> he gets you tipsy and then starts with the psycho babble

> you finally crack

> you killed some guy that was stalking you years ago

> god that’s hot

> you liked it, at least a little bit

> even hotter

> you licked the blood off your hands and it tasted good

> he’s in love ; good luck leaving

Thomas Hewitt //

> car trouble! it’s always car trouble

> honestly when you rock up to the gas station alone Luda Mae is thinking that it’s a shame the fridge at home is already full

> but you’re the sweetest little customer

> “your name is really pretty ma’am. ever since i was little i decided if i had a daughter, her name would be Audrey Mae”

> new plan, she’s playing matchmaker

> there’s just something about you that’s so gentle

> and mildly off-putting, like the rest of the family

> she brings you out to the farm to see if they have the car parts you need

> and to stay the night, if you really need to

> you run smack dab into Thomas in his old half mask walking in- even Luda expects you to recoil at the least

> instead you turn a bit pink

> “oh gosh- I’m so so sorry sir-“

> Thomas stares at you

> You just shyly introduce yourself, talking enough for both of you

> Luda Mae is already planning the wedding

> “That’s my youngest Tommy- why don’t you show em around? Alright baby?”

> Thomas is a bit hesitant but you’re so little and cute and smell so good—

> He’s already obsessed oops

[bring-forth-his-sac]

World of Trouble

Summary: Your Halloween costume leads to a punishment from the man himself...

Pairing: Saviors! Negan x f!reader

Tags: !NSFW! spanking, fingering, p in v penetration, (consensual) punishment sex, Negan being a cocky asshole, orgasm denial, praise kink, teasing, dirty talk, pet names, little bit of cum play ?

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: ok this fic is choppy, janky and just all over the place. I wrote it in a day and a half so it was a complete rush cause I want to get it out for Halloween so yeah, pls be kind

You thought it was funny.

After all, don’t people need a joke in times like this? Isn’t everything bleak enough? That was your reasoning when the idea initially popped into your head for the perfect apocalyptic Halloween costume.

Despite Negan being a man who loves to tell a joke, no matter how risqué or inappropriate the timing, you weren’t sure how Negan would react if he's the butt of one. 

Ever since late August, you had been wavering on the idea. Some nights you were adamant that your choice in Halloween costume would end in you being bound to the fence alongside the dead. 

In the midst of your internal debate, while out on a run, you came across the ultimate sign that set aside your indecision. 

A leather jacket.

It wasn’t an exact replica of Negan’s and it hung loosely on your frame but it was the push you needed. You already had a white t-shirt in your limited closet and you’d pay the few points needed for some black jeans. 

A red scarf was harder to come across but most definitely a necessary piece. Ever since the leaves began to fall off the trees surrounding the Sanctuary, Negan’s red scarf has been making an appearance, tucked neatly in by the collar of his leather jacket.

You had to be inventive, scavenging an old sweater and cutting it up to create a makeshift scarf that at least remotely resembled the original.

And finally, the pièce de résistance. Your trusty companion. Your very own, bootleg Lucille. 

Thankfully barbed wire wasn’t the problem. In the Sanctuary, something like that can be found stored in at least half of the supply closets, hoarded away for the fence or in case the real Lucille needs a quick spruce up.

The real issue was a baseball bat. It wasn’t as if the Saviors were regularly raiding school gyms or stadiums, and so there was hardly any sports equipment for you to choose from.

It was a struggle and eventually, you ended up with a hockey stick that some Savior decided to put into the armoury.

It wasn’t Lucille but hell, it’d have to do.

Everything was ready. You even found some long expired brown eyeshadow and decided to dab some on the bottom of your face so it looks like you have a beard. And so your look was complete, possibly the very first costume to ever exist of your fearsome leader.

And how long did it last?

40 minutes. It didn’t even take a full hour of you strutting around before word got back to Negan. 

When you imagined the impending confrontation, you assumed it would be a lieutenant telling you off as Negan spewed insults over a walkie talkie.

It’s only now, when you hear the low grating noise of Lucille dragging along the ground, growing nearer and nearer, do you realise you won’t be getting off so easily. 

Slowly turning, you bring your hockey stick decorated in barbed wire up to your shoulder, mirroring a pose you’ve seen him do plenty of times.

“Well, ho-ly shit! I don’t know whether I should be smug or freaked the fuck out!” he declares, his gaze wandering down your outfit “you’ve really out done yourself this time, doll”.

You shrug, hoping that if you seem casual about this then he’ll let it slide. “It’s Halloween” you say bluntly, hoping that’s the only excuse you need. 

Some Saviors linger around you both, a mixture of excitement and anticipation radiating from them at your Negan costume and Negan's ambiguous reaction.

“And you thought the creepiest thing you could dress up as is me?” he narrows his eyes at you, subconsciously mimicking your own pose as he lifts Lucille up onto his shoulder. 

You open your mouth to respond but no words come out, a slight sense of dread setting in. A beat of tense silence hangs in the air, thick and charged, as if the whole Sanctuary is holding its breath. 

A deep chuckle cuts through the silence as Negan clasps a hand on your free shoulder. 

“Well, fuck me, I am honored!” he beams “you even smeared some shit on your face so ya look like you got a beard! Now that’s the kind of dedication I like to see from you sorry fucks!”.

He steps away from you, letting his hand drop off of your shoulder as he raises his voice, making sure the others hear.

Relief washes over you. You could feel the tension draining from your muscles at his approval. 

“I love it,” Negan says, his voice growing serious again “but Lucille? Now Lucille here isn’t a big fan of copy cats and that limp dick excuse of a Lucille you got hanging over your shoulder? That shit just makes her see red”.

Any warmth in Negan’s eyes fade. His brows knit together as his mouth becomes a hard line, replacing any sense of humor. “And she thinks this is worthy of a punishment” he adds.

Fuck. 

Negan doesn’t wait around for your reaction, turning on his heels as he barks for you to follow. You do so hesitantly, knowing there’s nowhere to run and that this is something you’ll unfortunately have to face head on.

This isn’t the first time you’ve done something daring while living in the Sanctuary. Although, this is the first time you’ve seen him genuinely annoyed. 

Usually Negan has always appreciated your boldness, especially when most of the Sanctuary’s residents are too scared to even look him in the eye. In the past, you’ve tried to poke and prod at Negan’s authority by complaining about sanitary products costing points or the lack of blankets available to the workers during Winter. 

Grimacing to yourself as you follow behind him, you wonder if you’ve finally taken it too far.

Marching up the flights of stairs to his private quarters, you try to ignore the confused looks of others as two Negan's pass them by. 

Despite knowing you’re in for a world of trouble, a small smirk tugs at your lips, glad to have brought some sense of silly excitement to the Sanctuary.

You try not to show your shock as he brings you to his bedroom, making sure the door is locked behind you. You only take a few steps into the room before you stop and simply loiter there, watching as Negan sets Lucille down by the doorway to the ensuite before going inside. 

“Y’know there are no actual rules about impersonating so I don’t think you have the grounds to punish me” you attempt to defend yourself, setting your fake Lucille against the wall.

“Talking back won’t help your case,” Negan calls out.

You scoff out a laugh as you get distracted by his room. A part of you can’t help but wonder why a man like Negan would want half the things that litter the area: trophies from other people’s past glory, a vase, a houseplant.

“Yeah well, it’s just some fun, it’s—“ suddenly Negan’s there, right next to you with his gloved hand too close for comfort.

He cups your face, squishing your cheeks together as his other hand brings a wet cloth to your face.

“And get that shit off your face,” he does the job for you “my beard ain’t that fuckin’ bad”.

You stay quiet, not wanting the embarrassment of trying to speak with your cheeks squished and a cloth rubbing at your face.

Once he’s satisfied your face is clean, he simply drops the cloth to the floor. Negan looks down at your attire “Well hot damn, good news is my style is incredibly sexy… but no matter how hot you look, thanks to me, you know I can’t let your shit slide anymore, sweetheart”.

You frown, a challenging look in your eyes.

“I’m serious, you’re pissing off too many Saviors with the shit you pull,” he yanks off his scarf, letting it land on the couch “and now, with this, you’ve forced my hand”. 

Next, Negan takes off his leather jacket, inadvertently showing off some tattoos as he delicately places it on the back of his armchair. 

“You know I gotta give you some kinda punishment… but that don’t mean it can’t be enjoyable for the both of us” he continues.

The smirk on his face says it all. 

And just like that, it all makes sense. Of course he would bring you up to his bedroom and not to the cells when this is what he has in mind.

You shrug, some of your spirit returning in the form of a playful smirk “What? You gonna spank me?”.

“You want me to?” He unbuckles his belt and slowly pulls it through the loops of his jeans, the material hissing as it moves. 

Negan has never been a man to bluff.

You try to act nonchalant but you can feel your cheeks heating up. “Maybe,” you play it coy “will you iron off half my face even if I say yes?”.

Now it’s Negan’s turn to shrug. “That depends, this a trick or a treat?” he asks.

Normally you’re not this bold. Maybe leather jackets give people unlimited confidence? That seems to be the only solution as you walk over to his couch and place both hands on the armrest. You bend forward just enough for Negan to see your intent.

You glance back over your shoulder, your eyelids at half mast as you throw him a sultry look. Negan keeps his eyes locked on to yours, his boots heavy on the floorboards as he walks up behind you.

The leather of his glove growls as he places his hand on the centre of your back and pushes you down further. 

There’s no point in ignoring how your pussy throbs as he makes sure your head is against the couch cushions and your ass is up in the air, the armrest providing the perfect support.

“That's what I thought“ Negan praises, his hand slowly making its way down to your ass. 

“And I thought I was getting punished, not a yoga class” you goad.

Negan doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t even wait or let the anticipation of his response build. He goes straight for it, smacking your backside hard enough to leave a handprint. 

A gasp leaves your lips, the sensation more stingy than it is painful. You have little time to prepare yourself as Negan wraps his belt around his hand.

“Just relax, baby,” he instructs softly, his tone in complete contradiction to his actions “and be grateful I’m letting ya keep your jeans on… for now”. 

Despite your thin layer of clothes acting as a barrier, the belt bites into your flesh. The sound of the belt whistles through the air before meeting your ass with a sharp crack. He does it over and over again, alternating between cheeks. 

You hiss at the sudden heat, your body clenching as the pain morphs into a dark, intoxicating pleasure.

“Well, damn!” Negan exclaims approvingly, momentarily stopping “you’re taking this like a trooper, ain’t ya?”. 

He pauses and you wonder if he’s waiting for a response. You swallow, your throat dry from the amount of gasps you’ve let out in such a short span of time. 

But before you can answer, you feel it. Not the belt. Not his hand delivering another slap. This time, it’s him; proud and unabashed as he brings his clothed crotch right against your ass. 

Suddenly, the belt didn’t seem too hard.

“I think it’s about time I see my work of art” he declares, pressing his hips forward to make sure you feel his entrapped boner.

For a man so brutal, Negan’s touch is gentle as his fingers glide around the waistband of your jeans. He lets his touch linger there for a few moments, waiting for your sign of approval. 

You’re well aware of Negan’s ego and how he wants to know just how badly you need him. He yearns to see that raw desire. As much as you want to banter back at him again, your brain fogs with need and you push back against him, your sore ass rubbing against his bulge.

He responses with a grunt as his hands slowly leave your waistband, too distracted to continue. Negan has something else in mind as he gives a slight tug of your hair, gesturing for you to stand upright.

You don’t even have time to turn to face him, your ass still snug against the tent in his pants as he roughly pulls you in for a bruising kiss.

His hand fists your hair, holding you in place as he devours you. Desperately trying to keep up, your breaths come out in short, sharp pants between desperate kisses.

Negan keeps his hand in your hair, using it to manoeuvre you away from his couch and over to the bed. The only time he takes his hands off of you is when the back of your legs hit against the soft bedsheets. 

The second you’re able, you take off your leather jacket, watching Negan follow suit as he begins shedding his clothes.

Your jeans are the worst to take off, the rough denim scratching it’s way across your sensitive backside as you quickly discard it. Once you get to your bra and panties, you stop, wanting Negan to take off the rest.

Negan doesn’t have the same sense of modesty as you, not stopping until he’s completely bare. Sitting back on the bed, you bite your lower lip and shamelessly dart your eyes across his body. 

The dark curls that cover his chest, the tattoos that scatter across his body, the happy trail of body hair that lead you lower, to where he stands erect and proud.

You gulp.

Negan joins you, kneeling on the bed in front of your body as he studies you. With a hum, he shakes his head. “No, this won’t do,” he tuts.

As the words hit you, a wave of self-consciousness washes over you. Whatever excitement that was evident in your face slowly drops away and you do nothing but blink up at him, waiting for Negan to continue.

“Yeah, I’m gonna want to fuck you in the leather jacket,” he elaborates “now that would be hot as all hell and I ain’t letting that jacket go to waste on my bedroom floor”.

You rolls your eyes as you let out a breath. “You fucking asshole” you huff, well aware that Negan was being vague on purpose just to toy with you. 

He chuckles, unable to deny your accusation. “Careful baby, you start insulting me like that and you’ll be getting another spankin” he threatens playfully, though you know he’s being serious. 

Negan leans down, almost hovering over you as his hands gently touch your bra straps. 

“But first, you got more layers to shed” Negan lets each strap fall to your arms before his fingers deftly work the clasp of your bra, the metal giving way easily. 

Without looking where it lands, Negan lets your bra drop to the side. You feel utterly exposed to his hungry gaze, watching as he drinks in the sight of you. 

A groan leaves him as he reaches out, his calloused hands gently cupping the weight of your tits. His thumbs brush over your pert nipples, making your squirm at the contact. 

“You going to play with my titties all day?” You question, hoping to spur him into action.

“It’s a punishment, doll,” he reminds you, bending to the side to pick up your leather jacket “if I decide all I want to do is stare and watch you finger that sweet little pussy till it’s raw, then that’s what’ll happen”.

“And is that what you want?” You ask, trying to maintain any self control you have. Part of you would actually apologize for your costume if it means getting his dick closer to your pussy.

“Nah, I want you to sit back and really think about what you did,” giving the jacket a quick shake, he spreads it out over your shoulder “think you can do that for me, darlin?”.

Making sure the jacket is secure over your shoulders, you adjust it to make sure your tits are still in view. “I guess I could try” you reply in a flirtatious tone, scooting back against the pillows.

“On the bright side, even though this is a punishment, I’m still a fuckin’ gentleman,” he says with a proud grin. 

You're quick to notice how his hands inch up past your thighs and towards your panties. Hooking a finger underneath them, Negan gives a slight tug “So I’m gonna need to loosen you up before I fuck you senseless”.

Narrowing your eyes at him, you gently lift your hips. That cocky smile never leaves his face as Negan slowly drags your panties down your legs. In an instant, they’re gone from view and end up on the floor alongside the rest of your clothes.

Negan’s eyes lock onto your core, unable to help himself as he reaches out and parts your folds.

“Fuck, you’re that wet already?” he says it like a question despite the answer being on his fingertips. You bite your lip as his fingers brush against your wet, swollen flesh. 

With a groan, Negan plunges two fingers into your warmth, scissoring them apart to stretch you out. You moan out, your back arching as he sets a steady pace. 

“Y-yes,” you gasp out when the pad of his thumb finds your clit “keep doing that!”.

Negan curls his fingers upward, targeting your g-spot. The look on his face is like a kid at Christmas, completely elated to have his fingers deep in your pussy.

He adds a third finger, pumping them in and out of you, listening to your moans and gasps to gauge how close you are. Leaning down, Negan meets your arched body and nips at your breasts.

His mouth brushes against your skin as he tuts “C’mon now, don’t tell me you’re about to cum already!”.

You nod frantically, hands clutching at the bedsheets “Yeah, yeah I’m ready, I’m gonna—“.

Negan chuckles darkly and before you can reach your high, his fingers slow their pace.

“Oh, I don't know about that," he pulls his fingers out abruptly and gives your clit a light tap with them "you haven't earned that privilege yet, baby". 

Your mind is in a haze as he licks his fingers clean, tasting you. It takes a few moments for your brain to compute what he’s denying you. 

“I…” you begin but you trail off, your throbbing pussy begging for release “Negan, please, I— I get it, ok?”.

His smile softens slightly and if anything, it only makes you more wet. “I know you get it now,” he agrees, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek “maybe, sweetheart, just maybe… if you beg nice enough, I'll let you cum on my cock instead”.

You take his words as a challenge. Throwing out all sense of pride, you babble on “Please! Y-yeah I just, I need you inside of me, please Negan, I’ll be good”.

Every word goes straight to his dick. 

Negan takes a moment to truly savour the sight of you begging and writhing under him, knowing this is some top notch jerking material he can use at a later date. 

"Now that’s what I like to hear" he praises, positioning himself between your thighs. He grips your hips and thrusts into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely.  

Even though the sudden stretch and fullness makes you feel breathless, you practically shout out “Negan!". 

He pauses but only for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size. “Shhhhhhh,” he coos, his tone bordering on patronising “best be quiet before you wake up the wives, I’d hate to make those gals jealous”.

With a low groan, Negan begins to move, pulling back almost to the point of withdrawal before slamming into you once more. The leather jacket beneath you squeaks, each thrust pushing you further up the bed.

You can feel every inch of him, the primal yearning to cum on his cock sounding more and more appealing. Negan’s chest heaves as he labors over you, his body glistening as he works up a fine sheen of sweat. 

He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes dart everywhere, trying to take in each part of your body. Negan watches your face, the desperation to cum etched into each expression. Of course he watches your tits too, seeing them jiggle with each thrust he gives you. 

But his favourite part to watch is how well you‘re taking him. To see how your pussy welcomes each inch, letting him go flush against you every single time.

Bringing his gaze back up to your eyes, he pistons into you. “You’re close, I can feel it” he says with a clenched jaw, trying to hold off. 

“Please!” is the first word out your mouth followed quickly by a gasp as Negan goes for your clit again. His thumb rubs firm circles around the sensitive nub, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

You inner walls clench desperately around his cock and before you know it, everything crashes around you as you finally cum.

It’s as if your whole world blurs together and all you can focus on is his cock deep inside of you. 

Your pussy spasms violently around him, your vision whiting out as you moan loudly. Negan wants nothing more than to feel your sweet pussy throb around him but he knows he can’t hold off any longer. 

He quickly pulls out and thrusts into his hand to finish. His cock glistens with your juices before Negan unloads a thick load right onto your tits. 

You both pant, taking a brief moment to come down from your respective highs.

“Look at those beautiful titties,” Negan breaks the silence, admiring his handiwork “just when I thought they couldn’t look any better”.

Gently bringing a hand up, you run your finger along one of the lines he’s painted. “If I knew this is what the punishment would be, I would’ve pissed you off a lot sooner” you say breathlessly.

Negan hums as he flops down beside you, his eyes glued to how your fingertips play with his load. 

“Maybe you should’ve,” he replies “or maybe this is a sign that we should have some fun like this more often”.

You bite back your smile “Maybe it’s both?”.

“But y’know I can’t really just be going around screwing anybody and everybody,” he continues, making you pause, unsure where this is going “it’s bad for the image, y’know?”.

Your expression doesn’t change.

Negan takes in your confused look, trying to put the pieces together for you. “I mean, I don’t think the wives would appreciate me screwing around… unless, of course, I was screwing around with another wife…”.

“Oh”.

That’s all you feel as though you can say. A part of you immediately tries to rationalise this, trying to convince yourself that you’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. 

“Goddamn, did I really fuck you that hard?” Negan laughs “I’m asking you to marry me, baby, you should be jumping for joy right now!”.

You sigh, bringing your non-sticky hand up to your face “Negan…”.

“Negan, yes?”.

“Negan, I’m covered in your jizz and you’re seriously asking me this?! Now?!?” You exclaim. 

He stops for a moment, taking in your words. “Huh, ok, good point,” Negan grunts as he gets up, giving you a great view of his ass “I’ll go get some towels and you think about it, yeah?”.

Before you have time to reply, he’s walking into his ensuite “And I want an answer when I come back!”. He disappears into the adjoined room, turning on the light.

You lay back, allowing the pillows to practically consume you. The thought passes through your mind if only for a split second.

It wouldn’t be that bad to be yet another wife, would it? All you’d have to do is look pretty and have good sex… and never socialise with anyone else… and only be seen as one of his wives and nothing more.

You close your eyes, hoping that would prolong the impending decision.

Letting out a long sigh, you curse “Fuck”.