Jun 30, 2023
Light blue spirit done! We have Warrior of Love!
Next is dark blue 💙 poll below the cut!
seen from Italy
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from Hungary
seen from Italy
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from South Africa
seen from Hungary
seen from Taiwan
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
Light blue spirit done! We have Warrior of Love!
Next is dark blue 💙 poll below the cut!
dark blue
Praying Acolyte
Crab Whisperer
Piggyback Lightseeker
Shushing Light Scholar
Prophet of Water
Talented Builder
Running Wayfarer
Nature Guide (with the fish cape)
there's a reason she handled Act 1 so well-
I'M GREAT AT ACTION POSES.
Continuing my Sky Kid Ico crossover. Yorda's dress has ALWAYS been one of my favorite costume/clothing designs in gaming. Always loved how it flowed with movement and wind. Also it just seems to glow in sunlight. I feel like it would look really nice as a outfit in Sky.
Forever, In Every Flash
Joe Keery x Wife!Reader
Mini Message: Stranger Things is finally over.
This show came into my life at just the right time, and it stayed. I grew up with these characters, with this world, with the feeling of watching something special unfold in real time.
I will forever love Stranger Things.
Hope You Like It!
The flashbulbs were relentless.
White light after white light, popping like fireworks against the midnight sky, ricocheting off sequins, satin, polished shoes, glossy hair. The carpet beneath your feet was a deep, theatrical red — the kind that made every step feel ceremonial, like you were walking through the final chapter of a story that had changed your life.
Which, in a way, you were.
You angled your body just slightly, chin tipped down, eyes lifted toward the cameras the way years of experience had taught you. Your smile came easily — not the practiced one, but the soft, genuine curve that appeared whenever you felt grounded. The dress hugged you perfectly, fabric catching the light with every subtle movement, and you could already hear the faint murmur rippling through the crowd.
“She looks unreal.”
“That’s Joe Keery’s wife?”
“They’re literally that couple.”
You didn’t hear the words clearly, but you felt them — the energy, the warmth, the affection radiating from the fans pressed against barricades, phones raised high, documenting not just a premiere but a moment.
A moment that Joe was watching unfold from just a few steps away.
He stood off to the side for a beat longer than necessary, hands loosely clasped in front of him, tuxedo crisp, hair styled just enough to still look like him. Steve Harrington had grown up, sure — but tonight wasn’t about the character. Tonight was about the man watching the woman he loved command a carpet like it belonged to her.
Joe didn’t realize he’d stopped smiling until someone nudged his shoulder lightly.
“Dude,” Gaten murmured with a grin, “you’re staring.”
Joe exhaled, laughed quietly under his breath, but didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, fond. “I know.”
Because how could he not?
You shifted poses effortlessly, responding to shouted requests — over the shoulder, chin up, a soft laugh when someone called your name just a little too excitedly. The flash of cameras illuminated the familiar confidence in your posture, but Joe knew what lived underneath it. He knew how your fingers had curled into his in the car earlier, how you’d taken a slow breath and said, Can you believe this is it?
He could still hear it. The tremor. The awe.
You hadn’t just been acting in Stranger Things — you’d been part of its bones. Long nights on set. Cold soundstages. Childhood nostalgia wrapped in monster makeup and synth music. This show had given you both careers, friendships, and a love story neither of you had seen coming.
And now, here you were — glowing under the lights, closing the door on an era.
Joe felt it hit his chest all at once.
Pride. Love. Gratitude.
And something almost painfully tender.
You finally turned, eyes scanning the familiar faces along the carpet — castmates laughing, journalists calling out questions — until you found him. Joe. Standing there like the world had narrowed to the exact shape of you.
Your smile changed instantly.
It always did.
Not bigger. Not brighter.
Just… softer. Warmer. Like you’d exhaled without realizing you’d been holding your breath.
Joe lifted a hand, just a little. Not a wave. Just enough for you to know he was there.
The fans noticed.
They always did.
Phones tilted. Whispers spread.
“Oh my god, look at him.”
“That’s how he looks at her.”
“I want that.”
You finished the last round of photos and excused yourself gracefully, heels clicking toward him. The second you were close enough, Joe leaned in, his hand finding the small of your back like it belonged there — because it did.
“You were incredible,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.
You smiled, leaning into him instinctively. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
The cameras caught that too.
The way you relaxed the moment he touched you. The way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your spine. The way you laughed quietly at something only he said, forehead briefly resting against his shoulder.
Somewhere online, a fan would later write:
They don’t perform their love. They live in it.
Inside the theater, the energy shifted — less spectacle, more reverence. The final episode played out on the massive screen, and Joe felt your hand slide into his, fingers lacing together tightly as familiar music swelled.
You squeezed once during an emotional scene.
Twice during the final moments.
And when the screen faded to black for the last time, you leaned into him, eyes shining — not with tears, but with fullness. Completion.
“It’s really over,” you whispered.
Joe kissed the top of your head. “Yeah. But look what it gave us.”
You didn’t need to ask what he meant.
After the screening, the crowd spilled back out into the night — laughter, tears, hugs exchanged between people who’d grown up together in front of the world. Reporters pulled you aside for questions, fans shouted congratulations, and everywhere you went, eyes followed the two of you like you were something rare.
A love story born in the middle of a phenomenon.
Later, as photos from the night flooded social media, the comments poured in.
The way he looks at her??
This is my favorite Stranger Things ship and it’s REAL.
I don’t even care about celebrity couples but this one… this one hurts my feelings.
If love doesn’t look like that, I don’t want it.
Joe scrolled through a few of them hours later, sitting beside you on the hotel bed, shoes kicked off, tie loosened. You were curled against him, half-asleep, makeup long since removed, premiere glamour replaced by something softer. Realer.
“People are losing their minds,” he said, amused.
You hummed. “About the finale?”
“About us.”
You cracked one eye open, smiling faintly. “Well. That’s their problem.”
Joe laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Yeah. But… I get it.”
You looked up at him then, fully awake now. “Get what?”
He shrugged, brushing a thumb along your cheek. “Wanting something steady. Something real. Especially after something ends.”
You considered that for a moment, then smiled — slow and certain. “Good thing we’re not ending.”
Joe smiled back, eyes full, heart steady. “Not even close.”
Outside, the world was saying goodbye to Stranger Things.
Inside, wrapped in quiet and love, the two of you were just beginning the rest of your forever.
For the show that grew up with us.
YOUNGER!READER CATCHING HER SMOKING HOT NEIGHBOUR, JACK ABBOT DOING NUDE YOGA .ᐟ
warnings .ᐟ 18+ mdni. age gap (reader is in her 20’s). reader & jack are lowk both perverts. pet names (sweetheart & kid) used. jack is a big ol flirt.
acknowledgements .ᐟ gif creds: @/wesandresons - such a goat when it comes to gifs | divider creds: @/suupersonic
authors note .ᐟ jack abbot you slut (affectionately).
Your brief encounters with your smoking hot dilf of a neighbour-who wasn’t actually a dilf, were usually just that - encounters, nothing more nothing less.
You’d see him as he’d come from a night shift in the early hours of the morning as you’d be leaving for your 8am college classes; wave to him from your balcony that overlooked his; thank him profusely when he’d offer to help you carry something heavy into your home and then thanking him again with your weekly baked goods, which he was always appreciative of.
“Jesus your neighbour’s really fuckin’ hot,” Your friends would say as they’d come over after a night out, giggling like a gaggle of schoolgirls as he’d wave your way, all but shoving them through the front door to save yourself the embarrassment, cheeks flushed both due to the alcohol in your system and Jack Abbot’s cocky, flirtatious knowing smirk as you fumbled inside your house, shaking his head as he continued with whatever task he was busy with.
These brief encounters kept both you and Jack going, Robby teased him about the new light to his face when he’d come in to work, most definitely attributing it to the sweet young thing he’d seen once when he visited Jack, damn near doubling over in laughter as you descended the steps of his porch in a rushed manner after dropping off your latest baked goods - biscoff smore brownies - as a thank you for when he helped you get your old sofa out of the house earlier that week, fumbling with your house key to get in as quickly as you could before you started giggling right in front of your older neighbour and his friend.
“Told you my charm hasn’t worn off,” Jack smirked, watching to make sure you got in okay before closing the door with a huff and his ego sky high.
Those encounters come to a halt when you decided to spend your Saturday morning out on the balcony, your microwaves time reading 04:45, still clad in your sleep shirt and shorts, your hazelnut iced latte made, a pack of cigarettes and your Vivienne Westwood lighter on the coffee table outside and the rising sun peeking out from the horizon.
Jack should’ve still been at work then, so you don’t exactly expect to see him, let alone see through his sliding door, butt ass naked doing yoga for the whole world to see.
“Holy shit.” You gasp, the cigarette that had been hanging from the corner of your lips falling to the ground, your eyes wide as saucers as you took in the sight before you - his muscles taught as he moved into different yoga poses, freckled shoulders broad and his pecs heavy.
Your mouth went dry at the sight, breath hitching in your throat and your thighs clenching involuntarily as your gaze travelled further south, eyes bulging at the sight of his heavy cock resting against his thick thigh as he stood up straight, dick lengthy even when soft - like something straight out of a porno titled, “Dilf neighbour teaches young college kid yoga poses.”
You watched as he turned around, back muscles melting your brain to a horny puddle of mush, blown pupils landing on his plump ass.
You hadn’t even realised just how long you’d been staring, snapping from your daze when you accidentally stumbled into your coffee table, knocking your iced latte to the ground, the glass crashing with a loud bang, shattering into what seemed like a million pieces, prompting Jack to look over his shoulder with furrowed brows, his eyes connecting with yours for a split second.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” You rambled as you bolted inside, leaving the shattered glass and messed beverage along with your pack of cigarettes and lighter outside as you shut your sliding door and closed your curtains with the speed of an f1 driver, back to the wall as it all set in for you.
Your really hot older neighbour just caught you ogling him whilst he was in his birthday suit, your body going limp with embarrassment as you sunk to the hardwood floors, like something out of a soap opera, hand over your eyes as you tried to scrub the image from your brain, his pretty cock flashing mockingly behind your eyes, almost as if to taunt you.
“What the fuckkkk?!” You groaned, heart hammering in your chest, “He probably thinks you’re a fucking pervert now - great going.” You grumbled to yourself in a hushed tone, scrambling up from the floor like a fawn still trying to figure out how it’s legs work, to get your phone, needing to tell your best friend about the mortifying moment you just experienced.
“Stupid stupid stupid,” You huffed, slapping your hand against your head as you scrolled through your contacts, clicking on her name before pressing the phone to your ear, “Oh my god you will not believe what just happened to me.”
Meanwhile back at Jack’s, after scrambling for a pair of shorts, he kept his eyes on your closed sliding door, waiting for any inkling of an opportunity to explain himself, first equally as mortified about the situation then somewhat pleased when he realised you’d been watching him for a while, the thought of you enjoying the view sending a rush of blood straight to his cock.
“Huh.” He smiled to himself, briefly looking at your balcony again before he entering his room, closing his sliding door behind him with a big head and a hard dick.
God you were really keeping him young.
Since then you’d been avoiding Jack like the plague - rushing out before he could catch you, avoiding his eyes when he’d look at you from his balcony, mumbling a rushed “Hi,” when leaving or entering your home, the image of him stark naked always replaying on loop each time you’d see him.
And you’d been doing a good job at it so far, steering clear of the man that haunted your wet dreams - until you weren’t.
Your fingertips just barely skimmed the can of Pringles on the top shelf that fateful day, stretched out like dough, on your tippy toes but the damned can stayed out of reach.
“Here let me get it,” A voice, a very familiar voice sounded out from behind you, his chest just barely grazing your back as he reached over you to get the desired can, smiling when he moved aside, holding the can of Pringles out for you to take.
You swallowed the protest in your throat, just briefly flicking your gaze up to meet his before nodding and taking the can from his hand, his fingers brushing yours in the process, sending off alarms in your head, “Oh thanks.” You murmured, praying for the earth to swallow you whole as you turned to place the can in your cart, the image of his thick thighs and girthy cock doing rounds behind your eyes again, “Jesus,” You whispered to yourself, taking a deep breath before turning to face him.
Jack watched you, meticulously so that a pregnant pause ensued, hazel eyes trailing down your figure, lingering just slightly on your curves before looking back up to your face.
“Did I - did I do something wrong? Cause it feels like you’ve been avoiding me sweetheart and quite frankly myself and my colleagues are starting to miss your baked goods.” He laughed, knowing exactly why you were avoiding him - he just wanted to see that look flash through your eyes - sue him.
Wow he talked about you to his colleagues? You were done for.
Your brain short circuited on an answer - lying was never your strong suite so you’d just make a fool out of yourself by trying to think up some shitty excuse as to why you couldn’t so much as look the hunk of a man in front of you’s eyes without combusting into a puddle of arousal; so you bit the bullet and took the leap.
“Look I didn’t - I didn’t mean to catch you like that I swear - I didn’t even think you were home and I certainly didn’t think you’d be doing….that and I know I shouldn’t have stared like I do and I’m sorry okay I swear I’m not some pervert that-that watches their neighbours I just I didn’t know what to do and-“ You frantically rambled, head spinning as you ran out of breath, stumbling slightly till Jack’s hand on your shoulder steadied you, his close proximity immediately bringing you back down to earth, arousal dampening your pretty white lace panties.
“Woah woah woah hey breathe kid - calm down, can barely make out what you’re saying, I’m old remember, ears don’t work as well as they used to,” He attempted to joke, finding your flustered demeanour incredibly endearing, wondering how flustered you’d get in other less than appropriate situations.
You nodded, taking a few deep breaths in and out, his hand on your shoulder squeezing, sending your mind and body into a frenzy, “Okay I saw you doing your…yoga and I know I shouldn’t have stared like I did and I just couldn’t look you in the eyes because of how guilty I felt about so I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” You breathed a sigh of relief, getting the weight off of your chest, eyes finally staying on his for more than just a second.
You thought he’d be angry, report you to the police or something for being a peeping tom, sold you for staring - but none of that came.
Jack only smirked, that familiar knowing one he reserved just for you, nodding his head to your words, and then he stepped closer, invading your personal bubble (not that you minded in the slightest), his cologne making your head swoon, committing the scent to memory; he leaned down ever so slightly, your eyes tracing his features, lips parted in want.
“Next time, join me instead of just staring, it’s supposedly good for the mind and body - the yoga I mean,” He cleared his throat, squeezing your shoulder a final time before leaving, looking at you over your shoulder with a smile that had your legs buckling before rounding and exiting the aisle you were in.
What the fuck just happened?!!
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꩜ .ᐟ shawn hatosy + characters m.list
Random 💫You💫 Moments 🍪 #1
K-Pop Demon Hunters
◇---------------------------------------------------◇
Saja Boys (Especially Baby hwhwhw) x Huntrix's member!reader
Warnings : Fluff, crack, Mystery has a tail, a lot of 🍪s mention, you're quiet and kinda chibi vibed, you're fattening Baby up slowly, a lot of staring (from you lol), you're being a cookie lover, Romance tries to hard flirt, you're the maknae and not a hunter (smol backstory mention from here), Zoey, Mira, and Rumi forgot you're powerless, you accidentally (🤨?) sat on Baby's lap, you biting Abs.
◇---------------------------------------------------◇
1. Zoey once tried to order you a caramel macchiato, only to find you already standing silently at the counter holding two drinks.
"How long have you been here-” she asked, startled.
You blinked. Then handed her one of the drinks wordlessly.
The barista, watching this with wide eyes, whispered to Zoey:
“She didn’t even say her name. She just slid a sticky note across the counter that said ‘You know me.’”
You did not, in fact, write that.
The barista just felt it.
2. Romance once tried to “accidentally” bump into you outside a music show to create a scandal.
The paparazzi caught you standing there holding a convenience store egg sandwich while he dramatically posed like a fanfic character in an open shirt.
The caption the next day read:
"Huntrix Maknae Doesn’t Even Flinch at Romance’s Pheromones."
“She looks like she didn’t know who he was,” one netizen commented.
“Or like she was trying to figure out if he was an unpaid street magician.”
You were, in fact, trying to decide if you wanted the egg sandwich or the kimbap next time.
3. At one point, Huntrix and Saja Boys sat next to each other during a press event. Rumi’s glare was volcanic. Mira’s crossed arms could slice a PR intern. Zoey was sharpening her eyeliner mid-interview.
You?
You sat perfectly still in a hotel chair, feet dangling two inches off the ground because it was too tall.
Someone asked:
“So what are your thoughts on the rumors that you and Baby are collaborating?”
Baby turned to look at you. You turned to look at Baby.
Then you slowly… offered him a cookie from your sleeve like it was contraband.
He took it.
The room exploded in screams.
You went back to 🧍♀️.
4. At rehearsal, the sound engineer asked for a mic check. Rumi belted. Mira did a full dance spin while singing. Zoey freestyled something about crushing the bones of her enemies.
Then it was your turn.
You just… stood there.
After a pause, you leaned forward into the mic and whispered:
“…Hello.”
The entire tech crew audibly gasped.
The intern cried.
Someone whispered, “She speaks… she speaks...”
5. It was the Huntrix special comeback aka “How It’s Done.”
The moment the cargo bay opened above the stadium, Rumi, Zoey, and Mira BLASTED out like anime protagonists. Screaming while singing and rapping lmao. Defying gravity. Their energy trails left sparks in the night sky.
But.
They forgot a teeny, tiny detail.
You… did not have powers.
Backstage, you had asked very softly, “Do I get a parachute?”
They said yes. Then forgot.
So while the others crashed gloriously onto the stage like comets, the spotlight hit center—
Music cued up. Bass booming. Dancers exploding out. Fans screaming—
Then silence.
It was your line.
But instead… everyone just looked up.
And there you were.
Floating down with the slowest parachute descent ever.
Arms folded. Hair barely moving. Expression flat.
🪂
🪂
🪂
The music kept going.
🪂
🪂
...
🪂
🪂
The stage lights flickered awkwardly.
Zoey, mid-dance, muttered into her mic, “Oh my god she’s still up there.”
Mira whisper-screamed, “DO SOMETHING, STALL!”
Rumi tried to throw a falsetto note to cover the silence, but her voice cracked.
"LIIGHHHHHTTTTTttTTTtTTT—!" (Rumi demanded to never speak of this ever again.)
🪂
🧍♀️
You landed gently. Like a leaf.
The moment your boots touched the stage and adjusted the mix— you ate the verse.
Crowd immediately screamed. New memes were born.
6. Romance once caught you staring blankly at him in the dressing room. You were eating a muffin.
He froze mid-hair flip. “Oh? Do I—intimidate you?”
You continued staring.
Romance leaned in, smirking. “Or perhaps… you’re curious about me?”
You blinked. “You have spinach in your teeth.”
He fled the room in emotional agony.
7. One day, a backup dancer (who we will not name for legal reasons) made the mistake of reaching into your cookie pouch.
“Just one,” he smirked. “She won’t mind.”
You didn’t say a word.
You just slowly turned your head.
">:("
Then gently pushed the pouch away from him like it was a sacred scroll.
He laughed.
Until the next morning when he found every single pair of his shoes replaced with left-foot boots.
Only lefts.
No one saw you do it.
8. While Rumi is screaming about "8 hours of sleep", you quietly tiptoed down the hallway holding a full tray of microwaved cookies like a bakery ninja.
Zoey caught you mid-sneak. “Bro. It’s 2 a.m.”
You offered her one.
She took it without blinking. “I ain’t a snitch.”
9. During a rooftop battle, Mira and Rumi are performing elegant acrobatic kills while Zoey’s dual blades glint in the moonlight. You? You stand in the back, picking up a traffic cone and launching it at a demon with zero hesitation. It bonks the demon in the face, knocking it out instantly.
Mira : “Did she just— hUH?"
Zoey : “I think that was a precision kill.”
You, are quietly dragging a folding chair into position: “Ammo.”
10. Abs once challenged you to an arm wrestling match “for rivals bonding.” You nodded, sat across from him, placed your hand in his, and said, “I weigh 46 kilograms.”
Then you won.
No one speaks of it.
11. During lunch, Jinu offered you a juice box. Wow. A rare honor. You stared at it, blinked, and pushed it slightly toward Baby. “He likes mango,” you murmured. Jinu stared at you like you just insulted his momma. “I— It wasn’t for him.” Baby accepted it wordlessly, not looking at Jinu. “Thanks,” he muttered. Jinu immediately booked a 1-hour boxing session.
12. One of the stylists brought in mannequins to display outfits. You stood too still while holding your mic and got mistaken for one. A staff member tried to put a jacket on you. You blinked. He screamed, as you accepted the jacket.
13. It was post-rehearsal. Both Saja Boys and Huntrix, were half-dead. Baby slumped on the couch, arms spread like a moody bat. You wandered over, holding your usual cookie stash, looking for your members while looking mildly dazed. But out of exhaustion, you sat. Not beside him. Not near him. Directly in his lap. Legs crossed like a toddler in kindergarten. The room went silent. Baby stiffened like someone just handed him a baby dragon. “...She’s sitting on me,” he whispered. Romance blinked. “Is it a curse or a blessing?” You yawned quietly and nibbled your cookie. “Warm,” you murmured. You stayed there. For six minutes. Baby didn’t breathe.
14. You were already comfortably seated on Mystery's demon tail like it was a beanbag. Your legs were swinging slightly.
“You’re squishing my demon chakra.”
You offered him a cookie. He took it.
“…Fine. But if I hiss, it’s instinct.”
15. “Did… did she just bite me?”
Abs clutched his wrist where you’d very gently but very definitively chomped him like a hamster.
He’d taken your cookie without asking.
You chewed slowly. Expression blank.
Romance, watching from the doorway, sipped his tea, and whispered "We should adopt her."
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 :)
MASTERLIST | ASK | 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.”
ride or die | j.yh
⊹₊⟡⋆ Westeez Series | Part 8 of 8 ⊹₊⟡⋆
pairing: cowboy!yunho x cowgirl!reader summary: You ride hard, punch harder, and don’t need saving. But you just might have room in the saddle for someone who knows how to hold on. tags: cowboy/wild west AU, mild enemies to lovers, secret identity (fem!reader disguised as a man), slow burnnn, hurt/comfort, a tad bit of era-accurate misogyny, NSFW/18+/MDNI (BDSM—bondage + blindfold, oral—f receiving, fingering, cowgirl and lotus positions, soft!dom!yunho, switch!reader, the hat stays ON, unprotected P in V—and for the last time in this series a reminder to WRAP IT) wc: 12.2k (WHOOPS can u tell yuyu's my ult bias) a/n: was this fic perhaps a bit self-serving...um yeah and what about it? had to finish the series strong duh. if god is good, may we all meet cowboy yunho again in our dreams tonight <3
⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆
PROLOGUE
Dawn’s first light paints the Oklahoma sky in streaks of pink and gold. The air is still cool, carrying the sharp bite of the night’s chill. You inhale the scent of campfire with each breath. You guide Daisy, the American paint horse you’ve ridden for ten years, toward the company’s outpost. You ride in slowly, letting Daisy sniff her way through the tufts of grass along the dusty ground.
You’d risen long before the sun crested over the horizon. Waking early comes easy to you now, after all these years. Most mornings, you climb out from your bedroll under the stars, take a gander down to whatever body of water—pond, river, or creek—is closest, and splash icy water on your face.
Then, you braid your hair. It's taken you years of practice to get it right. It needs to be tight enough so that you can coil it up underneath your weathered cowboy hat. Nowadays, you can hardly see yourself in the old desilvered mirror you’ve carried around for years, but it works well enough to help you tuck any stray strands away. Your button-up shirt is loose, vest secured up to your neck, chaps worn soft from use.
Freedom isn’t free out here.
In your case, you pay for it through a disguise perfected over many years. It could be worse. If dressing up like a man is the price you owe in exchange for the privilege of riding free on the plains, you’ll pay it each and every time.
To anyone watching, you’re just another lean cowboy reporting for duty. You’re not afraid; you can hold your own against any man, woman, or beast who dares cross you. Posing as one of the boys just makes everything simpler. You deal with fewer questions, stares, and assumptions about what a woman can or can’t handle on the trail.
You dismount, boots crunching the ground below you. No need to secure Daisy to the post—she’s too well-trained to go wandering off. The words Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company glisten in gilded print on the frosted glass window of the door when you push it open. Old man Hargrove is already up, sitting behind his desk with a tin mug of steaming coffee. A couple of other workers mill about the office, but it’s quieter than usual this morning. Hargrove lifts his chin at the sound of your boots clicking across the wooden floor.
“Mornin’, kid,” he rasps, voice rougher than gravel.
“Hey, boss,” you reply in a tone lower than your natural register. You slide into a wooden chair in front of his desk. “Got somethin’ good for me today?”
He sips his coffee slowly and eyes you over the rim.
“Oh, I got everythin’ good that’s out there. But I think you’ll want this ‘un.”
He slides a heavy sheet of folded paper across the desk. You flip it open, eyes skimming. The contract order contains all the necessary details: client information, number of cattle requested, preferences and specifications for that cattle, and payment information.
An official-looking symbol is stamped over the top right-hand corner. Your eyes widen when you read United States Army scrawled across the top of the page. The request calls for at least 700 horses in good health and maturity for service with a preference for mustangs. Specifications detail geldings, dark bays or browns.
“United States Army, huh?” you ask, eyebrows raising.
Old man Hargrove hums and nods slowly.
“Told you I got the good stuff. This ‘un’s a tall order. Cavalry needs a string of mustangs delivered ’fore first snow. ’Parently, they ain’t skilled ’nuff to rope up the wild ’uns up in the high plains. Pay’s double if you bring ’em in early.”
On his cue, you take a gander at the bottom half of the order. A greedy smirk spreads across your face. $120 per head, with premium of double pay for early arrival or extras above the contracted quota. You feel the familiar thrill spark in your chest. Months on the plains—no towns, no rules, no people. Just the ride, the wind, and the wide-open sky.
“That’s big time,” you comment. “I’ll take it.”
Hargrove grunts in approval.
“Knew you would.”
“I assume I ain’t ridin’ out by myself? 700 horses is quite a haul for one person.”
You meet the old man’s knowing eyes. There’s a familiar sternness in them that you’ve grown to appreciate over the years. You already know the answer to your question, anyway. He never lets you ride out alone. He’s known your secret for years. Never once has he revealed it to another soul, aside from your riding partner, Colton. At the end of the day, results are what matter to Hargrove. And you always deliver.
“You’ll ride lead with Colton. He’s already waitin’ out by the south gate.”
You nod, swiping up the contract and pushing yourself to a stand. You turn toward the door, but his voice freezes you in your tracks.
“You got two others with you. They’re new ‘round here—just rode down from North Dakota. ‘Sposed to be decent ropers. Rendezvous point’s the river fork, ten miles east.”
You sigh, grimacing. You were really looking forward to a months-long ride with Colton. You don’t have to cover up around him, since he already knows about you. You’ve gone on hundreds of rides together. The two of you make a damn good team, and this particular contract is worth more than your last twelve combined. You cannot have two pathetic tenderfoots slowing you down.
“Fine,” you say through clenched teeth.
As you reach for the doorknob, you hear Hargrove’s rasped voice from behind you, “You come back in one piece, kid. Got it?”
“Don’t worry, old man. I’d never let the good ol' U.S. government’s money go to waste.”
You offer a smirk as you swing the door closed. Tucking the contract into your vest, you mount Daisy and kick off toward the south gate. Colton is waiting exactly where Hargrove said he’d be. He lounges against his big bay gelding, hat tipped back, eyes closed as he soaks in the morning rays.
“Long time no see,” you shout as you ride up next to him.
“Took you long enough,” he drawls, grinning. “I was wonderin’ if you’d chickened out this time.”
“Me? Chicken out? Nah, that ain’t in my bones, darlin’.”
Colton chuckles, swinging up onto his horse’s back. He’s never treated you any different. He’s never made a fuss. He’s always just seen you as a partner. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Heard we’re stuck with a coupla Dakota boys this time ‘round,” you say as you both start off toward the rendezvous point.
“Yeah. Hope they can sit a horse better than they talk.”
“Long as they rope half-decent and shut up, I ain’t got a problem. Months, Colton. Real trail time.”
Colton inhales deeply and then releases it.
“My favorite kind.”
You adjust your hat, making sure it’s secured around your chin and won’t fly off during your ride. Then, you pull loose the bandana from your neck. The once bright red piece of cloth has been tarnished so much from the sun and the dirt that it’s turned into more of a red clay hue. No worries. With this new money, you could buy 15 brand new bandanas. You secure the fabric around your nose and mouth with expert precision, leaving just enough space for you to peer out.
New partners means new eyes. Also means that you’re no longer you. Now, you’re Riley, the quiet young cowboy who works hard and doesn’t talk much. You’ve found it’s better, anyway, to let your work speak for you when it comes to meeting new people.
Side by side, you and Colton ride out through the gate. The outpost shrinks behind you as the vast plains open ahead.
Off on another adventure. You can hardly wait.
PART ONE
The river along the fork in the road shimmers like blue-tinted glass under the morning sun. Ten miles pass easily between you and your partner. You see the two Dakota boys before they see you. Waiting on the other side of the bank, their forms are nothing but shadow. You slow Daisy to a stop underneath the shade of a tree and glance at Colton. Your partner pauses next to you.
“Welp, there they are,” he says.
“Mhm,” you hum in agreement, unsure about your new partners.
Daisy’s hooves splash quietly in the low-standing water as you carefully guide her across the stream. The bank on the other side is a bit steeper, so you lean forward as Daisy trots up and over it. The Dakota ropers turn toward you as you emerge over the top.
“Howdy,” Colton calls out, reining in just ahead of you. “You the boys from Dakota working the cavalry job?”
“Yeah, you the others from the agency?” one of them—a smaller, rougher-looking one, replies.
Colton tosses his head toward you. Reaching into your vest, you draw out the contract. You unfold it and hold it forward so they can see the red stamp on the top corner. They follow suit, providing their version of the same contract they must have received from their own agency.
“Well, I’m Colton Reeves. This is Riley Oakley,” Colton says, gesturing to you when he shares your pseudonym.
“Ross Morrow,” the rough one answers back. He points at his partner. “And Jeong Yunho. Heard a lot ‘bout y’all.”
Colton laughs.
“Good things, I hope.”
As they talk, you size up your new team members. The shorter one, Ross, is perched on a chestnut stallion. His gear is strapped on but somewhat haphazardly. Much of it looks in desperate need of repair or replacement. His clothes, too, are worn and faded. His face is shadowed by an orange-colored beard and long, unkempt hair that sticks out from the back of his brown hat.
The other one, the taller one, sits comfortably. The reins attached to his black horse rest on the saddle and not in his hands, telling you he has trust in and control over the animal. He has broad shoulders that fill out a faded blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms are sun-browned and corded with muscle all the way down to his gloved hands. His brown cowboy hat is tipped back just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and a mouth with a noticeable cupid’s bow. Your gaze drops to the rope secured at his side. It’s clearly well-used but meticulously maintained and coiled carefully so as to avoid any unnecessary damage while traveling. His weight is shifted slightly toward the right side where the rope hangs. Muscle memory. All unconscious habits of someone who genuinely knows what they’re doing.
“So, uh…your friend always this quiet, or what?” Ross’s question brings you back to the current moment.
“Oh, nah,” Colton answers for you. “He just don’t talk too much.”
Your partner glances back, eyebrows raised to silently ask if you’re alright. You nod twice. When your eyes slide over, they lock with the tall cowboy. Ross had introduced him as Yunho. Unusual name. Clearly not from this area. He stares at you, interest evident in his expression. You hold his gaze. You don’t back down from any man. It’s not your style.
“Well, y’all any good with a rope?” Colton asks.
Yunho tears his expression away to look at your partner.
“Good enough, I hope,” he answers. His voice is smooth like a river stone.
“Alright,” Colton says, nodding in approval. “Guess we’d better get goin’, then. Herd ain’t gonna wait up for us. Riley and I’ll take the lead, if y’all don’t mind too much. We've worked this land up, down, and sideways, so we know it good.”
Both Dakota boys nod in agreement. Colton guides his horse past them, taking the lead spot in your pack of four. You slink up next to him. A few moments later, the other ropers fall in behind you.
“Whatcha think?” Colton asks quietly.
Keeping your attention forward, you answer, “Tall one’s an asset. He knows his way ‘round a rope. I can tell. The short one…maybe he’s got a good personality.”
Colton chuckles, shaking his head.
“I’ll take half over zero,” he replies.
You travel northwest, following the faint game trails that lead up toward the high plains where the wild herds run this time of year. The river continues to flow beside you, offering a source of fresh water and a marker for your mental map.
Conversation is light. As usual, Colton does most of the talking. You say nothing and keep to yourself, opting to listen instead. Your partner drones on about your experiences on past drives—answering questions about migration patterns and weather, sharing stories like the time you’d shot a mountain lion up in the hills and the winter you’d delivered a herd through a blizzard.
Both Dakota boys seem interested. You refuse to look behind you, but it feels like one of them is watching you. You’ll have to speak sooner or later. For no other reason than to take some suspicion off yourself. Over the years you’ve learned that nobody likes a silent person; something in that quiet, it makes them uneasy, makes you seem untrustworthy. Gotta give a little to get a little, as Hargrove always says.
The hills that roll out before you are dotted with wildflowers and weeds. A tree or two have sprouted up randomly here and there. The air smells fresh and clean. You can breathe easily, even under the bandana. When the sun begins to dip low, you start scanning for a good place to set up camp for the night. You and Colton agree to settle beside a group of trees near the river bank.
Colton enlists Ross to help him scout for something to eat. They disappear into the forest, leaving you at camp. Yunho takes it upon himself to find firewood. He says as much to you before he ducks into the brush. You keep quiet and begin unloading your and Colton’s packs. You set up your bedrolls and pull out the cooking materials you brought. By the time you’re finished with that, Yunho has returned with the wood.
Finding a flat spot, you kick away some loose stones and get to work on starting the fire. While you arrange the kindling and size up which rock to strike the flint with, Yunho politely approaches.
“Need a hand?” he asks.
You don’t look at him.
“Nope. I got it,” you reply gruffly.
In contrast to your normal voice, Riley’s tone is quiet, low, and quick. Colton has helped you work on it throughout the years, but you’ll never sound like a grown man. You just figure speaking fast means people don’t always hear the femininity in your voice.
This Dakota boy seems so kind…you hope he doesn’t find you rude. But, truthfully, you don’t need his help. You’ve started a fire a thousand times. It comes easy. Within a few seconds, the flames are crackling higher into the purple air.
“Wow, impressive,” he mutters before turning to set up his bed.
Colton and Ross return a few moments later with a handful of rabbits. You’ve already put the coffee pot on, the heat welcome as the night’s chill settles on the plains. You assist your partner in cooking the rabbits, remaining quiet throughout the evening.
Your stomach growls. But you hate eating around others. The bandana has to stay on to conceal your identity, which makes it very difficult to enjoy your meal. All you can do is lower the fabric to your chin. You dip your head and let the brim of your hat cover as much of your face as possible. As soon as you finish eating, the bandana goes back up.
On a moonless night, the campfire provides the only light for your crew as you work together to set up the temporary holding pen you’ll use to corral the horses you catch. A little over an hour later, your work is finished for the night.
You position your bedroll toward the edge of camp. The ring of light from the fire ends just before it, allowing you to sleep in the shadows. You turn your back on the party, pull the bandana down to your neck, and tug the woven quilt up to your nose. You overhear Ross whisper to Colton about it, asking him what your deal is. Colton, bless him, answers by saying that you sleep this way to keep the bugs off of you overnight. You turn in first and agree to take the last watch of the night.
The next morning breaks sharp and pale, the kind of light that makes the prairie look like it goes on forever in every direction. Already awake for the watch, you’re saddled up and ready to go before anyone else. The group heads further into the plains. By that afternoon, you spot your first herd. Colton slows your pack as you crest a hill. Wild horses spread across the high grass, tails flicking.
“Alright, we’ll work the edges and push what we can back toward the corral,” Colton explains. “I usually ride out furthest to start the push. Riley’s my wing rider, since he’s got good balance on the back of a horse. He’s got a knack for keepin’ horses from breakin’ off.”
“I’m best as a hold-back man,” Ross says. “I got good eyes, so I can watch the back door and get the gate closed after they’re inside the pen.”
“I usually ride the wing, just like Riley,” Yunho adds, looking over at you. You glance up, catching his gaze again. “I can take the right side.”
You hesitate for a moment, looking him up and down. You nod. With everyone feeling comfortable in their roles, Colton takes off toward the back side of the herd to start pushing them forward.
As the wing riders, you and Yunho will focus on urging the herd toward the corral from each side. Colton will cut off their escape from the back and continue forcing them forward. Once the horses hit the mouth of the v-shaped opening of the corral, you and Yunho will peel off and let Colton run them down the funnel and into the pen. Finally, Ross will catch any stragglers from the back and secure the gate on foot once the herd is inside.
Surprisingly, your first drive is an overwhelming success. You catch about 20 wild horses in the pen. A couple slip out of your reach—perfectly normal for a small crew of only four. A few need to be released for various reasons which make them unfit for the army: any mares, smaller horses, any injured animals, etcetera. Since it’s your first day, you ignore the urge to chase after any of the breakaways. You’ll have plenty of time to round up more, especially if your team continues clicking as it did today.
Life moves similarly over the next week. In the morning, you rope the horses you want to keep, tie them nose to tail in a line, and tug them behind. You herd during the day. Each of you picks up a night shift, singing or talking to the captured horses so they can get used to human voices.
One night, you wake with a desperate need to pee. You slip quietly from your bedroll to relieve yourself in the woods. As you button up your pants, a low, smooth voice carries through the darkness. You carefully creep through the tree line. Hiding behind it, you peer out and find yourself staring at the corral. The singing's coming from the rider. Yunho...it's his watch.
Your eyebrows lift. He sings well. His voice is rich, deep, and smooth like distant thunder rolling over the plains or the velvet fabric of an expensive party dress. His tone is stable, controlled. He sings effortlessly. The melody is simple, almost sad.
As you spy on him, something warm and unsteady swims in your gut. It shocks you into reality. You straighten and physically shake yourself. Bewildered, you accidentally step on a twig. It snaps underneath you. Yunho's head jerks toward your direction, and you grimace. His voice goes quiet as he listens.
You stay frozen and wait for him to turn back to the herd. When he finally does, you hurry back to your bedroll before anything else happens.
You toss and turn that night, the haunting melody playing over and over in your head. His smooth, melodic voice like silk drifting in your mind.
On your third day of driving, you decide to start going for the runaways. Yunho picks up on it quickly, joining your efforts. At first, the competition is friendly. He tips his hat to you when you nag a stray, and you nod in respect when he turns one back toward the corral.
You hit your first rough day a week in. Bad weather rolls in and out overnight, leaving the ground muddy and soft. The group rides out in the morning but no herds are near. After a long day of watching the horizon line for absolutely nothing, your eyes are tired. You almost don’t believe them when they land on a lone horse in the distance. But when you squint, it comes into view.
Yunho must have seen him at the same second you did. You both spur at once. Daisy stretches out underneath you, ears flat. She loves the chase almost as much as you do. Yunho’s horse is longer-legged. He gains ground fast, rope already unhitched from its perch at his side. But you're a better rider. You push Daisy forward just as Yunho rises in the stirrups, arm whipping forward. He’s going for the heel catch—clean and textbook.
Not on your watch.
You unlatch your own rope, twirling it smaller, tighter, and attack the sprinting horse from the side opposite Yunho. The rope snaps out like a whip crack, settling perfectly just around the animal’s neck. Yunho’s heel loop kisses empty air and falls flat. You tug back on the rope, pulling the wild horse to a gentle stop.
Since you’re far enough away that Yunho won’t be able to hear you, you speak gently to the horse, cooing like a mother to a child, to keep it calm. You fade into silence as you saunter up toward the Dakota cowboy with your catch in tow.
“That one was mine, Riley,” he says, but there’s a toothy grin on his face.
You clench your teeth to keep your own smile at bay.
“Was it?” you tease. You mime peering closer at the horse, exaggerating the movement. “Don’t look like it to me.”
He chuckles, tongue poking into his cheek.
“Hm…challenge accepted.”
You just tap your hat brim and lead your prize away.
You hadn’t really meant to antagonize him. But that day sets the tone.
From that moment forward, it’s a fight between you. Yunho steals lone mustangs and runaways from you; you cut him off and snatch horses from under his nose. Colton and Ross laugh so hard they accidentally let some of your catches escape. When the Dakota boys are out of earshot, Colton pokes fun at you.
“Someone’s got a crush,” he says in a low voice.
“Shut up,” you hiss.
What should have been an easy way to make money has turned into all-out war. Though it appears to be a joke to the boys, it’s nothing of the sort to you. They don’t understand. They could never understand what it’s like for you. Under all those clothes, under the binding wrapped tightly around your chest, you’re still a woman. That means you have to work harder, be better. While the three of them laugh and joke about it, you rage silently within your heart.
Ross is the first to suggest keeping a tally system. You can’t prove it but you’re almost positive that he and Colton are placing bets behind your backs.
The formal competition begins on the tenth day. Having roped in a good chunk of healthy horses yesterday—bringing the grand total to just over 200—you all agree that you've earned a break from the routine today. Instead, you and Yunho will face off, trying to snag as many wild horses as possible.
By noon, the tally is even at three each. Both of you are sweated through, horses lathered, ropes fraying at the ends from overuse. Your audience appears to enjoy the chase for the first half of the day but, when lunchtime rolls around, Ross suggests you both call it quits and accept a tie.
“No!” you shout, completely forgetting to disguise your voice. You clear your throat, trying to control the octave. “We don’t stop ‘til it’s finished.”
You turn to stomp back toward Daisy, but someone catches your arm. Rage flares. Your head snaps over your shoulder, curses ready to fly from your tongue. It’s Colton. His eyebrows are knitted, concern clear as day. He yanks you over to the side.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself, kid,” he says quietly. “It ain’t no big deal. You’ve shown you can hold your own. But that’s enough now.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” you spit, wrenching your arm free. To Yunho, “We gonna do this, or what?”
His eyebrows furrow for a moment. But he clenches his jaw and nods. You ride out, a safe distance between you. Nothing stirs on the horizon for several minutes.
“Maybe we should head back in,” he suggests, looking over at you. "We haven't eaten in hours."
You remain frozen, lips pressed tightly shut under your bandana. A few silent moments pass.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” he continues, tone a little icy, “why you don’t like me or whatever, but I-”
He must have seen it in his peripherals. Your eyes widen. A magnificent stallion—huge build, muscles taut, coppery coat shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. A perfect specimen, so fine he’d probably fetch a bonus just by himself.
You and Yunho share one quick glance before you both take off. You ride neck-and-neck, your horses creating a chorus that sounds like thunder as they rip the ground away under their hooves. The stallion dodges left; Yunho follows. You cut across, forcing the horse to the right. Whether you mean to or not, you’re working as a team.
That doesn’t last long. When you top a hill after the beast, you both reach for your ropes. Completely blindsided by the competition, neither of you pay attention. You throw the lasso at the same time. Your ropes both land around its neck, but you pull back in different directions.
You gasp, the rope slipping from your gloved hand. You watch Yunho’s lasso do the same. Instinctively, you pull back on Daisy’s reins. Yunho follows. You both skid to a stop, dust swirling up into your faces. You look up just in time to watch the stallion clear another hill and sprint away.
Out of reach now.
Not to mention that he's run away with your best rope. You won’t be able to replace it until you get back into town where you can visit your trusted ropemaker.
Your blood boils. From your peripherals, you see Yunho hop down from his black horse. He stomps toward you, finger accusingly pointed.
“Hey, what the hell are you—” he shouts.
You dismount and waste no time. Without hesitation, you spin and ram your knuckles into the side of his face. He stumbles back a few steps, hand moving to his jaw. He looks up at you, mouth agape.
“That was my best rope, asshole!” you yell, forgetting again about your tone of voice.
“You almost got both of us killed! And you’re worried about your rope?”
You lunge forward, hands connecting with his chest. He stumbles back. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You tug side to side and try to bring him down. He fights back, hands grasping at your shoulders. He’s definitely stronger than you. But he must be too surprised to hold up, because he tumbles onto the ground straight into a heap of mud. You land on top, knees pinned to his chest, shirt fisted in your hands.
Both of you freeze, chests heaving. His hat is gone. It’s rolled somewhere into the distance, forgotten. You glare down at him with clenched teeth. He stares up at you, eyes surprisingly gentle. Your expression falters when an unwanted churning turns in your stomach. Your breaths mingle in the air between you. Suddenly, he does a double-take, eyes widening. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.
And, then, you realize.
The bandana around your face has been pulled down onto your neck. He must have snagged it accidentally when you took him down. Panic shocks through you. You reach up. Your hat's gone, too. Your long, braided hair spills over your shoulder.
For one stunned heartbeat, you just stare at each other.
“Well, shit,” he breathes. “You’re a girl.”
You scramble up, pushing hard on his chest out of spite. You gather your hat, jam it low, and snatch the ruined bandana from the mud. In that time, Yunho has gotten to his feet and brushed himself off.
Heat flashes up your neck—anger or something worse, you aren’t sure. You spin, the toe of your boot catching him square on the shin. He doubles over with a strangled grunt.
“That’s for the catch, rope, and money you just lost me,” you snap, already striding for Daisy.
Without another word, you swing up onto your horse and tear back toward camp at lightning speed. The bandana’s soaked and useless now, so your face is totally exposed. The hat lasts about three strides before you rip it off to keep the mud from dripping into your eyes.
Colton and Ross are waiting when you thunder into camp. They greet you but freeze the moment you turn toward them.
Colton’s eyes bulge, mouth half-open like he’s forgotten every word he knows. He stares, utterly speechless, clearly desperate to ask what the hell happened but not sure where to start. Ross doesn’t say anything either; he just watches in stunned silence as you stomp past them and vanish into the trees behind the campsite.
PART TWO
The fire has burned down to a low, orange glow. It casts flickering shadows across the camp. Colton and Ross turned in early; you figure Colton must have explained your situation and, God-willing, Ross is accepting of it. Otherwise, you would be answering questions into the night or dealing with a situation much, much worse.
You sit on the far side of the flames, your skinning knife in hand. You sharpen it with short, vicious strokes. The anger from earlier still simmers in your veins, hot enough to burn iron. Boot steps crunch softly on the dry leaves.
Yunho pauses at a respectful distance. His hands are held up, like he’s approaching some sort of feral animal. A brown bottle dangles loosely from two long fingers.
“I come bearing a peace offering,” he says softly.
You glare at him for a moment and then flick the knife point toward the open space on the log beside you. He settles in, careful not to crowd you but close enough that your stomach twists again.
You’ve spent your entire life, as long as you can remember, around men. Most of them, disgusting and dirty. They’re working men with rough callouses and hardened exteriors. The majority of them only have access to a bath once every six months.
But Yunho…he’s not like that. He’s cleaner, somehow, less grimy.
He yanks the cork and offers the bottle to you. You lean away, eyeing it suspiciously. He chuckles.
“Just whiskey. I promise.”
You stare at it for a moment before giving in. You swipe the bottle and take a long drink. It sears down your throat but settles pretty smooth. It tastes expensive. When you hand it back, he drinks, too.
“So, I’m assuming Riley isn’t your real name,” he starts.
“You assume correct.”
He waits, doesn’t push, just passes the bottle over again.
“I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what it really is?”
“Sure,” you reply, taking another swig. “You just let me know when hell freezes over.”
He laughs, the sound warm and friendly. You stare into the fire, watching the embers dance in the wind. He doesn’t ask you to explain any more than that, so you aren't really sure why you do.
“Out here a woman alone’s got three choices: a wife, a whore, or a corpse,” you explain. “Wasn't interested in any of that. So I made my own choice.”
“How’d you wind up out here? Doing this?”
“My parents died when I was ‘lil. Some flu or somethin’. Wiped out half my town, but it spared me, for some reason. I begged and stole for a few years to get by. Then, I heard some men talkin’ ‘bout jobs. So, I followed ‘em and wound up at the door of Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company. Old man Hargrove, the contractor there, took pity on me. I was half-starved and prolly looked like a mangy dog.” Yunho chuckles softly. “He took me in. He didn’t really know how to raise a girl, so I just got thrown in with the boys. He taught me everything I know—how to rope, herd, survive. I had to figure out a lot of it by myself, but I didn’t mind.”
“How come you keep doing it?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking up and down your body. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks.
“Why do you stay out here, doing hard labor work? You’re plenty pretty enough. I’m sure some rich man would take you as his wife. You wouldn't have to struggle to survive out here anymore."
“Well…because I love the work,” you reply. “The wind in my face all day, Daisy runnin’ beneath my feet, the wide-open sky before me. I’d never give it up. For anything.”
You look at him sideways. He’s smiling, a knowing glint in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Silence settles for a few moments.
“Only downside is that no one really, truly understands,” you continue quietly. “They never really know what it feels like. It gets…lonely sometimes.”
Yunho is quiet so long, you wonder if he’s stopped listening. Then, softly, “You don’t have to be lonely tonight.”
Your eyes go wide. Turning your head, you catch him watching you. Firelight dances in his gaze and there’s something so endearing about it. He reminds you of a puppy, looking so earnest and sweet. You feel a pull in your lower belly again, the same one that had come and gone a few times before. His eyes flicker down to your lips. He gulps and forces his gaze back to yours.
You snatch the bottle from his hand, drink deeply for courage, and then hand it back.
“Not tonight,” you say sternly. “But keep it up, Dakota boy, and maybe we’ll see.”
With that, you rise from your seat and head toward your bedroll. It takes him a second before he jumps to his feet.
“Ah, n-no! Wait, that’s not what I meant. I...I-,” he stutters, obviously terrified that his accidental come-on attempt had offended you.
You don’t react, just giggle to yourself as you settle in for sleep.
The next several weeks blur into a rhythm. During the day, you ride forward, herding and roping any wild horses you come across. You and Yunho spend most of your time together. You’ve grown close.
You never explained to Colton or Ross what went on between you to put a stop to the war that had been brewing. You just let them assume that whatever had happened out on the plains that day set everything right. They don’t question it, either. They seem perfectly content that the two of you are working together so well. Even your horses seem to fall into step like they’ve known each other for years.
At night, after the others slip into sleep, you share whiskey or wine or whatever you have on hand. Yunho tells you about the stars; he knows so much about them. He points out constellations and planets. Out here in the wilderness, you can see them all. Funny…you’ve never really stopped to look up at them before.
One night, he comes over to your bedroll. You're awake but pretend to be asleep since you're dying to know what he's up to. More tenderly than you ever thought possible, he moves a strand of hair from your face. He strokes your cheek with his knuckle and whispers something. You don't catch what he says, but it's something sweet. You can tell by the tender way he says it.
In exchange for his star knowledge, you’ve been teaching him how to whip-crack a lasso. It’s something you learned from another roper who hangs around the cattle company a lot. If you do it just right, the snap sounds like thunder, it’s so loud. You laugh freely when the rope tangles around his boot and gently correct his form when you can.
It’s innocent. Mostly.
You can’t help but appreciate his long, slender fingers. You like the way they flex around the reins. It feels like electricity when they brush against your arm or tangle with your digits when he passes the bottle. He must know you like it; he draws attention to them far more than necessary.
Not that you would dare to throw stones. You’re doing it, too. He watches your hips when you ride. You noticed one afternoon when you turned to ask him something. You'd caught his stare zeroed in on your ass. He must like the way you shift in the saddle. So, naturally, you do it more.
“You ride like you were born in a saddle,” he says quietly one afternoon. “It’s real nice to look at, but makes it sort of hard to focus.”
You don't know what to say. You just watch him ride ahead of you, smirk tugging at his mouth.
A few more weeks slip by, the herd growing larger behind you—nearing four hundred horses now. The days start to feel less like working and more like spending time with friends. You’ve let your guard down. No bandana unless you’re near a town. Your hair stays loose under your hat more often than not.
After two months out, you decide you’ve earned yourself a full bath. You wander a little ways downstream from camp, past a bend thick with cottonwood trees. There, the river widens into a slow, clear blue pool. You tether Daisy to a low branch and then strip off your hat, vest, and shirt without a second thought. The binding comes next—long strips of linen you’ve worn tightly across your chest so many times. You unwind them slowly, breathing deeply. You leave the fabric folded neatly on a rock, kick off your boots, and wade into the water.
You duck under and let the cool liquid wash off all the sweat and dust from your skin. When you come back up, you start to brush your fingers through tangled hair. Winter's coming fast. Soon, the water will be too cold for baths. You should enjoy this one while you can. Glancing upward, you close your eyes and let the sun wash over your bare body.
“Oh…”
You gasp, sinking back into the water up to your chin. You turn around. The panic in your chest subsides when you find yourself looking at none other than Jeong Yunho. His eyes are wide with genuine surprise. You sigh and shake your head. Heat rushes into your neck and face, so hot it makes your ears itch.
“Damn,” you shout, breathless. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on somebody?”
“Sorry!” he yells back. “Thought I was alone...”
He hesitates, shirt half-tugged over his head. Your eyes snag on a slice of his skin, toned and muscular. Rolling your eyes to mask the tight coil in your stomach, you turn your back on him.
“Well, you comin’ in or not?” you ask.
As ladylike as possible, you splash water over your arms and shoulders. A few moments later, you hear him wading into the stream.
“Phew, it's so nice,” he says.
“Mhm,” you agree.
You turn toward him, arms crossing over your chest under the water on instinct. You study him for a moment—the way the light catches on the water droplets clinging to his collarbones, the way his damp hair curls up at the ends. He looks a little nervous, like he’s waiting for you to send him packing.
Silence falls. You both stare at each other for several minutes, arms moving through the water. Then, of course, because it’s Yunho, he scoops up a handful of water and flicks it at you. You gasp, half laughing, before you splash him back twice as hard. Within seconds, it’s a full-on battle. Water flies, and both of you laugh so hard your stomachs ache.
He lunges for you under water. You shriek, shoving against his chest. Your palms glide over his wet skin. With no friction, instead of stopping him, your touch slides upward and onto his shoulders. His hands curl around your hip bones, stopping you at arm’s length just a second before your chests ram together.
Your laughter fades quickly. The space between you seems to shrink. You’re close enough now to see the honeyed tint in his eyes. His long lashes clump together with water. He gives you every chance to pull away as he lifts his hand, so slowly, and tucks your hair behind your ear.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it over the river’s hum.
Your heart hammers in your chest. This doesn't feel real. It's fuzzy like a dream. You’ve spent years making sure no man ever sees you like this. Like a woman. Like…well, beautiful. And here you are, here he is, looking at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips.
“Flattery’ll get you dunked, Dakota boy,” you mutter teasingly.
He laughs, the sound a quick exhale of breath. But he doesn’t move his hand. It stays, cupping your cheek. Your eyes flick down to his lips.
Fuck it.
You lean in first. Just enough. He meets you halfway. The kiss is gentle, just two mouths pressing against one another. No tongue, no saliva, nothing crazy. Just pressure and the slight tang of river water on his lips. His hand snakes around the back of your neck, thumb stroking once along your jaw. When you pull back, your cheeks are burning hot. You drop your head to avoid looking at him.
“Well,” you mumble, splashing a weak handful of water at his chest to cover the shaking in your voice, “that’s enough of that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He chuckles under his breath. You risk a peek at him; his cheeks are tinted pink, eyes sparkling. You consider kissing him again. Instead, you just catch your lip in your teeth and shove him away. As you paddle your way to the shore, you have a feeling that it’s about to get a lot harder to stay professional.
PART THREE
The wind has teeth now. It blows sharp and relentless as it sweeps down from the north. Nights come early, spreading a purple haze through the sky. You’ve pushed yourselves hard the last two weeks. You know you’re running out of time before winter sets in fully. You’re sitting at 680 horses with at least 20 more to go. Plus, if any of you want a bonus, you need a few more than that.
But the plains are thinning out, giving way to mountains dotted with evergreen trees. You’ll be passing the herd over to the army at Fort Garland in Colorado. You’re maybe a week’s travel away from the Fort.
One gray afternoon, Colton brings the party to a stop beside a shallow creek. The four of you sit your horses in a loose circle while he studies the map Hargrove gave you months ago, now soft and creased from constant use.
“I’d say we’re close enough to town that this’ll be our last corral,” he says, folding the map with a snap. “Army post is just over the ridge. Now, I don’t want civilians pokin’ around, so Riley and Yunho, you two ride ahead and scout it out. See if there’s a good holdin’ pasture outside town, somewhere we can keep the herd without payin’ for stables or drawin’ too much attention. Ross and I’ll bring the string up slow tomorrow.”
You nod, already turning Daisy in the direction of town. Yunho falls in beside you without a word, the easy rhythm you’ve found these past weeks making conversation unnecessary.
The two of you ride on until dusk, when the lights of the town start to flicker into view like little stars on the horizon. You find a sheltered hollow a mile or so out. It’s got good grass, a row of trees to break the wind, and a creek that hasn’t frozen over yet. No property markers, no claims staked. It’ll do.
You make up a small camp. You set up your bedroll first, close to the fire since everyone knows your secret now. Yunho rolls his out just beside yours, far closer than previous nights. You eat leftover jerky and some dried biscuits in silence, passing the last of the whiskey back and forth until the bottle’s empty.
The air is frigid, temperatures dropping fast once the sun dips for the night. When it’s time to turn in, you hesitate, glancing between the fire and the two bedrolls. Yunho lifts the edge of his quilt without comment.
With a smile, you slide in between his legs with your back to his chest. You can feel his body heat immediately. You lie against his torso, propped up against the great big tree behind you.
“Now, exactly how long have you been waitin' to cuddle up to me?” you tease, though your heart’s pounding.
“I’m just being practical,” he corrects. “There's no sense in freezing when we can share warmth.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest onto your back. For a while you just rest there, listening to the fire crackle and the wind gush through the trees. Then his hand finds yours under the quilt, fingers tracing the calluses and marks on your hand. He freezes on one, a jagged scar cutting right across your fingers. You feel sick for a moment, wondering if it disgusts him. Then, he hums quietly.
“What?” you ask.
“Rope burn?” he asks, fingertip gliding over the scar.
You fish out your hand from under the covers and turn it over so the firelight catches the pale pink line that runs across the base of your fingers. It’s an old wound, thick and permanent from years of lassos slipping at the wrong moment.
“I was twelve,” you say. “I still didn’t really know what I was doin’. I went after a huge chestnut mustang. That catch was too big for how small I was. He bolted, rope slipped. Damn near took my thumb off.”
His hand slides up next to yours, pinkies touching. You laugh. Same scar, same place, on his own hand. They’re identical, aside from finger length. You both stare for a long second.
“Well,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be, “I guess that settles it, then.”
He raises his eyebrows and leans over your shoulder. You turn sideways to meet his gaze.
“Settles what?” he asks.
“Same scar, means we were meant to throw ropes together,” you explain, a grin tugging at your lips. “Or maybe just meant to be together, period.”
His answering smile is slow and warm. He laces his fingers through yours, scar touching scar.
“I believe that. Easy. But I didn’t need a scar to tell me.”
Your heart swells. You sink down into the quilt, nuzzling back against his chest. His arms snake around your waist, holding you firmly against him. The two of you just sit there. Listening. The wind howls like a restless spirit outside your little camp. Yunho’s body is a furnace against your back, his arms heavy across your stomach. You can feel every breath he takes, slow and steady. You shift your hips, just a little, without even really meaning to. He goes rigid behind you.
“If you keep moving like that…” he murmurs, breath hot against the shell of your ear, “you might get me into trouble, cowgirl.”
A shiver snakes down your spine that is definitively not from the cold. You spin in his grasp and turn onto your knees so you can look at him. You place one hand on each of his thighs, feeling his muscles shift under your touch. You’re face-to-face now, noses brushing. His eyes are black in the firelight, pupils blown wide.
“Well, lucky for you, I am trouble,” you whisper.
He moves immediately. His hand attaches to your jaw, tugging you forward. With long, slender fingers stretching across your face, he brushes his nose against yours. You inhale sharply. Your eyes flutter closed. Heart pounding in your chest, you wait. His lips ghost against yours softly. Then, pressure follows.
He kisses you sweetly at first, just lips melding together. But you want more. You need more. Your hands slide up his thighs, onto his chest, and then into the soft hair at the nape of his neck under his cowboy hat. His head turns to the side so he can reach you deeper. He gets hungrier, hotter, teeth scraping your bottom lip before his tongue slides into your mouth. You kiss him back hard. Your gut is swimming, churning as pressure builds lower and lower.
He rolls you onto your back in one smooth motion. Desperate for some friction, you open your legs. He settles between your thighs. Your fingers bump against the brim of his hat, tugging at the roots of his hair until he groans into your mouth.
Cold air nips at your exposed skin when his fingers lift the hem of your shirt. But the warmth of his palms on your body heats you right back up. He works open the buttons on your shirt, one at a time.
He kisses the corner of your mouth and then down onto your neck. These are open-mouthed, sloppy kisses. You turn your head to give him your neck freely. He licks over your pulse point, drawing a soft moan from your lips. You arch into his touch and gasp when his tongue finds the tender meat of your shoulder. He bites down hard, sucking at your skin.
It’ll be a bruise in the morning, you already know it. You don’t care. You want it. You want every mark he plans to leave on you.
“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” he growls against your throat, teeth grazing the corner of your jaw. “Thinking about you. Just like this.”
You laugh, breathlessly, and reach for his shirt.
“Then stop talkin’ and start doin’, cowboy.”
He pulls back just far enough to grin, wicked and beautiful. You bite your lip and yank at a button on his shirt. He sits back on his knees and finishes the job for you. You sigh, reaching up to run your hands down his bare torso. His skin is blazing hot. You spread your fingers greedily, smoothing over his perfect honeyed skin.
Shamelessly, you let your fingertip hook onto the belt of his pants, dipping just below the waistband. He inhales sharply, one hand enclosing over yours. Your eyes flick up. You giggle coquettishly when he shakes his head. Despite his restraint, his eyes darken.
He leans back down, gaze never leaving yours, and finishes what he started with your shirt. You slide your arms from the sleeves. The cold air raises goosebumps all over. You feel exposed in a way you never have before. But it’s not a bad feeling. It’s nice.
Yunho’s fingers find the piece of tucked linen securing the binding on your chest. He pauses, thumb brushing against the worn cloth. His eyes find yours.
“Can I take this off?” he asks. “Is that alright?”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I’ve been wearin’ it for years. It’ll be nice to breathe free.”
He smiles softly and starts unwinding the long strips. He does it with care. Each layer he pulls loose reveals another piece of your skin. The last of the binding falls away. Your breasts ache slightly, happy to be freed from confinement. The cold breeze makes your nipples tighten almost instantly. Yunho’s breath hitches. He studies you, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body. His fingertip lightly traces along the indentations on your sides from the tightly-wrapped fabric.
“Does it hurt?” he questions.
“Sometimes. But it ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”
He bends over, softly pressing kisses to some of the grooves in your skin. When he comes up back, you shift nervously under his stare. You reach for your hair to have something to cover you only to realize that it’s still braided down your back. As if reading your mind, he reaches up with one hand and tugs the leather strap free. He threads his fingers through the strands, patiently loosening the plait until your hair spills wild across your shoulders. He grins sweetly.
“Better,” he whispers. “Just you now. As you are.”
You coo, breath taken away, and shrink under his soft gaze. His knuckle finds the underside of your chin. He tilts your face up, kissing you deeply. As his lips move on yours, you forget your worries. Your arms wind around his neck. One of his hands slides onto your back, the other bracing himself on the bedroll. He kisses you a few more times before pulling back. You open your eyes to see him grinning playfully.
“What?” you ask. “I don’t like that face you’re makin’.”
He just bites his lips and pushes himself to a stand. You watch, heartbeat pulsing in your head, as Yunho disappears behind his horse. When he comes back into view, he has a coil of extra rope wound around his hand. Your pulse spikes. You quirk an eyebrow.
“And what on earth is that for?” you ask.
He smirks. Standing above you, he looks like a giant. He's so damn tall…
“Hands above your head,” he says, gentle but commanding.
You hesitate for a moment, eyeing him up and down. But, then, you obey and cross your wrists above your head. The rope is slightly rough against your wrists as he secures it, but he ties it double-looped so there’s not very much room for chafing. He winds the rest of it around the tree above your head. You gasp when he yanks it tight. With your mouth agape, you gawk at him. He shrugs and chuckles breathlessly.
“Sorry. Gotta make sure it’s tight.”
You scoff, but your whole body is swimming with adrenaline. You’ve spent the night with a man once or twice before. But never like this. You’ve heard of things like this from the show girls at the saloons you duck in and out of when you come across towns. You didn't realize people actually do it.
You tug once on the rope, testing it. It holds. A thrill pulses between your legs. You can feel your core swelling, prepping for what it hopes is to come.
When he’s finished, he sits on his heels in front of you and stares. Absolutely no shame in his demeanor, whatsoever. You feel suddenly embarrassed—breasts bare, trousers pushed down to your hips, wrists bound. He whistles, low and slow.
“Pretty as a picture,” he murmurs.
He pulls your old faded red bandana from his pocket and folds it slowly. Holding it up in front of your eyes, he gives you an idea of what his plans are. You laugh but close your eyes and lift your head. He ties it snugly over your face. Darkness swallows everything but the sound of his breathing and the crackle of the fire.
“This okay?”
“Mhm.”
Then his hands are on you again, slow and deliberate. His touch trails down your sternum, circling one nipple and then the other. Your lips part, back arching into the sensation. His mouth follows soon after, hot and wet, sucking marks into the soft skin of your breasts. His other hand slips lower to unfasten your trousers. You cooperate the best you can as he slides them from your legs. While the rest of your clothes are men’s, you still wear women’s drawers underneath your trousers. Your hips shift up unintentionally when his hand smooths over your aching heat.
“Oh, hell…” he mumbles. “You’re drenched through, baby. I've barely touched you. How are you already so wet? You want me that bad, huh?”
You snort.
“Don't flatter yourself too much, cowboy," you quip. "I don’t get a lotta attention down there. On account of me pretendin’ to be a man and all.”
He snickers and slides two fingers under the waistband of your drawers. He lifts your hips so he can slide them off, leaving you completely bare before him. Part of you is terrified, but the other half is desperate to see his expression. You shiver when his hands brush along the insides of your thighs and push your legs further apart.
He drags a single finger along your folds, and you gasp at the surprise. He groans low in his throat—a raw, hungry sound that lights you up. The same finger slips back down, circling once on your clit before it dips into you. He removes it and reinserts, curling upward just right against that spot. Your hips buck up involuntarily. Your mouth falls open.
The next time he slides in, he’s added a finger. He slowly pulses in and out of you. His thumb is positioned perfectly so that it knocks against your swollen clit whenever he drives into you. The world narrows around you. Every nerve is on high alert, senses amplified because of the blindfold. You swear you can almost feel the callouses on his fingers as they pump in and out of you, over and over.
He learns you quickly, figures out what your body responds to.
You moan, shuddering when you feel the coldness of his spit on your heat. The slick between your thighs starts to drip down your legs. You clench greedily around him as he adds a third finger. He stretches you open, gently at first, and then deeper, harder.
Your thighs start to tremble. Heat builds low in your stomach, coming in waves. His thumb finds your clit again, swollen and aching. He circles it carefully. Moans spill from your lips, and your back arches. Pulling against the rope, your hands beg to be freed. All you can focus on is the aching sensation intensifying in your lower gut and the obscene gushing sound proving just how soaked you are.
He slows when you're nearing the edge, fingers stilling inside you. You whine and whimper in protest. The desperation in your tone surprises even you. The denial is torture. Every muscle in your body is like a coiled spring just waiting to burst. You feel him shift above you, the heat of his body fading just enough to make you strain against the bonds, as if you could reach for him.
“Not yet,” he says sternly.
You gasp when you feel his breath ghosting over your folds. Then, the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. The first lick rips a broken moan from you. The second one has your thighs trying to clamp around his head. But his big hands pin them wide open. He groans into you like a starving man, the vibration making you jerk against the binds.
“Yunho…” you whine.
He doesn’t answer. He devours you. Long, filthy stripes of his tongue, and then tight circles around your clit until your hips are bucking helplessly. He sucks the swollen bud between his lips. You feel the coil in your belly snap back into place, twice as tight as before. Two fingers slide back inside you, curling hard. His mouth never stops. The sounds that escape your mouth seem vulgar in the otherwise calm night. You moan his name again, and he goes harder. You shatter, tugging so hard on the rope your wrists burn. He doesn’t stop, licking you through every pulse until you’re shaking.
Obviously satisfied, he pulls away. One gentle kiss to your sternum in between your breasts. Then, his hands are at your wrists, untying the rope. The bandana comes off last. You blink against the light. His shadow comes into view. His face is red, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, mouth swollen and glistening with your slick.
You don’t even hesitate. The second your hands are free you shove at his chest. He lets you, surprised laughter rumbling out of him as he topples onto his back on the quilts. You’re on top of him before he can catch his breath. With desperate fingers, you pull the belt away, trousers and drawers down. He reaches for his cowboy hat, but you catch his wrist.
“No. Leave it on,” you say, the need so painfully obvious in your tone.
He chuckles quietly but obeys. He lays back with his head propped against the rolled up blanket serving as his pillow. He seems calm, probably not expecting you to get to work right away.
You relish in his shock when you drag your still-dripping core along the long, hard length of him. He hisses, hands flying to your waist. His head falls back, throat exposed, that gorgeous neck stretched, veins and all.
With your bottom lip between your teeth, you sink down in one slow, greedy slide. The stretch is perfect, just a little more than his fingers. You both moan loud, almost noisy enough to spook your horses. You brace your palms on his chest and slowly tip your hips back. Bring them forward, then push back.
His hands are everywhere—sliding up your sides, slipping over your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, then lower again to grip your waist. He guides you without forcing you. You roll your hips slow at first, savoring the drag, the way his cock hits so deep every time you sink back down. His eyes are locked where you’re joined, lips parted, breath hitching every time you clench around him. Your eyes squeeze shut to savor the sensations.
“You ride it like a champ,” he says, laughing. “You okay?”
He reaches up, tucking a strand of fallen hair from your cheek. The tenderness feels so out of place considering the position you’re both in. You nod, leaning forward. He surges up to meet you. His mouth latches onto yours.
Now your knees are splayed on either side of his hips, him sitting between your thighs. You grind down harder. Your tongues tangle, and he slips a hand between you. He finds your clit again. Your fingernails dig into him, one on his shoulder, the other on his neck. Something hits so perfectly that you whimper, and your lips slip from his. Wincing, you brace yourself to keep going. His grip on your hips forces you to slow.
“Come on, cowgirl,” he pants against your mouth. “One more for me. I wanna feel it this time. But I want you to tell me your name first. Your real one.”
You falter for a second, surprised by the request. Leaning back slightly, you catch his gaze. He looks fucked out already. But something in those soft eyes... He wants to know you. Completely. You press your mouth next to his ear, whispering the name you hadn't spoken in almost fifteen years.
He gets right back to work. One of his hands slides up your spine, holding you up. The other rests on your thigh to keep you in place. You feel him start to push up inside you with his own weight.
That’s all it takes.
You slam down once, twice, and then the second orgasm blindsides you. And shit, is it so much better than the first. You clench hard around his cock. Burying your face into his shoulder, you hold on for life as the waves crest over you again and again. He follows right after, hips jerking up, spilling hot inside you with your name broken on his tongue.
You ride it out together and then just sit, intertwined. He wraps his arms around your torso, holding on tightly. He presses lazy kisses to your neck, shoulder, anywhere he can reach. You keep your eyes closed to savor the embrace.
Eventually, he tips you sideways, pulling the quilt up and over your bodies. He moves to slide out, but you stop him.
“You can stay. I don’t mind,” you say quietly, eyes still closed.
He chuckles softly, kisses your forehead, and pulls you into his chest. Before you slip under, you think you catch him whispering your name, quiet as a mouse.
Morning comes in pastel streaks of light. The wind is bitter. You wake first, pulling the covers up to your chin. You don’t want to leave your lover’s embrace. Ever again. So you keep still, entangled in his arms.
When Yunho eventually stirs behind you, you both agree it’s time to get up and at least rebuild the fire. As he puts the coffee on, you stifle a giggle. His skin, and you imagine yours, too, bears the evidence of your night together. Faint red lines spread across his neck where your nails scratched him. A bruise is blooming on his shoulder from where your mouth lingered.
“What?” he asks.
He looks at you over his shoulder like a deer in headlights. Fuck, he’s gorgeous this morning. You just bite your lip and shake your head.
“Oh, nothin’.”
You eat some of the leftover jerky for breakfast, have your coffee, and wait for Colton and Ross to find the smoke from your campfire. You’d stoked it with pine needles to give it a bluish tint so the ropers would know where to find you.
They finally arrive around midday.
The second Colton’s eyes land on you, you realize he knows. You haven’t looked at your reflection today, but you imagine you look something like a wild animal—hair wild, lips swollen, hickeys all over your neck. His eyebrows nearly jump into his hat. He cackles sharply, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Well, hell,” he says, dismounting. “Looks like the two of y’all had a real productive scoutin’ trip.”
You glance at Yunho whose face is redder than a strawberry. He shrugs sheepishly, eyes flicking to you.
“Productive ain’t the word I’d use,” Ross snorts. Then, he eyes the rumpled bedrolls laid suspiciously close together.
“What?” Yunho responds, throwing his hands up at his partner. “It was real cold last night. We had to do something to stay warm.”
Heat creeps up your neck, but you lift your chin and smirk.
“What’s the matter, Colton? Jealous I ain’t ever made a move on you all these years.”
“Ha! Kid, I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper and twice as mean. I wouldn’t never take you on.”
You tip your hat to him, grinning wide. You swing up onto Daisy.
“We got work to do, huh?" you say. "Let’s get that bonus cash, boys.”
Without another word, you kick Daisy forward with Yunho at your heels. You leave Colton and Ross in the dust. The town glimmers in the distance, the herd’s almost complete, and winter’s closing in fast.
But for the first time in your life, the wide-open plains don’t feel quite so lonely.
EPILOGUE
The sun hangs low over the dusty street. It’s been three years since that beautiful ride with the Dakota boys. You’d wound up with almost 800 horses by the deadline. You’d never experienced a payday so wonderful in your life. Not to mention all the bonuses that were awarded for the quality studs you’d passed on.
Fortunately, you’d also found a stud to keep all to yourself.
Word spread fast about the pair of you: a steady-handed cowboy and a mysterious expert roper. In three years’ time, you’ve established yourselves as quite the coveted service. With all that extra money you earned, you offered to buy Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company. Old man Hargrove couldn’t wait to hand it off. You knew he’d been wanting to retire for years. At seventy years old, he'd earned it, after all.
Nowadays, contracts pile up on the wooden desk like dust: ranchers needing hands for a drive, rodeos recruiting retirees or young folk with special talents, wealthy businessmen looking for escorts through rough territory. Letters and telegrams from all over the country trickle in, more and more every day.
Actually, you've had to become very picky. With so much business flooding in, it’s hard sometimes to find the time to personally take on contracts. But, you suppose, that’s part of the benefit of owning the company—you get to hog all the fun requests to yourself.
You lean back in your chair, boots propped on the table as you sort through the latest stack. Yunho sits across from you. You watch him for a moment, studying the way his back muscles shift as he cleans his rifle. His eyes dart back and forth between the gun in his lap and the contracts lying open in front of him.
“Look at this one,” you say, waving a crumpled letter. “Some guy in Texas wants us to round up a herd of wild mustangs. Says they’ll pay triple if we bring ‘em in broken, too. He says, quote, ‘nobody else seems to be able to handle the wild ones like y’all do.'”
Yunho glances up, dark eyes sparkling in the lantern light. He sets down the rifle and takes the paper from you. He reads it over, eyebrows knitting in concentration.
“Hm…tempting,” he replies. “But this one’s better.”
He slides a pristine telegram across the table. This one is from a wealthy cattle baron in the Dakotas.
"Wide open land, prime grazing territory,” Yunho explains as you read. “Says he needs experienced hands to lead the drive north before winter hits. Room for two at the front, and a bonus if we get there ahead of schedule."
It’s solid work, honest and easy. It feels similar to the job that brought you together in the first place. Unlike some of the other offers that are flashy, full of risks and lots of reward at the end, this one feels steady. It would be slow and full of open plain. That big, bright blue sky that you love so dearly. Besides, you’d always wanted to see the Dakotas.
"Alright, I like it," you agree, folding the telegram neatly. "To the Dakotas, it is. I’ve always wondered what it’s like up there.”
“I can guarantee there will be many nights perfect for stargazing," he replies with a sweet smile.
You stand and stretch out the kinks from a day spent cramped in the office. Yunho follows you outside, locking up behind him. Your horses wait patiently for you at the post. Both of you reach for your hats at the same time.
As you press it onto the top of your head, you smile. The horsehair tassel brushes against your finger. You each have one. Yours is braided with a strand of hair from his horse and one from his head; his is the same but with locks from your hair and Daisy’s mane. You created them as a quiet promise that wherever the trail leads, you’ll ride it together.
You reach for the reins, but his fingers clamp onto your arm. You glance at him. He steps closer, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb traces your jaw. With a grin, you lean in to meet him halfway. He kisses you slowly, softly, familiarly. He tastes of coffee. You inhale it greedily. His free hand settles on your waist, pulling you flush against him. When you break apart, your foreheads stay pressed together.
“Best thing I ever did was ride with you,” he murmurs against your lips.
You can’t help the wicked grin that spreads across your face. Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, you giggle.
“Best thing I ever did was ride you.”
By the time he catches up to what you’ve said, you’re already climbing onto Daisy’s back. He laughs, deep and genuine. You join in. Nothing's better than teasing your big puppy dog. You nudge Daisy’s sides to urge her forward. She takes off into a sprint, stirring up a cloud of dust behind her. You don’t look back for Yunho; you don’t need to. You know he’s right on your tail, just like always.
The trail stretches ahead of you, endless and exciting and full of whatever comes next. Fresh experiences, new joys, more nights tangled together under the stars.
And damn if this isn’t the best ride of your life.
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