#[through gritted teeth and tears] IF THE IS GRIEF THERE WAS LOVE IF THERE IS GRIEF THERE WAS LOVE IF-- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yanderedrabbles · 4 months ago

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Christine - A Yandere Short Story

Based on Christine by Stephen King After your boyfriend's death, you're eager to sell his vintage Mustang. The car reminds you far too much of him and worse than that, it feels oddly alive. The only problem? Your dead boyfriend isn't ready to let go. Tags: Male Yanderes x Fem Reader, Horror, Character Death, 12k words Taglist: @mel-vaz

When your boyfriend died, you and Christine were the only witnesses.

All through his funeral, you kept thinking of ways to get rid of her. You were being paranoid and you knew it - she couldn't speak even if she wanted to. But having her around put you on edge, made you grit your teeth until your jaw ached.

After the wake, you approached your boyfriend's parents and asked if you could have her. They were pale and shaken, reeling from the suddeness of death just as much as from grief. His father nodded like a sleep walker, his voice older than his years.

"He would have wanted you to have her. She's yours."

His mother squeezed your shoulder. "I can't imagine what you're going through, dear. Whatever his faults, my boy loved you. I know that."

You managed a smile, managed to thank them through the tears that were suddenly falling. But your mind was on Christine. Always on Christine.

You were the last to leave the funeral parlour. You tried to tell yourself it was a coincidence, but deep down you knew the truth. You were scared. Scared of Christine, scared of your too quiet townhouse, scared of the dreams that would come when you closed your eyes.

It was early evening and the streetlights were coming on in the narrow tree lined avenue outside the funeral parlour. When you stepped out, goosebumps crawled across your arms.

She was waiting for you.

Christine. Your boyfriend's 1969 Mustang, cherry red and entirely rebuilt.

She was directly under a streetlight and her paint gleamed. The light reflected off her windshield so you couldn't see inside, but for a second it seemed like someone was already sitting behind the wheel.

You squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, the shadow driver was gone.

Christine. For most of your relationship, you loved her just as much as your boyfriend did. She was a labour of love and you felt it every time you sat in her passenger seat.

But things were different now.

You walked towards her cautiously. It was ridiculous to be scared of a car, but you were.

When you opened the driver side door, you almost expected to see your boyfriend. Despite the funeral, the wake, the late morning call to please come and identify a body down at the morgue, you still expected to see him. Light green eyes looking up at you, half smile that was half teasing and half lecherous.

The seats were empty.

You slid behind the wheel, your breathing shaky. You almost never drove Christine. Not that your boyfriend didn't offer. It was just that you liked riding passenger - liked looking over and seeing your man with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, liked seeing the muscles flex in his forearm when he steered.

The car still smelled like him. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite being impounded for a week while the cops did forensics, despite the valet scrubbing and steaming the seats to get the blood out, it still smelled like him.

You rested your head against the steering wheel, closed your eyes and sobbed for the first time since the night you killed your boyfriend.

When you put Christine up for sale, the calls started coming in almost immediately. It wasn't surprising - she was in incredible shape, she ran like a dream, and her white leather upholstery was original.

At first, you thought you'd be able to sell her before the month was up. The buyers would look under the hood and whistle in admiration.

But something always changed when they took her for a test drive. You couldn't understand it - she would drive perfectly but by the time you got home, the buyers were almost always frowning at you, or worse - not looking at you at all.

No matter how fanatic they were at first, no one wanted Christine.

You dropped the price and then dropped it again, but still no takers. The car spent all winter in the garage. You'd turn her on to idle every few days, clean off any dust and check that the mice weren't nibbling at the wiring, but you never stuck around for long.

It hurt to leave her locked away - your boyfriend poured so much of himself into her - but it hurt even worse to drive her. Whenever you were behind the wheel, you could feel the gaping emptiness of the passenger seat, could still see the bloodstains.

It was on the first warm day of spring when someone finally bought her.

Colt Guilder called you when you were just about ready to give up on selling her. You were literally about to take down the ad when your phone rang. The voice on the other end was deep, with a slight southern drawl that immediately reminded you of your boyfriend.

"Can I come and take a look today? I wouldn't want to impose ma'am, but I'm in a hurry to see her before anyone else gets a chance to buy her."

Her. Even the older buyers didn't really call cars 'her' anymore.

"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."

You were sitting on the porch steps when he pulled up, a jug of iced tea and your novel abandoned next to you. He stepped out of his Jeep, a tall man in blue jeans and boots, and you felt your heart lurch. Something deep inside you told you that this was the man who would finally take her off your hands.

He smiled at you as he approached and for a second you wanted to warn him away. Wanted to tell him the truth about Christine.

"Howdy ma'am. I'm real happy you agreed to meet me so last minute."

You smiled at him and shook his hand and bit back the truth. Oh, how you would come to hate that decision.

When he pulled up, Colt wasn't expecting the Mustang's owner to be a pretty little thing in a sundress. He was a gentleman, his mama raised him right, but even he had trouble keeping his eyes on your face and not letting them wander lower.

His hand swallowed yours when he shook it and it was hard not to notice the softness of your skin. Whoever rebuilt the Mustang, it wasn't you. You had the hands of a lady, not a mechanic.

"The car is out back. Keys are waiting for you. She's been serviced pretty regularly and my... my boyfriend built her up himself."

You started for the garage and he fell into step behind you. You were so much shorter than him - it was kind of cute to see your head bobbing in front of him. Like a pixie in a sundress.

"How come your man ain't the one to sell it?"

He wasn't surprised you had a boyfriend. Hell, he'd have tried his luck if he could. No doubt other men had the same idea.

"He... he passed away a few moths ago."

He cringed. Nice going, Colt. Bringing up painful memories only three sentences into conversation. Must be a world record.

"I'm so sorry ma'am. I had no idea."

You shrugged. "It's fine."

He was about to say something else when Christine came into view. Her grille was a newly buffed silver and her deep red paint caught the spring sun.

He gave a low whistle. "Pictures don't do her justice."

You smiled at that, but edged out of the car's direct line of sight. Neither of you consciously noticed it, but you approached the car like you would an animal. Slightly from the side so it couldn't charge at you.

"Mind if I take a look under the hood?"

"Be my guest."

He popped the hood and let out another low whistle. Without even looking past the surface level stuff, it was clear your boyfriend knew how to build an engine. The Mustang looked almost new.

"How long did this take?"

You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.

"A long time. He bought her a few months after we started dating. She was gonna be scrapped - looked like a total rust bucket."

He raised his eyebrows. If that was true, the body restoration alone must have cost a fortune. Did you realise how valuable a vintage ride like this was worth?

"Y'know, just from looking under the hood, I can tell you could get at least three times as much as you're asking."

If his uncle heard him sabotaging himself like that, he'd have given Colt a whack on the head. Truth was, he wanted the car. Wanted her so bad he would have taken out three separate loans to afford her.

But he wasn't a monster. It wasn't fair to buy something so fine from a girl who might not understand its true worth.

You raised your brows, more surprised at his honesty than at his statement.

"I know she's worth more. But I'm in a hurry to get rid of her. And well..."

You looked away. "People find the car a bit strange."

It was his turn to be surprised. He couldn't see any red flags in her upkeep or her paintwork. Maybe it was a deeper issue.

You pushed yourself away from the wall and nodded at the door.

"Keys are waiting for you. Take her for a drive and decide for yourself."

The interior was just as well taken care of as he expected - a tough job when the upholstery was mostly white. The keys had a tag attached with a name engraved in metal.

"Christine?"

"It's what we call her. It was a joke at first but the name sort of stuck."

You slid into the passenger seat and tugged your seat belt across your chest. He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and -

'Silly thing, doesn't she know better than to get into a car with a stranger twice her size?'

He shook his head, like that could dislodge the idea. He wasn't that sort of man, wasn't some kind predator with a mind full of filth.

'It would be so easy. You're so much bigger than her, so much stronger. You want her. Why not just take what you want?'

Where the hell was this coming from? He might have a guilty thought every once in a while, but he was always quick to squash it down. It wasn't like him to think something so...forceful about a girl.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. And it really was a roar. V8 engine growling so loud he could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.

Oh baby, he was sold on her right then and there. The devil himself couldn't have outbid him. What little boy didn't dream of a car like this? Didn't spend his childhood looking through magazines and brawling over matchbox versions?

The clutch was smooth as butter as he cruised down your driveway and turned onto the main road.

God, he wanted to gun it. Floor the gas and find out for himself just how powerful old school muscle was.

He looked over at you, about to ask if you knew exactly what your boyfriend did to the engine. You were looking out at the passing trees, your hair stirring in the slight breeze from his open window.

'She looks like she belongs here, with you.'

It was another foreign thought, something he wouldn't expect of himself. But it was true. The Mustang would have felt empty without you - in your sundress and white sneakers, you completed the picture. Your boyfriend must have rebuilt the car just for you, as a way to keep you next to him. Colt wasn't sure why he thought that, but somehow he knew it was true. Whoever your man was, he put so much of himself into this car that Colt almost felt like he was right next to the guy.

You turned to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

"What do you think?"

"She runs sweet as apple pie."

You felt your heart stutter. Your boyfriend used to say the exact same thing.

"You alright there sweetheart? You look a little pale."

"Sorry. Just a little car sick."

Car sick was right - you were sick to hell of this damn car and the way it played with your emotions.

"C'mon, I know a diner just off the highway. We can stop for some fresh air and a bite to eat. You'll feel better in no time."

You didn't have time to protest before he switched lanes and turned onto the highway.

The diner he took you to really was just off the highway, a retro looking spot railed off from a steep cliff.

"How did you know about this place?"

He shrugged. "I must have heard about it from someone."

Strange. Colt didn't think he'd ever seen the place before, much less heard about it. But when you looked at him with that slight hint of panic, that sudden fear, somehow he knew this was the place to bring you.

He climbed out and opened your door for you before you had a chance to do it yourself.

"You know this place?" he asked.

If anything, you looked even paler than before. "Yeah. My boyfriend and I used to come up here pretty often."

He frowned, annoyed at himself for somehow making this even worse. "We can go somewhere else if you want."

"No!" You took a deep breath. "No, this is fine. I just need a moment away from the car, that's all."

He led you to a picnic table near the edge of the cliff. Far below you, the main road clung to the cliffside and disappeared into the trees.

"You just sit pretty and I'll grab us some chow."

You smiled up at him. "Thanks Colt. Really. I know this is probably eating into your day."

He waved it away. "Trust me, this is a much better way to spend the weekend than what I had planned."

It was true. He'd wanted to see the car and somehow that turned into lunch with a pretty girl at a table with one hell of a view. Maybe Christine had some good luck about her. Maybe all of this was just meant to be.

When he stepped into the diner, he was greeted by jukebox country music and the smell of good, strong coffee. He didn't bother to look at the menu. Somehow, he knew exactly what to order.

"I'll have a banana spilt, some fries and a toasted sandwich." He smiled at the elderly waitress. "Please and thank you Agnes."

"Sure thing sugar."

He frowned. How the hell did he know the waitress's name?

Must have seen her name tag, right? That made sense. Must have been a half second, subconscious glance.

When she handed him his change, he dropped his eyes to her lapel. No name tag. No label. Not even a necklace with her initials on it.

It was a warm spring day but he still shivered. Something strange was going on.

No, don't be ridiculous. Agnes was a common name, a vintage diner kind of name. That was probably why he said it. His mind must have just made a lucky guess. There's no way he could know her name when he didn't even know about the diner until he pulled up.

Unless... it wasn't him that knew her name. Maybe it was someone else, something else speaking through him.

"C'mon Colt, don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself.

"You say something sugar?"

He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching. Just the waitress, just Agnes, looking at him with raised brows.

"No ma'am. Just thinking out loud."

"Alrighty then. Here's your order. Be careful not to spill the chocolate sauce. It's hell to clean up."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Have a good day."

He was stupidly happy to step out of the restaurant. The place must have been getting to him. Why else was he suddenly so superstitious?

"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.

He grinned at you. "Just dandy sweetheart. I got you a banana split and some French fries."

"Oh! That's perfect, thank you."

See? Nothing strange at all. He had a sweet ride and a sweeter girl waiting for him. Why worry about some weird diner?

He sat down across from you and unwrapped his sandwich. Behind you, Christine looked at him with a shining chrome smile.

"Listen, you can get a whole lot more for a car that fine. But if you're willing to let her go for the price in the ad, I'll buy her today," he said.

You froze, a fry halfway to your mouth. He really wanted her? He wasn't coming up with some lame excuse or hurrying off with a mumbled apology?

"Done," you said, a bit too quickly.

You were finally getting rid of Christine. No more nightmares, no more tip toeing around the garage like you were scared she might notice you, no more unwanted memories every time you laid eyes on her.

You were burying your past like it should have been buried on the day of your boyfriend's funeral.

He offered you his hand and you shook it, a genuine smile on your face.

"She's all yours." And thank God for that.

Colt drove you home and followed you into the house to collect the car registration papers.

You frowned at your empty desk drawer. You could have sworn you left the documents right here...

You popped your head into the living room where Colt was waiting.

"Give me a second. I think I left them upstairs."

"Sure. I'm in no hurry."

He wandered around your living room while you were gone, too keyed up to sit still. It was a neat, modern room with art on the walls. The big bay windows opened onto the front yard and the driveway where Christine sat waiting for him.

Part of him still couldn't believe it. She really was his dream car. The sort of ride all his work buddies would be green with envy over.

He leaned against the windowsil and then quickly looked down when his hand brushed something metallic.

Picture frames, the small kind that usually sat on a desk. He picked one up, the frame cool against his skin. It was a picture of you and someone he guessed to be your boyfriend. Both of you were in formal wear - you in a deep red evening gown and him in a tailored tux. Christine was parked in the background, her red a compliment to your dress.

Your boyfriend was handsome in a rough cut sort of way, his hair swept back and a tattoo just peeking out of his shirt. He was looking directly at the camera while you looked up at him, his arm curled tightly around your waist.

Colt frowned. There was something about the man's expression... a kind of possessive meanness. He seemed the type of guy to start a fight and then finish it no matter what, a real tough customer.

And the way he held you... some might call it loving but Colt found it more proprietary than anything else.

'Mine. My girl, no matter what. Try and take her from me and I'll show you a world of hurt.'

Colt put the picture down with a frown and scanned the others. Out hiking on the mountains, at the beach, holding a huge bouquet while he kissed you. A perfect couple except... except for the way he looked at you. Sweet, yes. But somehow dangerous, in the way rattlesnakes and cougars were. Fine if they weren't disturbed, but tread on their territory and there'd be hell to pay.

He moved away when he heard you coming down the stairs. You were a little flushed, a little out of breath, but you grinned at him and waved a stack of papers.

"Finally found them! Just need to sign the change of ownership forms and she's all yours."

He watched you as you searched for a pen, your sundress swishing 'round your thighs. He didn't like your boyfriend - dead or not, he seemed like one mean bastard - but seeing you so happy, so flushed with life and hope and joy, Colt found he could almost understand the other man. If you were his girl, he'd hold you just as tight.

You finally found a pen and he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Well, seems like you're the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang. Congratulations."

He carefully took the papers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "Real good doing business with you sweetheart."

You lead him out to the car, going through the list of things he'd need to do to properly register the car as his. Real cute of you, to think he didn't know it all already.

He slid into the driver's seat and when he touched the wheel, he felt that same sense of power. And under it, a strange feeling of being not quiet alone in the car.

You stood outside his window, running through a catalogue of spares and repairs that he might want to check out. If he had to guess, you seemed nervous.

He leaned back and smiled at you. "It's alright y/n. I ain't changing my mind. Deals done, remember?"

It was the first time using your name and it sent a small bolt of electricity jolting through him.

'Her name is mighty sweet, ain't it? Meant to be said oh so softly, meant to be savoured.'

You looked at him like you felt it too, your cheeks just a little warmer than before.

Oh Lord, what sort of bastard was he? Feeling this way about you when your boyfriend was in the ground for scarcely half a year? You were probably still mourning, still nursing your broken heart. He should be a gentleman and leave you alone, shouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability. He should be a good man.

'You'd be an idiot to let her go.'

The thought streaked through his mind. It almost didn't feel like his own idea. Wherever the thought came from, it wasn't wrong. He really would be an idiot to not ask you out when he had a chance. He got lucky with the car - prize piece like this would have been snatched up in a matter of hours. If he didn't ask you out, if he didn't push his luck for the second time, the same thing might happen with you.

"How 'bout I take you out to dinner later this week? As a thank you."

You looked unsure, your eyes jumping down to the car keys like you were expecting an objection.

"Please? I know Christine must mean a lot to you. I'd feel a whole lot better taking her off your hands if I could thank you properly."

You bit your lower lip and he found his eyes drawn to the sight of it. Please say yes please say-

"Yes, I think I'd like that. But no later than eight, okay?"

YES! He rubbed a palm across his jaw to hide his smile.

"I'll bring you home early, promise."

"I'll hold you to that, cowboy."

Oh god, he wanted to melt when you called him that. It was so silly - big guy like him getting butterflies over a sort-of kind-of date.

'Atta boy. You ain't gonna regret it.'

He was too distracted watching you walk away to realise the thought wasn't his own.

That night, you slept without dreaming. For the first time since your boyfriend's death, you didn't see his face when you closed your eyes.

You woke up the next morning expecting to be relieved. Christine was gone, wasn't that exactly what you wanted?

Yes, but...but what happens next? You weren't an idiot nor were you unduly superstitious, but Christine didn't feel like a normal car. Maybe that's what happens after a violent death - things change, the blood seeps through the fabric and poisons the aura, or the energy, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

You made yourself breakfast but couldn't eat more than a few bites.

Okay, try and be logical. It was probably just your guilt playing tricks on you. You loved Christine and you loved your boyfriend, so it was only natural that you'd feel terrible about selling her. That's all. Blood and death can't change the nature of an inanimate object, no matter how violent or grisly it might have been.

Right. Just your guilty conscience. No need to work yourself up.

Across town, Colt slept through his alarm. He was dreaming, a sweet little fantasy of cruising down the highway on a brilliant summer day. You were next to him, your sundress even shorter than before, smiling at him and running your hand up his thigh.

You were his girl. His and his alone. He could feel the certainty of it in every part of him. You loved him, you stood by him, you did everything you could to support him, you were his.

Christine purred through her gears and he pushed the gas a little more, eager to get home. He would show you exactly how much he appreciated you - inch by inch and kiss by kiss.

"I love you darlin'. I need you to know that," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was raspier, with an edge of meanness that not even love could soften.

You looked at him, smiling all soft and sweet. "I know. I've always known."

Colt jerked awake, smiling and shivering at the same time. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, disoriented and feeling like a stranger in his own body.

"One hell of a dream," he muttered.

'Not a dream cowboy. A memory from someone long dead.'

He ignored the thought, his mind already focused on the day ahead. He'd driven Christine home yesterday, but left his Jeep parked outside your house. He could either get one of his buddies pick it up or take a taxi over and get it himself.

Was it even a choice? He wanted to see you again. If he had to pay an ungodly amount for an Uber, he would.

Should he call you before showing up at your door? What would be a good time to see you? He didn't want to show up too late and catch you in a rush to leave.

'She'll be awake by now. But she'll only leave for work after twelve.'

How did he know that? Did you mention it yesterday?

He climbed out of bed and half stumbled to the bathroom. As the steam clouded up the mirror, he thought of his dream. And what might have happened if he'd stayed asleep longer. Maybe your hand would wander further up his thigh, and then...

He lathered up his fist and took hold of himself. He was already hard from just the thought of you. Your sundress looked so damn flimsy. He could probably yank it off you with just one hand.

He groaned, his forehead pressed against the tile. Picturing your hand dwarfed by his when you shook on the sale; how soft your skin was, how good it would feel if you touched him just like this.

'Fucking yourself like a dog at the thought of her.'

He agreed. You really were turning him into a dog.

You were sitting in your living room, trying and failing to read your novel, when he knocked on your front window. You struggled to smooth down your hair while you scrambled for the door.

"Hi Colt! Came to pick up your Jeep?"

He was wearing blue jeans again today, with a tight wife beater that showed off arms thick with muscle.

"Yes ma'am. Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."

That made you smile. How often does someone go out of their way to check up on a stranger?

"I don't think so. But I've got some fresh orange juice and donuts, if you'd like to come in."

He smiled at you and for a second his gaze dipped down past your chin. "There's nothing I'd like better."

He took up a lot of space at your kitchen table, but you found it comforting. The room felt too big without your boyfriend to fill it.

You flipped open the box of donuts and he picked out the mint chocolate one.

"Never really liked the mint ones," he told you, "But I've got an awful craving for one right now."

"Oh I never liked them much either. It was my boyfriend who was the die-hard mint fan."

He looked away from you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It must be hard for you. Losing him so suddenly."

"It was. It is. Everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, but it hasn't. Up until last night, I dreamt about him everynight."

"Dreamt of him?" he asked you suddenly, his eyes intense.

"Yep. Every single night. It was like I was reliving my memories again and again."

He looked a bit perturbed at your statement, but you put it down to him feeling awkward about the conversation. Death is never a fun or casual topic.

"So how's Christine treating you?"

"Like a dream. I was thinking of taking her down the coast next weekend. All open road and sea air." He paused, seeming to weigh something up in his mind. "Why don't you join me? The morning after I take you out to dinner. We can pack a picnic and have lunch at the cape."

"That sounds incredible." You looked down at your hands, slightly uneasy but not sure why. Your boyfriend spoke about doing that once. A mini road trip with the windows down and the sea breeze in your hair.

It's not that strange that Colt had the same idea, right? Everyone knew the coast road was a long, quiet stretch. Perfect for putting Christine to the test.

"You're gonna love it," he said. "I'll even make my world famous tiramisu."

You raised a brow. "You know how to make tiramisu?" Big guy like him didn't really seem the patisserie type. Did he have a cute apron with bows on it too?

He pointed his donut at you, blue eyes twinkling. "Not just any tiramisu. World famous."

You snorted out a laugh and for the first time in months, you kitchen felt like a happy place.

He dreamt about you again that night. Christine was parked in a dark corner on the edge of a cliffside hiking trail. He could hear waves crashing far below. It was nighttime, with the full moon outlining your face in silver and shadow.

He was in the driver's seat and you were straddling his lap. You were wearing a sweater and a cute pleated skirt that seemed oh so short with the way you leaned over him.

"You've been ignoring me," you accused him. You were pouting in an adorably petulant way. He looked at your lips - red and slightly swollen - and knew that he'd just been kissing you.

"I haven't been ignorin' you sugar. I've just been busy."

He spoke with that same raspy voice that somehow wasn't his.

"Too busy to say hello or drop by for dinner?"

You shifted in his lap and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Oh, you damn tease.

"I'm filthy and tired after work sweetheart. You wouldn't want me."

You frowned, going from slightly annoyed to full blown angry.

"I always want you, you idiot. I'm not scared of a few stains. I like it when you come home smelling like the workshop. I like it when you're dirty from work." You tugged at his collar. "I like you. Why don't you get that?"

'Because you're too good for me.' He almost said it. It was on the tip of his tongue and it was only some dull instinct that kept him quiet. How couldn't you see it? You were everything he wasn't. You were educated and kind and selfless. He was just some bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wanted to impress you. He wanted to be worthy of you. Fixing up the Mustang was just the start of it. He didn't care that it took him all summer and pretty much all of his pay cheque to do. He wanted a ride that he would be proud to pick you up in.

And it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough.

He looked away from you and stayed silent.

You sighed and brought your palms up to his cheeks, gently turned his face back to yours. "I like you. I'm dating you. I want to spend time with you, no matter how grouchy you are. Okay?"

He should be a gentleman and let you go, shouldn't take advantage of your kindness. He should be a good man.

"Okay," he said and leaned forward to kiss you.

He wasn't a good man. He wasn't a gentleman. He was going to hold onto you for as long as he could.

Colt woke up with a snarl, slamming his fist on his alarm so hard the clock face cracked.

"I didn't want it to end, goddammit."

He rubbed his hand over his face. The dream felt so real. He could feel the late fall chill, could smell your shampoo and taste your cherry lip gloss. He wanted to go right back to sleep and fall back into that wonderful fantasy.

He scowled and threw the covers off. Dreams could wait, work couldn't.

All through the day he was snappish and irritable. One of the apprentices messed up an order and he snarled at them to stop being so fucking useless and fix it. His coworkers shot each other looks behind his back. He was behaving entirely out of character but both him and his buddies were helpless to stop it. It was only when he got home at the end of his shift that he realised why.

He wanted to dream about you again.

There wasn't any guarantee that he would. Dreams weren't exactly scheduled network programming. But somehow he knew it would happen.

He ended up going to bed before eight, a world record for someone who usually only considered sleeping when it was well past midnight.

He was right. He did dream of you.

You were in a bikini this time, lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard. You had sunglasses on and there was a slight sheen of baby oil on your skin. Your phone was on shuffle and pop music was blaring from the speakers.

You weren't expecting him and he kept his steps real quiet as he approached you. He kept expecting you to hear him and shoot up, and he was slightly annoyed when you didn't. What if he was a serial killer or some sick pervert, sneaking up on you while you were so vulnerable? Did you have no spatial awareness?

He made it all the way to the back of your chair and you were still totally oblivious. There was a magazine and a glass of ice tea on a small table next to you. You were softly humming along to the music.

He took a minute to just admire you. Your body stretched out and entirely at his mercy. His girl, his gorgeous girl.

He leaned down until his lips were right next to your ear.

"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"

You shot up with a shriek, your sunglasses flying. You whirled on him, grabbing your magazine like thirty pages of glossy Cosmo was going to help you fight off an attacker.

Your eyes narrowed when you recognised him and you smacked his chest, hard.

"You asshole! You gave me a heart attack!"

He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you so riled up.

"You're lucky it was me and not someone else. Not everyone has such noble intentions."

"Yeah right. Was it your noble intention to scare the living daylights out of me?"

He held up his palms in a placating gesture. "Just teachin' you a lesson sweetheart. I was standing there for a good few minutes and you didn't notice a damn thing."

He cast a critical eye across your backyard. "I reckon some high wooden fencing would do the trick. 'Bout seven feet high, sunken flowerbeds on either side like trenches to make it even harder to get a leg up."

"I don't want a fence."

He ignored you, already mentally calculating how much lumber he'd need. "A nice light coloured wood. Pine maybe. Will match your house much better."

You sat back down, the fight draining out of you as your adrenaline dissipated. "What are you doing here? Did you get off work early?"

He narrowed his eyes but you didn't seem to notice. "Why? Don't want me around?"

That shocked you enough that you twisted around in your chair to look at him.

"Of course I want you around! Don't ever imply otherwise. This is a lovely surprise." You paused. "Near heart attack aside of course."

It was funny how easily you could calm him down. One sentence was all it took to get him smiling again. He leaned forward and hooked one finger under the strap of your bikini top.

"I haven't seen this one before. New?"

You blushed and looked down. "Mm-hmm."

"It's cute. But..."

You glanced up at him, suddenly self conscious. "But what?"

He grinned wolfishly. "But...you would look so much better without it."

He tugged at the bow holding your top up. The strings unravelled and fell down your back. The bra cups started to slip down too, and his eyes were glued to their steady fall.

He was going to teach you a whole 'nother lesson about wearing such a skimpy outfit where anyone could see you. Show you exactly what sick, twisted bastards would do to your body. Teach you a lesson you won't forget, so maybe, just maybe... you'd learn to be more cautious around men like him.

Colt woke up with a hunger like death. His cock so hard it was actually throbbing. He didn't feel well rested, despite having slept more than he had in two weeks.

It played over and over again in his mind. The strings unravelling, your bikini top sliding off... Always stopping right at the good part, the part he most wanted to see.

He got ready for the day with a savage efficiency. Bolting back his protein shake without even tasting it. He didn't realise it, but he'd started counting down the days until he could see you again. Just two more days. Two more nights of dreams and then you'd be there in the flesh and he could finally - finally what? He shook his head to clear away the dirty thoughts that were crowding him.

He was being a real bastard. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, when he had no right to. You hadn't shown any romantic or physical interest in him. You were clearly still grieving your man. He needed to get himself under control - what you needed in your life was a friend, not another man to obsess over you.

He forced himself to take a cold shower. Forced himself to avoid thinking about you. And to especially avoid thinking about the you from his dream.

'Good luck with that buddy. I used to be so tired I was falling asleep on my feet and I still couldn't get her out of my head.'

Work was thankfully busy that day and he threw himself into it with every feverish ounce of energy he had. Whenever his thoughts wandered towards you, he would find something else to do. He didn't eat anything at all and he didn't even notice getting hungry. He took on an extra shift and finished long after the sun went down, his muscles a hurting mess and his head not much better.

Christine was the last car left in the parking lot, sitting under a streetlight like she was waiting for him. He found his steps unintentionally getting slower the closer he came to her.

In the dark and lonely emptiness of the parking lot, she didn't feel like a normal car. If anything, she seemed to be watching him. Her headlights like eyes and her grille a silvery gash of a smile.

If he had to guess, he'd say the car was almost unhappy with him.

"Because I'm thinking about her?" He asked as he climbed behind the wheel. Immediately, he felt stupid and superstitious for talking out loud.

'Because you aren't thinking about her.'

He'd driven Christine to work the last few days despite not wanting to cause unnecessary wear and tear. Being in the car, driving it, was still a thrill.

Not tonight though.

He felt on edge, wanting to get out as soon as possible. She purred to life with the same thrumming power as always but his throat was tight with a nervousness he couldn't explain.

The inside of the car was suffocatingly quiet. He turned on the radio and old school rock 'n roll poured out.

'Just the sort of thing her boyfriend used to listen to,' he thought to himself. And then he laughed a stuttering, barking sort of laugh because there was no logical way he could have known that.

'Take it easy big guy. You and I are just gonna cruise. That's all.'

A nice cruise. Yeah, that sounded good. Calm his nerves, get rid of the nameless dread that was building all day. He relaxed into his seat, the streetlights crawling past in a hypnotic line of bright and dark.

He didn't notice when the radio dial moved on its own and the station changed from rock 'n roll to country. The singer sounded awfully familiar. His voice a kind of husky rasp. He was singing about his girl, his pretty woman, and he was singing about the grave and he was singing about the dark that waited.

'Oh,' he thought to himself dully, 'That's the voice I keep hearing in my dreams.'

When he finally reached home, it was two in the morning and the petrol gauge showed an empty tank. He'd somehow driven enough to eat through a full tank of gas. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took five hours.

He got out of the car on legs that felt numb and cold. He couldn't remember driving. He couldn't remember the strange music or the even stranger passenger that rode with him. In his mind, there existed the clear cut memory of leaving work and climbing into Christine. Then there was nothing but a long, grey blankness that was tinged with a muted terror.

He collapsed into bed still in his work clothes. By morning, his mind would have stitched over all those things too terrible to contemplate. He would wake up feeling groggy and confused, and probably put it down to the strain of a long day.

Colt slept after driving with the dead and didn't dream.

On the day before your date, he found an engagement ring under the passenger side carpet.

He had no reason to look there, no reason to pull the carpet up by its seams. But he did it anyway and his reward was a silver and diamond band with blood dried in the crevices. There was an engraving on the inside and he had to take it out into the sun to try and read it.

'Mine. Forever and always.'

He shivered despite standing in the bright midmorming sun. Most rings would say 'yours' instead of 'mine.' He had no doubt that the change was entirely intentional. Your boyfriend was staking his claim on you - not just with the ring but with the intention behind it.

He looked at the brownish red stains and knew in his heart they were blood. Your boyfriend's blood.

Colt didn't know how the man died, but looking at the ring, he felt sure that it was bloody and far from natural. How would a blood stained ring end up in Christine? If the guy had been in accident sure. But the car was in perfect condition. The ring shouldn't have been there.

Unless he was murdered. Soaked in blood and tossed around during the struggle, the ring probably got pushed under the seam of the carpet. It was a sealed off spot and even a forensics team might miss something that small.

It was an outlandish and macabre theory to be basing entirely off one mysterious engagement ring. If he stopped to think about it, he would no doubt be able to poke a dozen separate holes into his theory.

Somehow, he knew it was true. The same way he suddenly knew Christine wasn't just an ordinary car and that his dreams about you were far from natural.

He felt a queer prickling all across his nape. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but this... This frightened him. He didn't feel alone anymore. He felt like if he looked up at the rear view mirror, he'd see someone in the back seat. No, not just someone. He'd see the dead man who owned the car before him.

He'd see the man who wanted to marry you.

He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. He wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't let fancies of ghosts and ghouls affect him. But even he couldn't deny the way he felt. His gut was telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He climbed out of Christine like a man scared of waking a sleeping bear. He didn't even bother to grab the keys.

He couldn't explain any of it. Not the dreams, not the thoughts that felt like someone else, not the prickling certainty that a man died right where he'd been sitting.

He got into his his Jeep and pulled out of the driveway, his eyes on Christine the entire time. Like she'd somehow roar to life and slam into him.

He didn't know where he was driving to until he parked. A bar across town, a real rough spot that on most days even he wouldn't want to stop at. But today wasn't like most days.

The place was dark and the folk sitting around weren't exactly the friendly sort. He settled at the bar and ordered a tequila without really thinking about it.

Funny. He used to hate tequila.

It went down like fire, and he shuddered. He wanted to laugh. What else was a mam supposed to drink when the world didn't make a lick of sense anymore?

"Give me another one." His voice was raspier somehow. Even though that never happened when he drank vodka or whiskey.

There were mirrored shelves opposite him and he caught sight of his eyes. A pale green. He tossed back his second shot and tried to tell himself it was just a trick of the light.

He wasn't sure who to talk to. Not the Sheriff's Office. Yeah officer, there was a man murdered in my car and now I can't stop dreaming about his girlfriend didn't exactly scream unimpeachable sobriety.

And not the pastor either. Father, I'm being haunted by filthy thoughts and I'm not sure if they're my own. He doubted the old man at his mother's church was qualified to deal with that sort of thing.

But he couldn't keep quiet either. He had to tell someone about it. If they called him crazy at least it was an acknowledgement. At least it was better than being dead drunk and being scared of his own eyes in the mirror.

Who could possibly know anything about it? Oh. Of course.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and almost threw it across the room when it wouldn't turn on. He charged it every night, goddammit.

"There a pay phone somewhere 'round here?" he asked the bartender.

The man jerked his face at the side door that lead to the back parking lot. Colt stumbled out - swaying on his feet far worse than two drinks should warrant.

It was late afternoon. He shaded his eyes and tried looked at the sun like it was deliberately lying to him. He arrived at midday and he couldn't have been in there for more than twenty minutes. How the hell was it this late?

'Time moves differently when you're dead cowboy. You should know that by now.'

The payphone was in the shadow of the bar and he shivered when he stepped out of the sun. Wrong. It was all wrong and he didn't know how to fix it. Why was the voice still in his head when Christine was all the way across town? Why did he still feel life he wasn't quiet alone?

It was only when he had the receiver up against his ear that he realised he didn't know your number. Shit.

He leaned his forearm against the payphone and rested his forehead against it. Could he maybe get a taxi and show up at your house? He scoffed. Yeah, that would go well. Showing up dead drunk just to say he knew you liked short skirts in fall and that he dreamed of pulling off your bikini top. He'd be lucky if you only mildly tazed him.

Fuck. Okay. Home again. Sleep it off. Charge his phone. Call you in the morning and try not to sound too crazy. He could manage that.

He called the taxi company listed in the phone book. Half wondering if they were still in operation. When it finally connected, the call was thick with static.

"Yeah?" The man's voice was raspy and standoffish.

"Can I get a cab at Ronnie's on Westside?"

The man laughed. "Oh you must be a real tough customer to be drinking there. Didn't think you'd have the balls cowboy."

Colt wanted to cuss him out. What kind of fucker answers the phone and insults you less than two sentences in? He squeezed the receiver until he felt he could control his voice.

"Yeah. I'm a real mean guy. So can I get my cab or not?"

"Oh, I'll send you a ride alright." There was a mocking tilt to his voice. "Best fucking ride you'll ever take. Just sit pretty. You'll know when it's for you."

The skin on the back of his neck crawled. He hung up without another word.

The streetlights were coming on and the gold of sunset was giving way to the awful in-between greyness of twilight. He waited for his ride.

You came home to find flowers on your doorstep. A bouquet of white roses. You froze. There was only one man who sent you flowers and he was cold and dead for the better part of a year.

You picked the card up by the edge and flicked it open.

Hope you didn't forget our date. See you soon dollface.

-Colt

Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.

Dinner tomorrow night with the cowboy. You took the roses inside and hunted around for a vase. Was it actually a date? He'd said it was a thank you dinner, but it wouldn't hurt to dress up a little. Do your makeup a bit fancy, maybe wear your new heels. It'd been months since you'd gone out, had a nice dinner with a friend. This could be good for you. Just one more step back into normalcy.

The clouds were starting to gather and as evening came on, they broke with a shudder of thunder.

You curled up on your couch, all the lights on. It was going to be a bad storm. The first really awful one in almost half a year. You tried not to, but it got you thinking about that night. The night your boyfriend proposed to you. The night you killed him.

You closed your eyes and tried not to see it, but the memories followed you even past the darkness. You couldn't run from them for long.

It was cold outside, rain drumming on Christine's roof. Sharp, constant. Your boyfriend was in the driver's seat, buckling his belt. A lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.

You liked it when he looked at you like that. Satisfied. Mellow. It never lasted long, but in the few minutes after fucking you, he would agree to just about anything.

"I'm drunk on you baby," he'd said once. "Heads all woozy. Would do anything for you. Fucking anything."

Christine's windows were all fogged up, and you traced little hearts on the glass. To be honest, you felt a little drunk on him too. Heart still pounding, head reeling. Cunt still fluttering and full. He was so good at reading you, at fucking you just how you needed it. No man before him could make you come so hard, or do it so easy.

"I got something to ask you, baby."

You turned to him, hand reaching out for his and pulling it into your lap.

"Yes?"

He rubbed a thumb across your knuckles. He wasn't looking at your face, just down at your interlinked hands.

"You're my girl, yeah?"

"Obviously. I love you."

"And you ain't going to leave me?"

"Never."

He sighed. Managed to raise his eyes to meet yours. You weren't used to seeing him nervous. Usually he'd just bull doze his way through a conversation, not stopping until he got what he wanted. This was...new. It made a whole new crop of butterflies start up in your stomach.

"Will you marry me?"

You froze. What? Where was this coming from? You loved him. You cared about him. But marriage? That was such a big step. Such a grown up thing.

"I've got money put away. And Christine. I can put a deposit down on a house by the end of the month. Can pay for a nice wedding too. All white and frilly, like you want."

"I..."

"You don't got to worry 'bout your student loans neither. We can pay 'em off a whole lot faster if we're together. You can even go back to school if you want. Get that second degree you're always talking about."

"I...can't."

You pulled your hands away from his. Looked away from him.

"I love you. I really do. But it's too...much. We're too young. I... I just don't want to rush into things and make a mistake."

He was quiet. Awfully, dangerously quiet. His hand was still in your lap and you could feel when he clenched it into a fist.

"Is there another man?"

"What?"

You whirled to face him, suddenly angry. How could he even suggest...

"I haven't touched another man since the day you asked me out."

He wasn't smiling anymore. His green eyes were narrowed, mean.

"Who are you fucking? Which bastard is it? Huh?"

"No one! There's no one else. I just don't want to get married and make a -"

"Mistake? You think I'm a fucking mistake?"

You flinched. His voice was even louder in the closeness of the car. It made your ears throb.

His fist uncurled and he grabbed your hand, hard. Yanked you towards him so your upper body was sprawled across the gear shift.

"Was it a mistake to fuck me? A mistake to say you loved me?"

"No! That's not what I-"

He cut you off with a hand around your throat.

"You want to leave me. That it? You're going to fucking leave me?"

You pulled at his fingers with your free hand but it was useless. His grip was getting tighter the angrier he got. Your head felt all swollen, your nose and throat burning.

"Please just -"

"No! No fucking please. No changing your mind at the last minute. You ain't gonna be my girl? Ain't gonna be my wife?"

He pulled you towards his face, his lips barely brushing yours.

"If you won't be mine, then you'll just have to fucking die. It's me or no one else, baby. I told you that, all those months ago."

You scrambled for some way to get loose, but you were in an awkward position and he had all the leverage.

"I fucking warned you. I told you that if you dated me you couldn't ever leave. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. Hell, I was half in love before you even said hello. I tried. But you just didn't listen, did you?"

Your hand brushed something cold and metallic in the centre console. His switch blade. He usually kept it in his back pocket to help with work. Oh, and he kept it sharp. You grabbed it, more on instinct than anything else.

Your head was pounding and your heartbeat was pulsing in your ears. But the rain was somehow worse. Falling so loud you thought you'd never get the sound out of your head.

You tried to plead with him again, reason, beg, whatever it took. But when you tried to speak he just closed his fist even tighter and your words died in your throat with a shudder.

Oh god, he was really going to do it. He's eyes were wild, mad with something beyond reason. He'd seen reason in the rearview mirror about a hundred miles ago and now he was headed straight down the highway of fucking insanity.

How? How could the man you loved be choking the breath out of you?

Because he loves you. Because he'd rather see you dead than lose you. Because you were too damn blind with love to notice how dangerous he is.

White starbursts bloomed across your vision. Little fireworks to celebrate your brain dying.

You stabbed him.

You didn't fully mean to. You were half mad with fear, half dead in his grip. Not sure what you were doing until you felt the blood.

The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.

You didn't even pull it out. Just left it there and scrambled back when his grip on you loosened, your chest heaving. You throat and eyes and nose all felt swollen. Your lungs burned like fire.

He reached up and touched his neck. Looked down at his fingers like he couldn't believe the blood was his.

You might have tried to save him then. Might have come to your senses and called the ambulance, might have stripped off your shirt and tried to stop the bleeding.

But a knife in his throat apparently wasn't enough to stop him. He looked at you and there wasn't anything rational left in him. He reached for you again, hands curled like claws. He was dying and all he wanted to do was take you with him.

You screamed. So loud that it made your own ears ring.

You grabbed the knife and pulled. You didn't realise it was acting like a stopper until his blood splashed on you. Hot, stinking of metal. It sprayed across your face, got into your mouth and nose, soaked the whole front of your shirt.

You scrambled for the door handle and fell backwards out of the Mustang. Landed on your ass and pushed yourself away.

He was halfway over the passenger seat by then, hands still reaching, mouth pulled into an ugly snarl.

You kicked the door shut.

It slammed with a bang and mercifully blocked him from view. Your turned onto your knees, pushed yourself to your feet and ran.

The rain was coming down so fast that it stung your skin. You didn't rightly know where you were going. Only that it was away.

You still don't know how you made it home. You were a twenty minute drive away and it was too dark to see more than three feet in front of you. Must have been luck. Must have been fate.

When you got home, you were shaking so hard you couldn't even open the door for a good five minutes.

You stripped off your clothes right there on the doorstep and threw them in the trash. Switch blade too. You don't know how you managed to hold onto it during that wild, reckless run.

You took a long shower. Sat under the hot water with your knees curled to your chest. Too scared to cry.

At some point, the better part of your brain must have taken over. You vaguely remember burning the bloodstained clothes. Remember taking a drive and throwing the bleached switchblade out the window.

And when the call came a few days later, to please come down and identify a body, you were calm enough to not give yourself away.

If it was anyone else, maybe the cops would have tried harder. But your boyfriend was a rough man from the rough side of town. They gave you looks of sympathy but shook their heads behind your back.

Guy like him had it coming.

When it was all said and done, you and Christine were the only ones who knew the truth.

Colt waited all evening for a cab that never came. And when the storm started, he was annoyed enough to consider driving home on his own. He'd only had two shots. And that was a few hours ago. He'd be fine. Folk got away with worse all the time.

He left the bar with his jacket over his head and his eyes darting down the road. The rain was sheeting and he had to scramble to make it to his Jeep without getting totally soaked.

Wet and hungry and still a little drunk, Christine didn't seem like quite so big an issue. He was just jumping at ghosts. Tequila got his thoughts all twisted up, that's all.

Driving was miserable. Even with his headlights on bright and his wipers cranked all the way up, he was having real trouble seeing the road. The yellow line was the only thing he could properly rely on.

When the headlights showed up behind him, it took him a while to notice them getting closer.

"Guy's got a death wish, driving so fast in this weather."

The driver behind him was gaining quickly. Colt expected them to try and overtake, but they didn't. Just got closer and closer. A car's length away. And then half. And then almost kissing his bumper.

"Why is this dude so up my ass?"

He hit the gas, but the guy behind him didn't care. Just picked up and kept coming. Revved it a little and Colt could hear the engine even through the rain. Some kind of muscle car. A loud, growling thing.

Almost like a...Mustang.

His whole back suddenly felt icy. It couldn't be. Christine was back home, keys still in the ignition. Even if someone did steal her, why the fuck would they track him down? Must be another muscle car, with some ego tripping asshole behind the wheel.

He told himself all that and more, but his foot pressed harder on the gas.

And still the Mustang kept coming.

The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

Too fast for the narrow roads, and sure as hell too fast for a rainy night like this one.

A curve was coming up soon, the road ringed off with guard rails. He could see the reflectors glinting orange at him. Shit.

He took it wide, drifting into the opposite lane. He could feel his tires slipping a little and he hit the breaks just enough to steady the Jeep.

The Mustang didn't have any trouble with the curve. Stayed in its lane and gained a little more speed, so that when they were straight again, its hood was in line with his trunk.

Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.

He couldn't see the car clearly. The headlights were bouncing right off his side mirrors. He couldn't even make out the silhouette of the driver.

Screech.

The Mustang's hood scraped against the side of his Jeep. The whole car lurched to the side, tires slipping.

"Fuck!"

Colt gunned it again, trying to out race the mad man. But whoever was behind him had no intention of letting that happen. They kept pace with him, blocking him from getting back in his lane.

Lightning flashed and Colt looked in the mirror just in time to see the car properly.

The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.

The car trying to run him off the road was none other than the 1969 cherry red Mustang that should have been sitting in his yard. Maybe he could have accepted it as a coincidence. Someone else had the exact same car as him and just happened to be driving like an asshole. Maybe he could have accepted that.

But the car didn't have a driver.

He saw it clear as day. The lightning glared straight through all the windows and there wasn't a single person in that car.

Impossible. This can't be real. There's no fucking way.

He could almost hear the laugh.

'Do I got you scared cowboy?'

Colt didn't have time to answer. The road was merging into the cliffside, and the wall of rock kept him trapped. There were lights coming straight at him, the blaring of a horn as whoever it was tried to warn him.

He slammed hard on the brakes. Christine shot ahead and at the last second he managed to edge back into his lane. The headlights roared past, the huge semi exhaling a spray of water and smoke.

It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.

Christine's tail lights were a pair of glaring red eyes in the rain, until suddenly they weren't. Gone.

Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.

The rain was drumming on the roof and his hands were shaking. He got out of the car, water soaking through his shirt almost immediately.

The paint on the back door was scratched off in huge swathes. The metal was dented.

He climbed back behind the wheel, mind teetering on the edge of something past sanity. The world wasn't sane anymore. Nothing was.

He heard the growl of the Mustang through the rain. No headlights this time, just the whine of tires on slick tar.

Where?! Where was she?!

Christine slammed into the Jeep head on. All Colt saw was her red face and silver smile in the glare of his headlights before his whole world was filled with the grinding of steel on steel. His head slammed backwards, the whole car shuddering.

The airbags came on, blinding him.

Christine didn't stop after hitting him. He yanked the hand break up but she kept pushing forward, edging his car closer and closer to the edge. He felt it when the guard rail scratched against his bumper.

An ugly scream of metal, but the rails held. Christine didn't seem to like that. She pulled back, her tires shrieking as she got ready to slam forward again.

Colt jumped just before she hit the Jeep. His seat belt was almost the death of him. It wouldn't release and he couldn't see the catch in the dark. He must have had at least one lucky star though, because the door wasn't too mangled and he managed to kick it open just in time.

He landed hard, on his hands and knees.

Metal shrieked. Christine slammed into the Jeep hard enough to send it through the rails. He turned just in time to see his car go tilting off the road and down into the dark.

For a second, he thought he might have made it. Maybe she didn't notice him. Maybe it was all over.

Christine pulled back and her headlights washed over him, still on his hands and knees. One of the lights was hanging loose from the crash, making her look lopsided. The rain was still coming down hard and the droplets were gold in the light between them.

She revved.

Colt scrambled to his feet and ran straight for the guard rail. He jumped.

It wasn't a sheer drop. It was instead a steep slope, thick with shale and slippery with water. His knees buckled under him and he ended up on his back, half rolling and half sliding down the embankment. His palms were bleeding and as he fell, the gravel lodged itself in his open skin.

He couldn't see where he was headed. Could only try and and protect his head and brace for impact.

His slide ended with a boulder. He slammed into it his ribs first. Heard a crack before all the air was knocked straight out of him.

He could see the headlights way up above him, cutting through the rain.

At least she can't follow me down here.

True. Christine couldn't follow him.

But that's when Colt saw him. The driver. Coming to stand in front of the headlights, the silhouette of a man.

The silhouette stepped through the gash in the railing left by the Jeep and dropped out of the light.

Colt knew he should run. He could hear the shale slipping as the other man came down. Controlled. Measured. Nothing like his own tumble.

But he couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing sent sharp spikes of pain all across his chest.

"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."

The voice was low and raspy, mean. He knew that voice. Had been hearing it in his head and in his dreams and was fool enough to think it was his own.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. He could just about see the stranger. Tall, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There was dirt thick on his boots, in the folds of his clothes. Not the black shale of the slope, but a reddish clay.

Kind of like in the cemetery.

No, he realised as the stranger squated down in front of him. Exactly like the cemetery. It was grave dirt he was seeing.

He was looking at a dead man.

The stranger might have been handsome once, but now one cheek was filled with holes. Ugly, clustered together things that showed his teeth. His other cheek was a mass of white. Worms, tiny little worms wriggling in and out of his face.

Colt wanted to scream. And vomit. And then scream some more.

There was a dark hole in the stranger's neck and when he moved it oozed a sticky, thick kind of blood.

"You know why I'm here?"

Colt didn't really notice it at first, but his voice was different. Thicker somehow. Like his vocal cords were packed full of dirt and blood.

Colt coughed and his whole chest hurt so bad he thought he was dying. Something was definitely broken. He'd be lucky if there wasn't internal bleeding too.

"Let me guess. Came to punish me for my sins?"

The dead man laughed.

"Not yours, no. Don't give much of a damn about you. I'm here to get what's mine."

The pieces were clicking together in his head.

"Your girl."

"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.

He reached for him, the nails on his hand either blue or totally ripped off. His skin filled with holes that showed pale white tendons and ugly pink flesh.

That was when the adrenaline really kicked in. Colt shoved at the man with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. It was like touching a carcass at the butcher. Cold. Limp. Just a piece of meat. No human should ever have to feel a body in that state.

He made it to his knees before the bastard hit back. Your boyfriend kicked straight at his jaw and Colt's head flew backward, smashed into the rock behind him. He dropped back down like a stone.

"Why you gotta be so fucking difficult, hmm?"

Colt was too out of it to pull away. The man reached for him and the skin of his hand was crawling with bugs. He grabbed his collar and dragged him up.

"Just gonna go to sleep for a little while cowboy. Maybe you'll wake up. Maybe you won't. Either way, I've waited too fucking long to let this chance go."

The corpse kissed him. Or more accurately, pressed his open lips against his and breathed.

His lips were cold and stiff and utterly beyond human. The taste was rancid. Worse than the worst thing he'd ever had. Metallic like blood, sweet like rotted meat.

Colt fainted.

The rain drummed down. Christine sat on the roadside and waited, her hood and paintwork back to normal. In bed, you tossed and turned in the hands of a nightmare.

The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.

It was your phone that woke you up. Your ringtone blasting even through your dreams.

You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.

"Hello?"

The call was thick with static. Still, you recognised the voice. Would know it even from beyond the grave.

"Hey beautiful. Did ya miss me?"

#Yandere Stephen King #Horror #yandere #reader insert #yandere x reader #x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x you #yandere male #yandere writing #Yandere novella #Yandere short story #yandere x darling #yandere community #Christine by Stephen King

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pininghermit · 5 months ago

Text

Duchess' Consort

Request: Loving your Tropovenia stories ❤️ I got, 'Against Parents'. Would you please write something about Adrian and modern reader with that prompt? 🥺

AN: Hello anon, I am glad you're enjoying my silly little event! I loved writing this and would have loved to add more bg but this event is for short stories so I tried my best. I hope you like it :)

Genre: drama & royalty au ish??

Pairing(s): Alucard x female Reader

Summary: “You will have to be my consort. You will not be given the title of duke. I will be the duchess. Our children will bear my family name. Yours will be forgotten. They will never quite treat you well. Your heritage will be scorned. Your lands will be absorbed by the duchy.”

“He’s a vampire!” your father roars, his face flushing red. It’s a familiar sight, one that mirrors your own anger. Apparently, temper ran strong in the family.

“And he’s a dhampir!” you snap back, marching toward him with equal fury.

The latest argument about your relationship had now passed the two-hour mark. You were both too stubborn to yield, two sides of the same damn coin. Exhaustion tugged at your shoulders, but neither of you would back down. Not yet.

With a huff of defeat, your father finally lowers himself into his chair, rubbing his temples. “You can’t just marry the son of Dracula,” he says, his voice weary but still carrying an edge of authority. “He’s no match for you.”

“We’re in love!” You slam a glass of water back, trying to swallow both the drink and your frustration. “And it’s not like I’m abandoning my duties. I’m still here. I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to. Isn’t that enough?”

Your father shakes his head slowly. “And what?” he retorts, his tone bitter. “Sully our bloodline with a half-vampire? You’d ruin everything. Do not make me regret not seeking another heir when I had the chance. Perhaps I should have remarried, like everyone insisted...”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and stinging. They lodge deep in your gut, twisting until your vision blurs with tears you refuse to let fall. You grit your teeth, clenching the glass in your hand so tightly you fear it might shatter.

“Worry not, Father,” you bite out through clenched teeth, your voice trembling with controlled rage. “I’ll be sure to have plenty of children with Adrian. Enough that I never have to suffer the same regrets you do!”

The room falls silent, your words hanging heavy in the air.

Your father glares up at you, his eyes hard but not without pain. He didn’t mean it, you know he didn’t. He loves you. He’s just afraid, trapped by his grief and his fears. You are all he has left of your mother, and her betrayal has carved a gaping void between the two of you. Making a weak man out of your father. One afraid of any and all gentleness.

“I will not give up on him,” you say quietly but firmly. “The duchy can deal with it. And if you can’t, Father…”

You take a deep breath, standing tall despite the tremor in your voice.

“Then I’m sure Uncle will be more than happy to step up as your heir.”

Your father’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of his brother, and you see the flash of panic before he quickly masks it with a glare. He doesn’t want to lose you, but he’s too proud to admit it. The two of you stare each other down, both unwilling to break first.

The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, your father sighs, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of years has finally caught up to him. "You’re just like your mother," he mutters under his breath.

“Thank you,” you reply curtly, turning on your heel. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You turn to leave the room before he can see the tears threatening to fall.

Once, being compared to your mother had cut deep. A wound to your pride, an insult whispered in the shadows of your childhood. The woman who abandoned her title, her duty, for the fleeting fantasy of love. The scandal had clung to you like a curse. A constant reminder of your supposed weakness.

But not anymore.

“There are conditions.”

Your father’s voice cuts through your thoughts, halting you mid-step. His tone is cold, measured, calculated like a final move in a losing game.

“For him to be with you, there are rules he must obey.”

You turn back to face him, your heart tightening. His gaze is hard, filled with the last fragments of control he refuses to relinquish. This is his last attempt to bind you to his authority, to play his final pawn.

And yet, you stand straighter. You are not the child he once manipulated with fear and duty. Whatever terms he lays out, you will not falter.

“I’m listening,” you say evenly, crossing your arms as you meet his stare. You will not cower. Not for him, not for anyone.

“You will have to be my consort. You will not be given the title of duke. I will be the duchess. Our children will bear my family name. Yours will be forgotten. They will never quite treat you well. Your heritage will be scorned. Your lands will be absorbed by the duchy.”

Your voice remains steady, though each word feels like a blade against your heart. You stand with your back to him, your eyes fixed on the blooming garden outside the window.

“It is a terrible fate,” you continue quietly. “And I have nothing to give you. But I promise, should you take this foolish gamble, I will always be on your side. We will be equals beyond titles. Our children will grow up listening to your stories, to the tales of your people. Your lands will be cared for and passed on to our second-born, who shall inherit them.”

You pause, your thoughts momentarily drifting to a dream you dare not linger on too long. It’s easy, too easy, to imagine this future with Adrian. Despite your father’s endless demands, the vision takes root deep within you.

You can see it clearly: traveling to Castle Dracula with your children. Spending Yule together in the estates of your duchy. The dream feels achingly familiar, a warmth you are afraid to grasp.

Still, you steel your resolve, pushing the dream aside as you turn to face him.

“I cannot abandon my duties,” you say, the words final yet heavy with sorrow. “But you can leave. This life... it doesn’t have to be a fate you endure, Adrian.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. It stretches out like a chasm, each second a reminder of how deeply you’ve laid bare your vulnerability. You resist the urge to take the words back, to deny him the choice, to ease his decision with false comforts.

But no. A marriage built on lies and half-truths could not survive a harsh winter, let alone the storms your future would bring. He deserves the truth, as bitter as it is. You were prepared to lose him.

At least that’s what you told yourself.

You had rehearsed this moment countless times, steeling your heart for the inevitable. You imagined his hesitation, the disappointment clouding his eyes, and perhaps even a polite, resigned farewell. You had told yourself that you would understand. You had promised yourself you would let him go if that was his choice.

But now, as the silence stretches and your heart pounds louder than reason, you realize you were lying to yourself. You weren’t prepared. You never could be. The very thought of Adrian turning away feels like a blade pressing deep into your ribs, and you hold your breath, bracing for the worst.

Then he speaks, his voice so soft you almost miss it.

“My mother’s maiden name,” he says, his gaze fixed on the steaming cup of tea in his hands. He does not look at you, as though he needs the space to steady himself. “I want one of our children to carry it as their middle name.”

You blink, stunned into silence. Before you can respond, he continues.

“I do not care for titles,” he says, his voice firmer now, each word deliberate. “All I ask is that you do not take other partners. And that you allow me time... time to learn the ways of the household. I would hate to be anything less than worthy of you.”

He sets the teacup down with a quiet clink and steps toward you. His presence is steady as he takes your hands gently in his.

At last, Adrian lifts his gaze, and you see the depth of his conviction shining in his eyes. “I have no doubt that you will not let me be wronged,” he says softly. “My fate with yours will be one of happiness. And I would be the most foolish dhampir to ever walk this earth if I gave that up for anything else.”

A sharp breath escapes you, half-relief, half disbelief. His words fill the hollow ache that had settled in your chest, and for a moment, the dream you’d been holding at bay no longer feels so distant.

“Adrian...” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.

“I have made my choice,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing tenderly over your knuckles. “And I will make it every day, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Tears blur your vision, but this time, you don’t try to hide them. Instead, you squeeze his hands tightly and offer him a smile that holds all the love and gratitude you cannot yet put into words.

One thing you know for certain: with Adrian by your side, you’ll be better parents than either of you ever had. With him, the weight of your duties will feel lighter. Together, you will make something beautiful out of all the broken pieces you were given.

“You are a miraculous idiot,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you throw your arms around him. You cling to him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Adrian lets out a warm chuckle, his chest vibrating gently against yours. “Marry me, maybe?” he teases softly, his arms pulling you even closer, as if he never intends to let go.

You laugh through your tears, swatting at his shoulder. “I suppose that can be arranged.”

#castlevania #alucard x reader #alucard #adrian tepes x reader #tropevania event #royalty au #against the parents au #fluff #romance #ughh they're cute #Consort Alucard is a dream I refuse to let go of

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lovebugism · 11 months ago

Text

✶ ┄ LOVE AND MERCY !

summary: you're more stubborn than the apocalypse. eric is the personification of a sad, wet dog. your world's collide when the world as you know it ends. (6.3k)

pairing: eric (a quiet place day one) / f!reader

contents: strangers to friends to lovers, a couple of losers in love, apocalyptic setting, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of grief and anxiety, brief mentions of injuries, and smut 18+

You wake up that morning in a bed that is not yours, in a room that does not belong to you, in an abandoned cabin you turned into a safe house three weeks ago.

Everything around you is foreign. Including the world outside these rotted walls, which turned entirely on its head in a blink. A blink that somehow turned into three months gone.

The only thing familiar to you now is the stranger lying in the bed beside you — on the right side that he has wordlessly claimed as his own. Before Eric was a guy you shared beds with, he was a guy you found in the rain. A boy with big, wet, puppy dog eyes who followed you like a stray after the world fell.

That was all he was to you for a month straight. A burden. Deadweight. An ever-anxious being that had nearly gotten you killed more times than you could count. You never saw him any differently until you almost died — a certain death involving you, an old beartrap, several aliens with uber-sensitive hearing, and a stupid boy who was too dumb to leave you behind.

“I can’t leave you,” Eric blubbered through tears, whimpering in faint whispers so the blind monsters wouldn’t hear. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t make it at all, you idiot,” you spat through gritted teeth, eyes wide and stern and glittering. You wouldn’t let yourself cry, not even with your leg all but torn to shreds, but Eric’s sudden stubbornness scared you. Why now? Of all times? you thought to yourself, Why does he have to be so stubborn now?

“I wouldn’t want to,” Eric promised, bloodied hands trembling where they gripped your arms. “I wouldn’t want to make it without you.”

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still.

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad.

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up.

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face.

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall.

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt.

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you.

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch.

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret.

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream.

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming.

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes.

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it.

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger.

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice.

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy.

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them.

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway.

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect.

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.”

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over:

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too.

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you.

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own.

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him.

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world.

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his.

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder.

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you.

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other.

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you.

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light.

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers.

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan.

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with.

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there.

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him.

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins.

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is.

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry.

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you.

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him.

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it.

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you.

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs.

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry.

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum.

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes.

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it.

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you.

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head.

But he knows what you really mean.

#published by bug #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #eric a quiet place x you #eric x reader #eric x you #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #eric aqpdo #eric aqpdo x reader #a quiet place day one #misc oneshots

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 25 days ago

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“Midnight Ride” (Platonic Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader)

A/N: Needed to do a drabble for my love jason 🤭 I also feel like my drabbles are always way fluffier while the real chapters are just pure angst 😓😭

The knock at the window startled her.

She sat up in bed, blanket still bunched around her knees, eyes puffy from a quiet cry that hadn’t even had a real reason—only that the walls were too silent, the night too cold, and she’d realized again how little of her life belonged to her anymore.

She expected Alfred — a cup of tea in his hand.

Or Damien, maybe—furious again for a reason she didn’t understand.

Or maybe Tim wants to show her some of his games. Again.

It couldn’t be Dick or her father - both of them were on patrol.

But it wasn’t either of them.

It was Jason.

Leather jacket. Black dyed messy hair with a white streak. That devil-may-care smirk softened only slightly by the way his eyes dropped to her face—reading her too fast, too easily. And maybe, just maybe, he noticed the sadness she tried to bury under her smile.

He tapped the glass with two knuckles.

“You wanna get outta here?”

She blinked. “What?”

Jason pushed the window open with ease. “I’m going for a ride. Thought you might want to breathe something other than recycled manor air.”

“…I can’t,” she said, hesitant. “They’ll be angry.”

He shrugged, clearly not worried about that. “They can be angry at me.”

“I could get in trouble.”

He smirked. “Not if I carry you.”

And before she could stop him—he did.

He reached through the open window like she weighed nothing, picking her up in a slow, effortless motion. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as he lifted her from the floor and stepped back onto the tiles outside her room, one boot silent after the other.

“Relax,” he murmured. “You think I’d let you fall?”

A few minutes later she was dressed in her fluffy nightgown on his red-black beauty.

The engine purred.

Her heart raced.

The vigilante sat tall behind her, one arm lazily resting over the throttle, the other wrapped snugly around her waist. She was sitting between his arms, perched on the front of the seat, her legs tucked to one side as he held her against him like something he wouldn’t dare risk letting go.

“I can sit in the back,” she’d offered earlier.

“Nope,” he’d said without even glancing at her. “You’re in the front. I’m holding you. No arguments.”

The Gotham skyline blurred around them.

Lights became streaks. Wind tousled her hair. And when she laughed—really laughed—he swore he felt it in his chest like a heartbeat returning.

“Faster,” she grinned into the wind.

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Jason revved the engine, smirked through gritted teeth, and let the bike tear across the long bridge curve—like they were chasing something they didn’t need to name.

For once, she wasn’t the Wayne princess.

Wasn’t the girl with rules and chains.

She was just Y/N.

And for once—Jason wasn’t the boy who came back wrong.

____

The city buzzed quietly in the distance, but where they sat—at the edge of an overlook surrounded by trees and the hum of streetlights—it felt like the world had stopped for them alone.

Jason leaned back against the still-warm bike, one leg kicked out, the other curled slightly.

Y/N sat sideways across his lap, legs tucked under her and arms curled loosely against his chest, fingers nervously twisting the edge of his jacket zipper.

She was… lighter now. Calmer. Her cheeks warm from the wind and laughter. Her breathing steady.

“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes lowered. “For this.”

Jason looked down at her, something thick catching in his throat.

She was smiling. Not a fake smile. Not a careful one. A real one—the kind that made his heart squeeze and his jaw tighten with something like hunger and grief twisted together.

God. He’d missed that smile.

He’d kill to see it again.

“You should be out more,” he said, voice gruff, trying to cover the heaviness in his chest. “Forget the house. Bunch of emotionally constipated idiots.”

She giggled. Giggled.

“That includes you,” she said.

He smirked. “I’m the charming one.”

“Charming, huh?” She nudged his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just leave town one day. Move somewhere quiet. Change my name. Disappear. Then I don’t have to deal with any emotionally constipated Waynes.”

She was joking. He knew she was joking.

But Jason didn’t laugh.

His hand—which had been resting loosely on her waist—tightened, just slightly.

She looked up at him, caught off guard by the stillness in his expression. The way his eyes had shifted—not soft, not teasing, but something deeper. Darker.

“You’re not leaving,” he said, voice quiet but hard.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You’re not leaving, Y/N.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. But it felt like the wind stopped.

His heart was thundering in his ears.

Not anger. Not jealousy.

Fear.

Because for all the demons Jason Todd had faced—death, resurrection, rage, Gotham—nothing terrified him like the idea of her being gone again. Out there. Vulnerable. Without him to guard her.

He could live in hell.

But he couldn’t live without her.

She blinked up at him, uncertain. Maybe even a little startled.

He swallowed hard, looking away briefly before pulling her a little closer.

“You think I’d let you vanish?” he murmured.

“You think I could survive that again?”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to.

But deep in his chest, something twisted and anchored. A vow.

He’d give her anything.

Protect her from everything.

Destroy anything that tried to reach for her—

—except her freedom. That, he couldn’t allow.

Because she was his little sister. His light in the gutter. His redemption he never earned.

And he’d rather burn down the world than let it steal her smile again.

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quillcraftconquer · 10 months ago

Text

TW: Angst (?), Divorce, little sad lol, WIP

John Price is a good dad.

When he’s home, he’s present. He changes diapers. He feeds the baby. He helps out with bath and bedtime routines. He’s up at every cry he hears.

But that’s not why you left him.

He’s a great dad.

Except he didn’t know what size diaper your son wore, or that he preferred to be bounced, not rocked. He didn’t know what time to give him his last bottle, or when to lay him down. It had only been six months since you had your son, and John was gone for over half of it. You knew he had to be busy, but fuck, you gave up everything, and it felt like he gave up nothing. You quit your job. You left the SAS. You stayed home. You took care of the baby. It wasn’t necessarily because you wanted to, either, but someone had to, and you knew John wouldn’t.

It ate at you that you knew John wouldn’t.

“I need help.” You begged him, and when he offered to have his sister or his mother stop by more often, you knew it was a lost cause. You didn’t want them. You wanted John.

You remember when you reached your breaking point. You laid in your bed, staring at the ceiling as you listened to your baby cry for over an hour.

John said “I’ve got it.”.

When you finally burst through the nursery door, eyes blazing as you watched John attempt to rock him, again, you snatched your son from John’s arms. Your son was hungry, a cry only someone who spent countless hours with him would recognize. You gritted your teeth in anger when John tried to take him back.

“I’ve got him”

“Give him to me”

“I can do it”

Finally, you remember your anger boiling over, screaming at John through hot tears that he couldn’t even change a fucking diaper without asking you what size, or how much to feed him, or that he liked to be bounced and not rocked.

You remember the grief that filled John’s eyes when you pushed him out of the nursery, slamming the door in his face as he stuttered. You remember laying the divorce papers and your ring on the counter the next day, packing a bag to take you and the baby to his sisters until he left for deployment again.

You remember every feeling that rushed into your heart when he left, leaving the signed papers on the countertop.

When you moved out, he was on deployment. When you FaceTimed him for the baby, he always ended the call with “I love you.”. You could still see the flash of gold on his hand in the video.

You refused to say it back.

On the rare occasions he did come home, your house was the first stop he made. You would always meet him at the door with your son to exchange him, knowing if you let him any further, he would fill the spaces in your home with memories of him.

Until today.

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rainrot4me · 1 month ago

Note

Yo I've been a fan of your art/writing for a while now and I am really excited to see more of your work!

So I was wondering (for I am a slut for angst/hurt with comfort) how you imagine the characters like Jeff (my fav), Toby, Jack, etc. to be when they hit that breaking point? Like tears, snot, can't breathe, can't talk, kind of breaking point. And how they would act once comforted (or on their own)?

P.s. What animal, alive or extinct, would you want to be and why?

WOOO, I’ve never really been the best at writing angst, but I’ve always loved consuming it letting it rip my soul apart, so here’s my take:

P.S. I’d love to be a timber wolf! They’re gorgeous, and I’ve always had a serious love for them!!

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

Breaking Point: It’s not loud, it’s violent, toward others and himself. Blood under his fingernails from clawing at his scalp, his mouth twitching in a broken grin he can’t stop. He laughs hysterically, wet and ugly as tears track down his scarred cheeks. But eventually, it cuts off. Just silence and trembling. He curls in on himself like a wounded animal, too proud to ask for help, too exhausted to push it away.

Response to Comfort: If you touch him, really touch him, gently, it short-circuits him. He jerks like he’s been struck. But if you don’t back off? If you just hold him? He breaks all over again, but softer this time. Barely whispers out,

“Don’t look at me.”

But he doesn’t move away.

✦ . ticci toby

Breaking Point: It starts with the stuttering, then the twitching worsens, hands shaking uncontrollably, gasping breaths like he’s choking on air. His mind overloads and the tics spiral into chaos. He’ll collapse into a corner, pounding fists into his legs or slamming his head back into the wall. He wants to scream but can’t form words. Just sobs through gritted teeth. He’s virtually seizing, absolutely at the mercy of his overworked body finally taking its toll on him.

Response to Comfort: He doesn’t know how to accept it. If you try, he’ll resist at first, flinch away, say,

“I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m—”

But if you stay, if you’re calm and quiet and real, he’ll eventually melt into you. He doesn’t speak, just grabs onto your sleeve like a lifeline and holds until his body is finally too tired to hurt itself any more.

✦ . eyeless jack

Breaking Point: It’s rare. But when it happens, it’s silent devastation. He hides it at first, locks himself away, curls up in the dark with blood on his hands and nothing left to justify it. There are no eyes to cry, but the tremor in his breath and the stillness of his body tell the story. Sometimes he tears off his mask, clutching it like a broken relic, like it’s the only thing left of his long-gone humanity.

“I’m not even human anymore…”

Response to Comfort: He won’t ask for it. But if you offer, not with pity, but with understanding and compassion, he’ll sit beside you in silence. Eventually, he’ll lean his head against your shoulder, and it’s the first time in years he lets himself believe someone might not flinch.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Breaking Point: Explosive. Rage masks the grief. He yells, throws things, punches walls, and then just collapses, chest heaving, vision blurred. His mind loops between past trauma and the present until he hits the floor, crying so hard he can’t breathe. Hyperventilating. Only The Operator himself could handle the devastation he’d cause if he got around other people.

“Make it stop. Just make it—make it STOP.”

Response to Comfort: Physical touch works, but only if it’s steady. Too fast and he’ll lash out. He needs you to ground him, press a hand to his chest and say his name firmly (if you can derive which one is fronting at the time). If you can keep him from spiraling, he’ll eventually grip your wrist tight and fall apart in your arms like he’s got nothing to be ashamed about the next day.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Breaking Point: Doesn’t allow people to see it. If he hits rock bottom, it’s behind a locked door. Tears are silent, shoulders shaking, fists clenched, rocking back and forth like a man trying to hold his insides together. He talks to himself under his breath, trying to reason his way out of a mind that’s far too loud to be heard in.

“It’s fine. You’re fine. No one has to know. You can fix this.”

Response to Comfort: He doesn’t want comfort, would much rather ride out whatever anguish he’s in than have someone he knows see him in that state. But if you refuse to leave, he’ll try to hide his face in your shoulder and quietly say,

“Don’t… don’t say anything. Just stay.”

It’s not trust, not yet, but it’s close.

✦ . laughing jack

Breaking Point: Utter meltdown. Laughter turning into hysterical sobs mid-sentence, his colors flicker, his body glitches, and he crumbles into a heap of striped limbs and smeared makeup.

“Why won’t they love me? Why do they scream when I try?!”

His clown exterior is shattered, and underneath is someone aching.

Response to Comfort: If you reach out with genuine affection, he doesn’t understand it at first. He cries harder, buries his face in your chest and sobs like a lost child. The moment is short-lived, but real. He’ll pretend it didn’t happen, but part of him remembers.

✦ . clockwork

Breaking Point: Hers is quiet devastation. She’ll try to act normal until she’s alone, then she just sinks. Slumped against a wall, fingernails biting into her thighs, eyes wide but seeing nothing. The tick of the clock embedded in her face becomes the only sound. Her tears are angry, full of shame, and inconsolable.

“You’re weak. You’re weak. Stop it.”

Response to Comfort: She fights it at first, tries to joke, to deflect. But if you sit beside her and just say “You don’t have to do this alone,” something in her breaks. She might whisper,

“I don’t know how to stop.”

If you stay, she’ll finally let herself cry with someone.

✦ . ben drowned

Breaking Point: Like a glitching program, he paces in circles, muttering code and fragmented memories, tearing at his hair. He doesn’t cry, he screams, digital distortion cracking through his voice.

“They deleted me. I was never real to them.”

He spirals into identity collapse, unsure what’s code, what’s emotion.

Response to Comfort: At first, he thinks it’s a trick. But if you show real warmth, like holding his hand or telling him he matters, his entire demeanor flickers. He softens, cries like a corrupted file: broken audio and blinking static, but it’s still a cry.

✦ . slenderman

Breaking Point: Almost incomprehensible. He doesn’t sob, he trembles. His tentacles writhe uncontrollably, psychic static screaming through the air like a storm. If he’s hurt enough to break, reality around him starts to fracture, trees bend, clocks melt, and time warps. Every person within a mile radius has a splintering headache worthy of tears.

Response to Comfort: No one would dare comfort him… but if someone did—touched his arm, whispered they weren’t afraid, the static would dim. He’d pull them into his arms, not for violence, but to hide the quaking of his form. He wouldn’t speak. Just hold them in an impossible silence, grateful but never saying a word.

꩜ .ᐟ

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hcneymooners · 1 month ago

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✸ TRITWWISIYTSTICS ⤷ chapter iii. to lie on your chest for years.

read on ao3.

synopsis: here.

cw: discussions of familial death, discussion of grief, mentions of injury, paige's allergy to physical intimacy, azzi's growing affection for this strange little blonde woman.

notes: hello, my doves. i hope you enjoy this. i didn't even know people really cared about it until i received asks about an update. i would love to know anything you would like to tell me about this chapter. my inbox is always open. i love you.

azzi woke to what she thought was a fox’s scream, but it was only paige's scream ringing out next to her.

it had been three weeks now, three weeks of falling asleep in a man-made field of darkness and waking with a sliver of sun singing against her skin and igniting the blonde flame of paige’s hair. despite the time, which was nothing to laugh at, azzi found herself hesitant to shake paige awake.

she tried to think of what she might do if this were a patient, but a mysterious source of tenderness rose and compelled her instead. gently, azzi shifted so that she rolled atop paige and held her limbs down bodily so that she could not hit herself accidentally.

with one hand, azzi softly scraped tendrils of hair away from paige’s cheek so she could better cup the fat of it, her infantile history still clinging to the bone, though she was older now.

“paige,” she murmured. “paige, you’re dreaming.”

a dream implied something pleasant. paige was jerking beneath her, hands clawing into the sheets as if to hold on to something or someone. so, azzi tried again.

“paige,” she said, more firmly now. “paige, it isn’t real. paige, can you hear me?”

nothing. paige's breathing came in sharp, ragged bursts, her body rigid with terror that belonged to another time, another place. azzi felt the weight of her own helplessness settle in her chest like a body on a slab. beneath her, paige began to twist, and azzi could feel the salt streak of tears.

clumsily, she lifted herself and lilted to the side so that she could yank the curtains apart and let the weak daylight stain them both. then she fled back to where she had been lying before and resettled.

with gritted teeth, she did what she had to do.

the slap wasn't hard, just sharp enough to cut through whatever held paige captive. but paige jerked awake with such violence that her forehead cracked against azzi's, stars blooming behind both their eyes. azzi let out a perfectly wounded cry, a hollow reverberation against her throat that reminded her of grief strangled and unrevealed, and she clutched at her head with rigorous hands.

before azzi could even properly register the pain, she was on her back, pinned. paige's weight settled over her with the precision of someone trained to kill, one hand flat against azzi's sternum, the other drawn up around her throat. both points of touch trembled with restraint.

for a heartbeat, they stared at each other. paige's eyes were wild, blue, and unfocused, still half-lost in whatever nightmare had claimed her. the dawn made them seem glazed like ice over water. then recognition dawned, and the horror that replaced it was almost worse.

"drew," paige whispered, the name escaping like a prayer. then another, this time fully screamed. "lauren, no! i—"

azzi spoke before she could stop it. “paige, it’s azzi. you’re having a nightmare. can you come back to me?”

the sound of azzi’s voice seemed to topple paige out of her mind’s eye. she watched as paige’s pale face contorted with horror, her hands lifting as if she had been pressing them to fire. she scrambled off azzi as if ejected by some external force, pressing herself against the headboard with her knees drawn up to her chest.

azzi opened her mouth to ask—who are they? who is drew? who is lauren?—but the questions caught in her throat like a stone. instead, she found herself saying, "hey, i'm sorry. i didn't mean to—"

"don't." paige's voice was hoarse, scraped raw. “please.”

she rolled off the bed and sat at its edge, her spine curved like a question mark. her hands were shaking, and so were azzi’s when she reached out to place a hand along her back.

"just don't."

the mattress dipped as paige pushed herself up, her bare feet hitting the floor with more force than necessary. she didn't look back as she padded toward the bathroom, shoulders rigid with mortification.

azzi lay there for a moment, staring at the canopy above her. her forehead throbbed, and she prodded it, urging the pain to resurface in all of its glory so that she could be properly punished. she lingered along the arriving bruise, committing to memory the place where paige's skull had connected with hers.

she could still feel the phantom weight of paige's body pinning her down, the controlled violence in the way she'd moved. professional. practiced.

from the bathroom came the sound of running water, violent splashing.

eventually, azzi rose and sat on the edge of the bed. she leaned forward, using the momentum to push herself up. the pain followed her forward.

she made her way to the kitchen.

azzi moved through her morning ritual with more care than usual, as if precision could somehow smooth over what had just happened. she woke the house, coaxing heat through the water pipes. she realized belatedly that this meant paige had doused herself in ice-cold water.

she shook the thought off, tugging distractedly at the hem of her nightgown as she wandered into the stomach of the kitchen. from the pantry, she pulled a small jar of honey and set it beside a tin of oats she'd been rationing. it was real, woven and housed by the bodies of bees. a luxury that quickly dwindled if she didn’t exercise self-control.

she'd found wild blackberries two days ago, their skins still taut with juice, and had been saving them. now, she wondered if the bruise growing a home on her skin would be the same color. most likely not; she had such a tendency to be dramatic.

the stove flared to life under her touch. she heated milk in a small saucepan, milk traded from the commune's goats in exchange for a rash poultice, and whisked the oats in slowly. patience.

her mother would have called it an affectation, all this care for something that would be gone in minutes. but her mother wasn't here to disapprove of the cinnamon azzi ground fresh, or the way she arranged the blackberries in careful spirals atop each bowl. the thought made a deep sadness crawl up her throat, and azzi raised a hand to her hair, which she had left loose.

if things were as they used to be, her curls would’ve been corralled into a thick braid. if she closed her eyes, she could delude herself into feeling her mother’s hands.

she was ladling honey in golden ribbons when paige emerged, dressed in yesterday's clothes. her hair was damp, still dark with water, and pushed back from her face. her eyes were carefully blank.

"i have visits today," azzi said without preamble, not looking up from the white mass of her work. "at the commune. medical rounds."

paige nodded once, accepting the bowl azzi slid across the table toward her. azzi settled into her chair, feet curling beneath her body. paige’s eyes flickered upward and then away, shame clouding around her mouth.

"i'll be gone most of the morning." azzi sat across from her, watching as paige's spoon cut through the oats with surgical precision. "you can—"

"i want to come with you."

the words came out rushed, graceless. paige's cheeks flushed pink. it reminded azzi of a strawberry’s shadow.

azzi paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. she studied paige's face; the tight line of her jaw, the way her free hand gripped the edge of the table.

"it's not exciting work," azzi said carefully. "mostly checking on the elderly. some children with coughs."

"i don't care." paige's voice was quieter now, but no less urgent. "i can't—" she stopped, jaw working. "i don't want to stay here alone today."

the honesty of it hung between them with an odd fragility. azzi swallowed down the pool of honey and blackberries, then nodded once.

"alright."

they ate in silence after that, the only sounds the soft clink of spoons against teeth and ceramic and the distant call of morning birds. azzi watched the way paige's shoulders slowly unclenched as she ate, the way color returned to her cheeks with each bite of sweetness. she hid a smile at the way paige sucked on the spoon longer than necessary, desperate to lap up every tendril of honey draped across the metal.

when they finished, azzi disappeared into her room to change, leaving paige to clean up the memory of breakfast. she emerged wearing olive-colored scrubs, frayed at the edges and soft with age, her medical bag slung over one shoulder. it was uncomfortably bulky, but azzi had long learned how to shoulder the weight.

the transformation was subtle but complete: from the woman who tended gardens and cooked elaborate breakfasts to the healer the commune relied on.

paige was waiting by the door, fully dressed, her rifle slung across her back despite the short distance they'd be traveling.

"old habits," she said when she caught azzi's questioning look.

azzi said nothing, only tilted her head. she understood old habits. about the weight of things you carried long after you needed them.

they stepped out into the morning together, the air crisp with the promise of autumn. the path to the commune wound through stands of pine and oak, leaves just beginning to turn at their edges. azzi paused, turning her head just over her shoulder.

paige was already looking at her.

“you have to leave it outside, or hide it, when we’re with them.”

paige let out a long breath, then gave a short dip of her chin. neither spoke again.

as they walked, azzi found herself glancing sideways at paige's profile, at the way morning light caught in her hair and softened the hard lines around her eyes. she studied her jaw and thought of the names that had fallen from paige's lips like a confession.

drew. lauren.

she thought of nightmares and the weight of a body trained for violence. she thought of paige’s clear restraint, how, while she had been trapped deeply in her mind, she had still hesitated to puncture the wound that was azzi’s life.

just as an odd, buzzing warmth rose into azzi’s stomach, the commune buildings appeared through the trees ahead of them, smoke rising thin and straight from morning fires. azzi felt paige tense beside her, that soldier's alertness returning.

"it's just routine," azzi said softly. "nothing to worry about."

but even as she said it, she wondered if that was true. there was something in the air this morning, something that felt like change approaching. maybe it was just the season turning, summer giving way to fall.

maybe it was the two of them.

the first few visits went well, almost beautifully.

azzi fell into her role, her face creasing into a calm, genuine smile that never ceased despite the varying conditions of her patients. she threaded ivs into veins, big and small, and pushed small faces away to spare them the trauma of seeing their blood drawn.

eventually, it grew to be a routine. the same thing, the same questions, the same press of a hand against a back as she listened to someone else breathing. the only difference was the steady placement of paige’s gaze upon her. watching, reading, noting.

she had two left, another elderly woman and a young girl by the name of kittredge. she also happened to be azzi’s favorite.

kit was last.

she lived on the edge of the commune, closer to where the world began to warp into azzi’s isolated living. azzi always came to her at the end because it was a better way to return home. kit was fairly healthy, the only signs of her youth being mottled by the state of the world being the burn scars swimming across her nose and left cheek.

she had quickly become azzi’s favorite due to her stubbornness, her adamant attempts to hide so that she didn’t have to have a doctor’s hands touch her. azzi spent hours dizzying herself inside that house, running and ducking as she followed kit’s elusive shadow from corner to corner.

as they approached the home, azzi could hear the silent rise of paige’s curiosity. the home was bundled into a thicket of trees, the wood bright and brown and coming together to form a one-level rectangular structure. there was glass everywhere.

the house urged the average passerby to look in, to look out. the sun streamed through, the rain pelted; the world never hid its injuries and changing ways. it was an open home, an odd welcoming of sensory overstimulation in a frail and failing world.

it was good for a child. it bestowed a sense of wonder, of everything being fantastical and larger than life. azzi even felt its effect despite her adulthood.

as they stepped on the path, azzi slowed and turned to paige.

“leave it here,” she said, eyes locked onto the rifle, and her tone left no room for negotiation.

paige eyed her, body straightening in opposition. there was a tense moment where azzi thought paige would disagree and decide to stay there, but she was pleasantly surprised by the ease with which paige laid her weapon on the ground.

“come,” azzi said, surprising herself by extending an outstretched hand.

another moment, another pause. paige took it. azzi’s eyes fluttered at the delicacy with which paige dragged their palms together. she tightened her hold, interlacing their fingers, and resumed her pilgrimage to kit’s house.

once she got to the front door, she slipped off her shoes and urged paige to do the same. absentmindedly, she handed paige the full weight of her back and then pushed the glass door with the tips of her fingers so that it swung in on itself.

“hello?” she called out. “is anyone home? it’s azzi.”

the house echoed her voice back to her, and azzi stepped further inside.

“mina? kit?”

again, only a firm hush. azzi stilled, angling her body so that she could see through the foyer straight down the hall. she gave it a few minutes and then saw a shadow flit across the wooden slats of the wall. there.

azzi moved toward the shadow with the practiced stealth of someone who had learned to make this into a game. behind her, she could hear paige's careful footsteps, lighter than air against the wooden floor.

"kit," azzi called in a sing-song voice, "i brought someone to meet you today."

a thump echoed from somewhere deeper in the house, followed by the soft patter of bare feet. azzi smiled despite herself, following the sound through the sun-drenched hallway. the house was a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, every surface touched by the golden afternoon streaming through the glass walls.

she found kit in what had once been a living room, now transformed into a wonderland of blankets and books, scattered toys, and drawings taped to every available surface. the child was crouched behind an overturned armchair, only the crown of her curls visible.

"i can see you," azzi said gently, setting her medical bag down with deliberate slowness.

kit's head popped up, dark eyes wary and assessing. she was small for her age, maybe seven or eight, with muted brown skin that swallowed the light like sand. freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like half-drawn constellations, and her hair formed a perfect halo of tight curls around her face. there was something guarded in her expression, something that spoke of too much understanding for such a young face.

"you're late," kit said, her tone flat.

"i know. i'm sorry." azzi knelt, making herself smaller, less threatening. "where’s your mom?”

“went to the kitchens.”

azzi hummed. i brought someone with me today. this is paige."

kit's gaze shifted to where paige stood in the doorway, studying her with the careful attention children learned when survival depended on reading adults correctly. she said nothing, just watched, her small body tense and ready to bolt.

paige tracked her eyes over her, coming to a quick understanding about why azzi had requested that she leave the rifle so far away from this illuminated fortress. her light blue irises scanned the puckered scar just beneath kit’s elbow.

bullet wound.

paige’s stomach rolled.

the negotiations began wordlessly. kit retreated further behind the chair when azzi approached with her medical bag. azzi sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting, letting kit set the pace. eventually, curiosity won over wariness, and kit crept closer, drawn by something in azzi's bag—a small kaleidoscope azzi kept for exactly this purpose.

azzi kept her breathing measured, slow, and unassuming, and after a few moments more, kit crawled closer until she was coiled into azzi’s lap with her head bent against her chest. azzi stroked her back, thumbing against the cornucopia of her ribs before she rose gently to her feet.

the examination was conducted mostly in silence, kit's small body rigid with tension against the makeshift medical table (the dining room table covered by a thin, pink sheet) even as she submitted to azzi's gentle hands. azzi worked carefully, checking kit's pulse, her breathing, and the healing of the burn scars that would never fully fade. she'd learned to read kit's moods in the set of her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes.

quiet was paramount for both of them during these sessions, the key to the ease with which the check-ups could be conducted. though no one interrupted the silence, kit had been stealing glances at paige throughout the examination, her dark eyes full of questions she couldn't articulate. finally, as azzi finished checking her reflexes, kit spoke.

"why does she keep staring at me?" she asked quietly, not looking at either of them.

azzi's hands stilled. she followed kit's gaze to where paige stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of barely controlled emotion. the recognition in paige's eyes was so raw, so devastating, that azzi felt her own breath catch.

kit shifted uncomfortably under that stare. "she looks scared," she whispered.

that was when azzi truly saw it, the realization of resemblance that had struck paige like a physical blow. she was seeing someone else in those wide, dark eyes, in the halo of curls catching the light. paige was entrapped by a ghost made flesh in a strange child's face.

she had gone completely white, her face drained of all color except for two bright spots of red high on her cheeks. she was staring at kit with an expression of such raw, devastating anguish that azzi felt her heart stutter.

"i have to—" paige's voice cracked. she backed toward the door, one hand reaching blindly for the frame. "i need some air."

she was gone before azzi could respond, the door swinging shut behind her with a whisper. through the transparent walls, azzi could see her stumbling toward where she'd left her rifle, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

"did i do something wrong?" kit asked in a small voice.

azzi turned back to her patient, forcing her voice to remain steady. "no, sweetheart. you didn't do anything wrong." she pressed her stethoscope to kit's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of a young heart. "sometimes adults get sad about things that aren't anyone's fault. it’s just the way it is."

“mommy gets really sad and quiet sometimes. is it like that?”

“yeah, baby. it’s like that.”

she finished the examination with practiced efficiency, her mind already following paige outside. kit's resemblance to someone important enough to shatter paige's careful composure was too pointed to be a coincidence, too specific to be dismissed.

when she was done, kit hugged her tight around the waist, and azzi kissed the top of her curly head, breathing in the scent of sunshine and childhood that still clung to her despite everything.

"will you bring her back?" kit asked. “to wait until my mommy comes home?”

"i don't know, sweetheart,” azzi answered honestly. "but i'll come back. i always do."

she found paige sitting on a fallen log about fifty yards from the house, her rifle across her knees but her hands empty, staring into the trees. the sun caught the tear tracks on her cheeks like silver thread, dyeing them golden and turning her into a modern saint.

azzi sat beside her without speaking, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. she waited, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"his name was drew," paige said finally, her voice rough and distant. "my little brother. he would have been—he would be nine now."

azzi said nothing, left space.

"the resemblance is fucking—" paige shook her head, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. "she looked just like him.”

"what happened?" azzi asked gently.

paige was quiet for so long that azzi thought she wouldn't answer. when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. still, it found azzi.

"minneapolis. three years ago. there was a bridge—the 35w—it was one of the main evacuation routes when the infighting reached the city." she paused, her breathing suddenly shallow. "someone decided it was strategic. decided that stopping refugees was worth more than saving them. wanted to prove a point.”

azzi felt her chest tighten. she knew the story, had heard fragments of it from others and the news, when it was still reputable. the bridge bombing that had killed hundreds of civilians trying to flee an urban combat zone.

"drew was with my step-mom and my dad," paige continued, staring straight ahead. "i was supposed to be with them, but i got called back to base at the last minute. some emergency that turned out to be nothing." her laugh was bitter, broken. "lauren—my sister—she went with them. said someone should be there to help with drew, make sure he doesn't get scared. the plan was to follow that evening with my other brother, ryan, and my mom.”

the names from the nightmare suddenly made terrible sense.

"the bridge went down at 3:47 pm on a tuesday," paige said, each word precise and careful, as if she'd memorized them. "two hundred and thirty-six people died. including a six-year-old boy with curls just like that little girl’s and almost all of my family.”

azzi reached for paige's hand, finding it cold despite the warmth of the morning. she pressed her thumbs into it, tried to coax the blood back into flow.

“my mom and ryan were in service with me. i was one of our country’s best shooters, so i got recruited to special operations. they were sent out to the site to see if there were any survivors, and the group that did it the first time? well, they did it again.”

azzi’s body shuddered with the realization, the horror. she gave up on improving paige’s circulation and just held her hand instead.

“paige—”

"i dream about it," paige whispered. "every night. every fucking night. i dream that i can save them, that i'm fast enough or smart enough or just there. but i never am."

her voice cleaved straight in two, and azzi couldn’t take it anymore. she dragged an arm up and pulled paige down, arranging her so that she was hidden from her reality in the crook of azzi’s neck. they sat in silence for a while, bodies linked and twisted, watching the light shift and drill through the leaves above them. finally, azzi spoke.

"i can’t begin to imagine how you feel," she said quietly. "but i do know something about being the one who should have been there and wasn't."

paige said nothing, only blinked and pressed harder into the jut of azzi’s collarbone.

"my family had oil interests," azzi continued, her voice steady despite the hard pulse in her chest. "refineries. before the collapse, we were what you might call obscenely wealthy. hoarders, guardians of a level of wealth that makes you a target when resources become scarce and people start choosing sides."

she paused, remembering the weight of her family's name, the way it had once opened doors and later marked them for death. she hadn’t said her last name in years.

"when the war started, my parents tried to stay neutral. thought they could negotiate with both sides, keep the oil flowing to whoever could pay. they were naive." her smile was sad and small. paige closed her eyes, focused on the rumble of her voice through her chest. "i was pre-med at johns hopkins when it happened. had been fighting with them about the business, about staying out of the conflict. i'd refused to come home."

paige's hand dropped, found her stomach, and tightened its grip. she was full and warm. paige held on.

"they were flying to a neutral meeting zone. somewhere in chicago, i think. it was intended to be a safe passage, white flags; the whole diplomatic spiel." azzi's voice hardened. "they were shot down anyway. my parents, my brothers, and six other people who thought they could find a peaceful solution to an ugly war."

"azzi," paige breathed. “jesus.”

azzi thumbed at her temple. paige had the sudden thought that this was yet another occurrence where they were far more intimate than they should be.

"i was supposed to be on that plane," azzi continued. "but something in my chest felt immovable whenever they talked about the trip. so i stayed, fought, and cursed them. saved my own life by being stubborn. by being selfish."

she pulled back and looked at paige. her eyes were blown out with pain. two large, dark stars.

"my life ended. it has ended. for so long, i was kept alive by someone else.”

“the girl,” paige murmured, “in the photo.”

azzi nodded.

“inês. she was there when i walked away. never finished medical school, but learned enough along the way to be useful. liquidated what i could, donated most of it to refugee camps and medical charities, and then kept enough for the two of us to be comfortable. then, we disappeared. i disappeared. became just another displaced person with medical training, trying to do some good in a world gone mad." she gestured toward the house where kit lived, toward the commune beyond. "this is what i chose instead of my family's legacy."

there was silence. then,

"what do you do with the guilt?" paige rasped.

"it lives in my chest like a second heart," azzi admitted. "i wanted to die for so long. i think it was less about no longer living and more about wanting to be somewhere where everything i loved kept its promise to stay alive. every single day, i wonder if i could have saved them somehow, if i'd come home for christmas, if i could’ve tried harder to change their minds.

“and i can’t. even if i went back, i couldn’t. people are—people are who they are. that’s the fault line.”

her vision blurred, and she tried to breathe but found her throat had closed. carefully, paige shifted them so that they were switched. this time, azzi was the one hidden and cared for.

the afternoon had grown cooler, but neither of them moved to leave.

"kit's probably wondering where we went," azzi said eventually, pulling back and wiping her face.

"i can't," paige said, her voice devoid of any malice. "i can't look at her again."

"i understand." azzi squeezed her hand. "but maybe someday you can.”

paige nodded, though her eyes remained distant. "maybe. no promises."

azzi rose to her feet, looked down at paige. “not ones you can't keep.”

paige’s mouth twitched, and she shifted the rifle back to where she had left it before.

they walked back toward the house together, moving slowly, neither quite ready to return to a world that demanded normalcy. but kit was waiting, and the commune needed its doctor, and grief, no matter how fresh or familiar, couldn't be allowed to stop the necessary work of staying alive.

as they approached the house, azzi saw kit's face pressed against one of the windows, watching for their return. she waved, and kit waved back, her smile barren of misery and bright enough to shame the sun.

as her foot touched the porch step, azzi paused.

“you can go home. i’ll meet you there.”

“mmm,” paige said, noncommittal. “how much longer do you think you have left?”

“it’ll probably be about an hour until mina, her mother, gets back. she works in the kitchens during the week.”

paige nodded. “i’ll be back, then, to come get you. walk you home.”

azzi felt her chest expand, the pink of her lungs growing darker with a full-body blush.

“you could come inside,” she said, lowly.

paige smiled then, the curve pale but real. “you always push.”

azzi’s eyes softened.

“i have to.”

she turned back to the house.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi dystopia au.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #dallas wings

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icarusignite · 3 months ago

Text

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.2)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: GROVELING (ish). more of Jason being a yearner like god intended, some religious metaphor shenanigans. Hurt/comfort, angst to fluff

Word Count: 3k

A/N: the amount of love part 1 received blew my mind omg, yall are the absolute sweetest, thank you. I hope you enjoy how I wrapped it up <3 Would love to hear your thoughts!

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You woke into a scene that felt like something pulled from a fever dream, or worse—a cruel afterlife stitched together by the frayed edges of your longing. Everything was bathed in an almost sacred kind of stillness, so at odds with the agony blooming just beneath your skin. It was too warm. Your body felt swaddled in heat, sunk deep into softness, and for a moment you couldn’t remember why that should feel so strange. Why the warmth felt like betrayal. Why your ribs felt like they were being pried open with every breath.

And then it began to return. Not all at once, but in shattering fragments. The cold tiles, the sting in your side, the dim bathroom light flickering against the red that wouldn't stop coming. And the loneliness. God, the loneliness.

But you weren’t in that tomb of porcelain and mildew anymore. Someone had moved you. Carried you, tended to you. You were in your bed, the edge of your blanket folded over with care, and your pillow fluffed just enough, like a memory from childhood reimagined in a cracked mirror. The surrealism of it nearly brought tears to your eyes, until you turned your head, and saw him.

Your breath caught in your throat. He looked like hell. His jacket was slung over the chair, his gloves were forgotten on your nightstand, and his helmet was nowhere to be seen. But his eyes were the same. Wild and wide and far too human, locking onto yours the moment you blinked.

And then he moved. Bolted upright from his seat as if your gaze had yanked him forward with a chain, and his hand shot out to reach for you before he hesitated, curling his fingers into a fist mid-air, holding himself back.

“You’re awake?” he said hoarsely.

You couldn’t answer, because now you remembered. You remembered everything.

The rain. The sick, spinning cold. The dying.

And him of course.

His silence. His absence. The words he'd left you with, sharp as glass, tearing through you with more cruelty than any dagger to the ribs. The memories hit you like the tail end of a speeding car, and your face twisted as the grief crested again, too exhausted to cry but too full not to break.

Jason watched it happen in your expression, and he flinched like he’d been struck.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m—fuck, I’m so sorry. I should’ve never—”

But he didn’t finish. What was there to finish?

He should’ve never left. He should’ve never come back. He should’ve never let you in. He should’ve never pretended you didn’t already live somewhere in his very marrow.

You ignored his words. Your throat burned like you'd swallowed nails. None of this could be real. Not the warmth of the bed. Not the hurt terrorizing in your insides. Not him.

This was a hallucination, you decided, clawed up from the borderlands of death. And none of it mattered. What mattered was water. You needed water.

Gritting your teeth, you shoved the covers off, swinging your legs over the bed in defiance of your own body. The floor was far too cold when your bare feet touched down, and when you stood, your knees buckled. A tremor ran up your spine and you nearly folded in half from the agony that bloomed beneath your ribs. A tear broke loose, trailing your cheek like an apology you didn’t want to give. You told yourself it was from the pain. It had nothing to do with the figure at your bedside.

He was there in an instant. His hands caught your shoulders, steadied you before you could collapse into a heap of stubborn bones and bleeding skin. And you reflexively flinched at his touch.

You didn’t mean to, and you hated the way his face shifted when you did, like you’d just torn something open in him with your recoil.

“Where are you going?” he asked hesitantly. “You should rest—”

“Don’t,” you croaked, voice splintering. A sob caught sharp in your throat like a shard of glass.

Jason blinked. “Don’t what? I was only trying to—”

You shook your head, twisting out of his grasp, something volatile overtaking your features. Whatever mask of patience you usually wore had been peeled away, discarded along with the rest of your composure in some filthy alley.

“Don’t do this.”

His brow knit together. “Do what?”

“Pretend like you care,” you rasped. “Make room for yourself in my life, only to walk out again. I can’t—” The next breath hitched. “I wouldn’t survive it a second time.”

His mouth opened, but you cut him off.

“If you’re going to leave, do it now. Don’t play nurse. Don’t patch me up like it makes things even. Don’t do it for karma points or whatever misplaced guilt brought you here. Don’t do it because you think you owe me something. You don’t.”

"That's not what I—"

“Get out. Get lost. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. I don't want your pity.”

Each word struck him like a hammer to the chest, and you watched it land. The recoil. The wince. The way the light in his eyes dimmed a little more with each sentence, his own words flung back at him.

But you couldn't stop. You were exhausted and hollowed out, emptied by loneliness and agony and the effort it took to survive when your heart felt like it had been left bleeding beside your body in that alley. And if you were going to be abandoned again, you’d rather be abandoned now. You couldn’t bear the slow unravelling of his presence settling into your world again, only to disappear without warning.

You didn’t want to relearn the shape of him in your life only to lose it all over again. You were already a ghost of yourself. You couldn’t become less.

Jason watched you fold like a dying thing. Quiet and slow, like paper soaked through, caving under its own weight. One second you were standing there, brittle and defiant, and the next, you were crumpled on the floor, your arms around yourself like even your bones didn’t want to stay inside you anymore.

He dropped down with you in an instant. Instinct, more than anything. His hands reached out to anchor you to the moment as if it might save you from whatever abyss you were staring into.

You didn’t fight him. That was the part that hurt the most.

He expected fury. He would’ve welcomed the worst of your vitriol because it was better than this lifeless resignation. As if you'd already decided that you should have died.

Still, he touched you, tentative at first, expecting to be struck. Cradled your cheeks between his scarred palms, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even seem to notice you were shedding. He murmured your name like a mantra, forehead pressing to yours, letting his voice tremble with all the apologies he didn’t know how to shape into words.

And you just let him. For one suspended heartbeat, you let him in.

Your stare was empty, gaze sliding past him like a spectre, but then you focused. Met his eyes.

“Red,” you rasped. "Why..."

A name he used to wear like armour. A name you’d once said in jest, in irritation, in sleepy fondness, curled up in the cocoon of your mismatched apartment.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

“Jason,” he whispered. “It’s Jason. Call me Jason.”

He didn’t have anything else to give you. No house with a picket fence. No promises. No future carved from stability or peace. But he could give you this. Himself. Stripped down, unmasked, unhidden.

“I don’t want your pity,” you repeated.

You refused to say his name, and he didn’t let it show, how that sliced clean through him. How it burned like acid in the hollow of his chest. He’d taken bullets more gently than that omission.

He might’ve laughed if his lungs could move. Pity? You thought that’s what this was?

God. If only it were that easy.

No, this wasn’t pity. This wasn’t some obligation born of guilt. If it were, he wouldn’t have kept orbiting your apartment like some tragic satellite. Wouldn’t have looked for excuses to linger at the bodega you liked. Wouldn’t have memorized the light in your kitchen window during certain hours. Wouldn’t have felt the earth tilt whenever he caught you sitting at the table, staring absently at his old chair, a steaming cup left untouched across from you like a shrine.

It wasn’t pity when you handed him a mug, your fingers brushing his, and he spent the next three days wondering if you’d noticed how hard he swallowed. It wasn’t pity when, in the pitch-dark silence of a blood-soaked rooftop, he thought only of you. Your laughter. Your sighs.

It wasn’t pity when he walked past that bookstore you liked, the one with the crooked shelves and sleepy cat in the window, and found himself wishing he'd taken you up on your offer to accompany you on one of your many visits. He still had an annotated copy of your favourite novel, a sticky note with your handwriting in the margins: “This part reminded me of you.”

And it certainly wasn’t pity when every fight he picked, every near-death brawl he barely walked away from felt a little colder without your voice in his ear, grounding him.

It wasn’t pity. It was you.

And he hated that it had taken almost losing you to realize that he was not better off without you in his life.

He reached up again, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the gentleness of someone afraid you’d shatter if he touched you wrong. His other hand smoothed the wrinkle between your brows as if he could erase even one fraction of your hurt.

Then, forehead to yours, he declared it like a vow. Maybe if he was sincere enough, the universe might spare you both.

“Not pity. Never pity. I swear it.”

Jason Todd had never known grace. Not the kind whispered in the hush of cathedral pews or sung in the devout voices of choirs beneath vaulted ceilings, but if it ever existed, he imagined it wore your face.

You were a prayer he had no right to say, but he uttered your name like one anyway, each syllable pressed to the roof of his mouth like a secret devotion. In a life stitched with broken psalms and carmine confessions, you were the only thing untouched. A quiet sanctity in the middle of his ruin.

He wasn’t meant for soft things. His world was serrated edges and retribution, bruised knuckles and smoke-stained silence. But you were something else entirely. You were Sunday morning light through grimy windows. The stillness after the storm. The first inhale after nearly drowning. He would have knelt at your feet if he thought it could keep you safe. Would have bled himself dry if it meant you’d never bleed again.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was the height of blasphemy, to look at something so good and want it for himself. But the ache in him wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t even lust. It was longing, bone-deep and soul-starved. The reverent need to shelter you. To stand between you and the world’s worst cruelties, like an archangel guarding the last holy thing he’d ever know.

He didn’t deserve you. He knew that much. Jason had clawed his way back from the grave with dirt in his lungs and vengeance in his veins, not love. And yet, he wanted to believe that wanting could make it so. That yearning, in its purest form, might be enough to rewrite a man’s fate. Maybe wanting something so fiercely meant you could deserve a piece of it.

Maybe for once in his godless life, he would get to have something and keep it. Maybe that something could be you.

Something inside you broke the moment his fingers combed through your hair, like each strand was spun from gold and he feared his touch might undo you entirely. His hands quivered as they cupped your face, and it felt like he was trying to will you whole again through sheer desperation.

Then he gave you his name, and you felt everything go motionless, like the wind outside had paused mid-gust, like the ache in your ribs had dulled just for a moment, stunned into silence.

Jason.

It wasn’t a name you had guessed at. He had always been Red Hood to you, a shadow at your window, never quite real, never entirely yours.

But Jason?

Jason was human. Jason was a name carved in soft syllables, not the hard edges of the mask he wore. It was a name that felt like the sun on concrete after the rain. Solid. Honest. A name you could say in the dark and know someone would answer.

You held the syllables on your tongue like a secret. God, it fit so achingly well, like it had always been stitched into the seams of your life, waiting to be revealed.

And when he said it—“It’s Jason. Call me Jason.”—it wasn’t a demand. It was a gift. His truth, stripped bare, handed to you like an apology wrapped in longing. You hadn’t asked for it, but he had given it anyway, and now you knew it. Now it was yours. You never wanted to let it go.

The tears came hard and fast after that, like a dam rupturing, and you collapsed into him with the weight of it all. Your grief, your fear, the loneliness that had become a second skin. It spilled out in great heaving sobs that made your bruised insides scream in protest. Nonetheless, you sobbed, gasping for breath as though your lungs no longer remembered how to hold air.

Jason, as always, caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like armour, and you felt the tremble in them too. He held you not as if you were fragile, but as if he might fall apart if he let go. You hated yourself for clinging, for staining his shirt with tears, for taking up space in a life like his, like an old ornament someone had meant to throw out. You thought he’d pull away. You thought he should.

But he never did.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, choking on the words.

“Hey, none of that, now” he murmured into your hair. “You don’t apologize to me. Ever.”

Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt, the scent of smoke and rain and something inherently him grounding you. “I didn’t want to be a bother. You said to let you go.”

Jason pulled back just enough to see your face, his thumb brushing beneath your eyes. His own shone with something terrible and beautiful—grief, regret, reverence. He shook his head, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak.

“You came?” you rasped. “You really came?”

He swallowed. “Of course, I came. You were supposed to call me. That’s what the number was for.” He held up the burner phone like it was a relic.

You looked away, the shame unbearable. “Didn’t want to be… a burden. You said—”

“I know what I said. And I was a goddamn idiot for it. I’m sorry. I can’t be sorry enough.”

“Yeah but—”

“You’re not a bother,” he affirmed, fiercely now. “Not to me. Not ever. You call me—any hour, any day—I will come. In a heartbeat. I don’t care where I am, who I’m with. I will always come for you.”

"Oh."

Held you tighter then, whispering your name like it was holy. Like you were something worthy. Something his.

“I’ve got you,” he professed, over and over again. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I swear it.”

And for once you let yourself believe it.

When your breathing finally slowed, you felt his arms move beneath you, one under your legs, the other steady at your back. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing at all, tucking you back into bed with a tenderness that made your chest throb all over again, but this time for a different reason entirely.

You blinked blearily at him, just in time to see him pick up something from the bedside table. A mug, steam curling faintly from the surface.

“Made you tea," he indicated. "Though it’s probably shit.”

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. It felt foreign on your face like it belonged to someone else.

“Thank you.”

He gave you a nod, awkward and a little unsure. Then he turned as if to leave, and you panicked at the sight. You reached out, not even grabbing him properly, just the ghost of your fingers brushing his wrist. Regardless, he stopped like you’d tethered him with chains. The expression on his face was hopeful, like a man on the edge of salvation. It was almost too much to bear.

“Will you stay?”

For a second, he said nothing. You felt the fear rise, a tide ready to swallow you whole. Maybe you’d pushed too far. Maybe this was where he decided it wasn’t worth it after all.

But then, he nodded. His shoulders relaxed, eyes softening as if he couldn’t believe you wanted him here. That you chose him.

He sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating through the space between you. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, or maybe it was the rawness still bleeding at the edges of your soul, but the confession spilled out before you could stop it.

“Thank you... I’m glad you came. I didn’t... I didn’t want to die. I was—”

Scared. You were scared. You had been terrified of dying alone, with no one to mourn you, with no one to even remember that you had existed. Just another blemish on the tapestry of the city.

Before you could finish, Jason pulled you gently to him, your head finding the cradle of his shoulder like it had always belonged there. His arm wrapped securely around you, grounding you, steadying your breath. You closed your eyes, lulled by the beat of his heart beneath your cheek, the solid presence of him where the void had been.

And when you were just about to slip into sleep again, you felt it—or thought you did. The softest press of lips against your temple, so light it could’ve been a dream. All of tonight might as well have been a dream, one you never wanted to wake up from.

But his words? Those were real. They etched themselves into your mind with a gravity that no dream could hold.

“I will never let anything happen to you ever again.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd headcanon #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd #red hood x reader #red hood fanfiction #red hood #dc fanfic #dc comics #dc universe #batfamily #batfam

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dreamauri · 4 months ago

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♪ — 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨 - seven, finale mafia! charles leclerc x wife! reader ( angst -> fluff ) series summary . . . after preparing your whole life to be married off to a mafia boss, you now have the difficult task of figuring out your new marriage and life, ensuring they don't turn out to be miserable.

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THE SHARP STING of Max’s grip on your arm felt secondary to the roaring in your ears, your mind a whirlwind of panic, grief, and fury.

Your body moved on instinct, twisting in his grasp, yanking yourself free with a strength fueled by desperation. You stumbled back, breath ragged, before you spun and bolted toward the glass doors.

Your hand flew to your holster as you ran, pulling out your gun in one smooth motion. Without thinking, you raised it and fired. The gunshot rang through the room, but the bullet only left a faint smudge against the glass. It was bulletproof.

Your stomach twisted with panic as the realization hit you. Of course it was. You had ordered for it to be reinforced, to be bullet proof. You were the one who had insisted on the security measures. How could you be so stupid?

A sigh sounded from behind you, almost amused.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Max’s voice was infuriatingly calm.

You didn’t answer, fumbling for the door handle instead. Your fingers trembled as you wrenched it open, just about to bolt outside, but Max was faster.

His arm snaked around your waist, yanking you backward with ease. You struggled, clawing at his grip, but it was useless. He was stronger, more composed, while your panic was consuming you.

“No, no, no—let me go!” Your voice cracked as you thrashed against him, your eyes darting to where Charles had fallen.

You had to get to him.

You needed to get to him.

Your breath hitched, coming in short, sharp gasps as the walls seemed to close in around you. Your lungs felt tight, your vision tunneling. Everything blurred into flashes of movement—Max’s hands, the blood outside, the reflection of your own horror-stricken face in the glass.

Your knees buckled.

Max’s grip loosened, shifting from restraint to something softer. His palm smoothed over your hair, a quiet hush leaving his lips as he tried to steady you. “Breathe, schatje,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Just breathe.”

His touch should have burned. His concern should have been meaningless. But your body was betraying you, collapsing into his hold as if he were your only tether to reality. Your hands curled into his jacket, struggling for air, your mind screaming at you to move, to fight, to—

The weight of the gun in your hand grounded you.

With whatever strength you had left, you lifted your arm, pressing the barrel firmly against Max’s chest.

“Back. Off.”

Max gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he stared you down, unflinching.

You didn’t hesitate. You turned the gun, aiming past his shoulder, and fired.

The vase behind him shattered on impact, shards of glass exploding across the floor.

Max didn’t even flinch. His lips pressed together, something dark flickering behind his blue eyes.

Then, his composure cracked.

“Why are you fighting me?” he snapped, stepping closer, forcing you back a step. His presence was suffocating, overwhelming. “I could give you everything, Yn! Charles already failed to protect you. You think he’s the better choice? You think he can keep you safe when he couldn’t even save himself?”

Your grip on the gun tightened. “I don’t need to be saved, Max. I need to be free to make my own damn choices!”

He let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “Then choose me!” His voice was raw now, anger laced with something desperate. “I love you, goddammit! I’ve always loved you—”

“You don’t love me,” you spat, eyes burning with fresh tears. “You’re obsessed. With me. With the idea of us. With what we could have been. But you don’t love me—”

Max cut you off the only way he knew how.

His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your words with a kiss so fierce, so consuming, it left you breathless.

But you didn’t melt into it. You didn’t.

Instead, you shoved him away, scrambling back, gasping for air as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand like his touch was poison. Your fingers trembled as you lifted your gun again, this time pressing it firmly against his head.

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “We both know you won’t do it,” he muttered.

Your jaw clenched. “You know me well enough to know that I hate guns. But maybe, just maybe—” Your voice cracked, tears spilling down your cheeks as you pressed the barrel harder against his skull. “Maybe I’ll give myself a free pass.”

Max raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Just to return the favour,” Your breath shuddered. “Because you shot my husband.”

For a moment, he laughed. A low, humorless chuckle.

Then—

BANG.

Max’s body jerked violently as the bullet tore through his right hip.

He let out a sharp, pained grunt, staggering back as his hand clutched at the wound, blood soaking through his pants. His face contorted with shock, then anger, then something else—something almost impressed.

But you didn’t stay to see what else he had to say.

You turned and ran.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you burst into the next room, your feet skidding against the floor as you found Charles.

He was on the ground, slumped against the wall, his white shirt stained crimson, but—

He was breathing.

Your knees hit the floor beside him, hands immediately pressing down on his chest to stop the bleeding.

“Charles,” you gasped, your vision blurring. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”

A weak chuckle rasped past his lips. “Merde, you’re loud.”

You let out a half-sob, half-laugh, shaking your head as you fought to keep the pressure firm. “Don’t joke right now, Charles. You were shot—”

He exhaled, his free hand reaching up to brush your hair back from your face. “And yet, I’m still here,” he murmured, a lazy sile playing at his lips. His thumb stroked your cheek. “I must be lucky.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I thought I lost you.”

His fingers curled weakly around your wrist. “I’d never leave you, mon amour. Don’t worry, I’ll live.”

Your heart clenches, a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you.

Then—because only Charles could do this in the middle of bleeding out—he looked up at you, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You know,” he rasped, “I was so close to death . . . and I’ve never tasted my wife’s cooking.”

Your brows furrowed. “Charles, what—”

His lips curled into a teasing smirk. “I’m just saying. A near-death experience should at least get me a homemade meal.”

A breathless laugh bubbled past your lips.

He was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet, as you looked at him—alive, breathing, yours—you couldn’t help but smile through your tears.

THE MEN WORKED in silence, their quiet efficiency doing little to erase the chaos that had unfolded. The house was a wreck—shattered glass glinting under the dim lights, streaks of blood smeared across the floors, and, most notably, a passed-out Max Verstappen sprawled across your living room like some ridiculous war prize.

Outside, beneath the vast stretch of midnight sky, Charles lay with his head in your lap, his freshly stitched wound stark against his pale skin. You hadn’t moved him from where he’d fallen in the grass—too shaken to let go, too afraid to lift your hands from the proof that he was still here, still breathing.

His eyes were half-lidded, weighed down with exhaustion, but his lips curled into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. "You know, mon amour, the least you could do is handle things for me, considering I was shot."

You scoffed, threading your fingers through his hair, letting them linger just a little too long to sell your irritation. "Right, because getting yourself shot was such an ordeal."

"It was," he murmured, tilting his head into your touch like a spoiled cat. "I had to take a bullet, fall dramatically, make sure you were sufficiently distressed... Très difficile."

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, your free hand moved instinctively, waving one of the men over. You whispered instructions, giving orders in Charles's place, and he hummed in amusement as you did. Even half-conscious and bleeding, he found a way to be entertained.

Eventually, the villa emptied, the weight of the night settling over you both like a heavy quilt. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of damp earth mixing with the lingering tang of blood. Somewhere in the distance, the world carried on—frogs croaking, waves rolling in, the faint hum of cicadas. Above you, the stars stretched wide and endless, like silent witnesses to the wreckage of the evening.

Your fingers never stopped moving, tracing slow circles against his scalp. Charles let out a quiet sigh, a sound of deep, aching contentment, as if this moment—just you, just him—was enough to wash away the pain.

Then—

BONG.

The sharp, eerie toll of the grandfather clock cut through the stillness.

You both jolted like startled children, eyes snapping toward the house. For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, Charles groaned.

"That stupid clock—"

Laughter bubbled up before you could stop it, light and breathless, and then Charles's followed—low and raw in his chest. It was absurd, all of it. The blood, the bodies, the sheer ridiculousness of getting spooked by an old clock after everything that had happened.

You wiped at your eyes, giggling. "Scared of the clock now?"

Charles huffed, though the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away. "I don’t like surprises, ma belle."

You leaned down, brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat, your words murmured against his skin. "This is no surprise, Charles. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be."

The clock struck again.

And again.

Twelve times in total.

Midnight.

Your laughter faded, but the warmth lingered as you gazed down at him. Charles met your eyes, the teasing edge in his expression softening into something quieter, something deeper. Slowly, he reached up, fingers ghosting along your cheek, and you leaned into his touch, your own hand finding his jaw.

And then, you kissed.

Midnight. The stars. And you.

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bunji-enthusiast · 3 months ago

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hi Benji , hope you're doing well . I was wondering since you did a cat noir!reader are you willing to please do a ladybug!reader too for invincible . I really loved ur cat noir!reader . 💜

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐠

Summary || you who wields the power of creation, but it seems to contradict your own belief and actions.

Note // hey thank you for reading it! I’m almost done with part 2 to the chat noir!reader too lol. But you know the deal, hope you like this one :))

The sky is cracked open with flame and smoke. Concrete crumbles beneath your feet as the battlefield in downtown Chicago erupts into chaos. You dodge a jet of energy—blue and sharp as a blade—rolling beneath it and vaulting into the air with your yo-yo slinging wide in a sharp arc. The villain—a warped fusion of cybernetics and cloned muscle, someone the G.D.A. was tracking for weeks—has Mark pinned.

He’s coughing blood.

You see him first, tangled beneath a chunk of collapsed parking garage. His iconic black-and-blue suit is scorched and split down one side, and one of his goggles is cracked. His arm is twisted unnaturally, blood gushing from a jagged wound in his side that you know came dangerously close to vital organs. Maybe even the heart. Viltrumite or not, Mark's bleeding too much.

The moment stretches thin.

You don’t hesitate.

Your yo-yo snaps open like a heartbeat—zip, crack, swing. The weapon spins like a blur of red fury, slamming into the cyborg villain’s jaw. You hurl yourself forward, flipping midair, tucking close before launching yourself off the edge of a shattered rooftop and slamming down between Mark and the towering threat.

“You don’t die today, Grayson,” you say through gritted teeth.

The villain growls, charging again, but you meet them head-on. Your body moves on instinct, calling on every fight, every loss, every moment of exhaustion you’ve carried. Creation floods your muscles—a golden light just beneath your skin—and with a twist of your hand, your yo-yo elongates into a hard-light construct, glowing red-hot as it wraps around the villain's legs like a lasso. You yank. Hard.

They go down.

Not out. But down.

You turn to Mark. He tries to sit up, but his hand slips in his own blood. His lip is busted. The pain in his eyes isn’t just from the injury—it’s frustration, guilt, helplessness. You’ve seen it before. You’ve felt it before.

“Hey,” you breathe, kneeling beside him. You pull a vial from your belt—an emergency clotting serum. You press it to his wound. “Stay with me, tough guy. You’re not invincible today.”

He laughs weakly. “You’re hilarious.”

And then, softer. “I should’ve been faster. Stronger. He nearly—”

“No,” you cut him off. “You don’t get to blame yourself for bleeding while saving people.”

He flinches at that. The weight of his Viltrumite pride coiled so tightly around his chest it’s a wonder he can breathe. You know that weight. Yours just comes in spots and red string.

The villain rises again.

You stand. Between them and Mark. You're breathing hard, arms aching, mind already racing through options—distraction, entrapment, maybe an overload burst. You don't have long.

But you don’t have to hold the line alone.

A green blur descends from the sky.

Debbie Grayson.

She’s not flying—no. She's in a helicopter, hanging onto the side, her eyes locked on the wreckage. The G.D.A. extraction team is just behind her, but she jumped ahead. Literally.

The moment her feet hit the ground and she sees her son, her whole expression breaks.

“Mark!”

She’s by his side before you can blink. You almost step back out of instinct—you’re used to people thanking you, panicking, then vanishing. But Debbie Grayson? She looks right at you, tears in her eyes and grief written in every line of her face.

“Thank you,” she says.

You blink. You expected... questions. Anger. Maybe even silence.

But she touches your arm. Firm. Present. “You saved my son’s life.”

You try to shake it off. “It’s my job.”

“No.” Her voice cuts through the noise around you. “Your job is surviving. What you did—that was human. That was heart. And I don’t care if you're spotted like a ladybug or armored like a tank, you’re still someone’s child. You get that?”

You freeze.

She sees it—how those words hit you. Like she peeled back the red and black and saw you. Really saw you.

And she leans in a little closer. “You can’t pour from an empty cup. Mark tries. I know that all too well. But so do you, don’t you? You wear yourself thin, don’t let yourself feel tired, because you think being tired means failing someone.”

You try to look away. She doesn’t let you.

“I told my son once: My responsibility will always be to my family first. And that’s never going to change. You may not have a son, or a daughter, or a spouse—but you’ve got a self. You’re part of a family too—found or blood, it doesn’t matter. And you can’t protect anyone if you forget how to protect her.”

Her. You.

Your knees nearly buckle—not from the battle, but from how much you needed to hear that.

You nod, slowly. Voice rough. “Thank you, Debbie.”

She smiles. “Now go. We’ve got him. You’ve got more people to save, don’t you?”

You glance down at Mark—already being lifted onto a G.D.A. gurney, his hand raised in a tired but grateful wave.

You smile back at him, and you rise.

And as you swing back into the sky, trailing a ribbon of red light, you feel lighter. Not because the city’s safe. Not because the villain is down. But because, for the first time in what feels like forever, someone reminded you:

You're not just Ladybug, the spotted bug hero who wields the power of creation.

You're you.

And that’s worth protecting too.

#invincible fanfic #invincible crossover #mark grayson x y/n #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible mark grayson #debbie invincible #debbie grayson #invincible x y/n #invincible x you #invincible x reader

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starlit-writer · 5 months ago

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in sickness and in health, ch. 4 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

here is chapter four!!!! this chapter is shorter than normal, but i needed to get this done for you guys <3 i definitely am excited to continue this, and i hope you are too!!! as always, if you want to be added to the tag list to make sure you stay up-to-date, let me know in the replies! eat well, lovelies <3

if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

word count: 3,070 chapter three masterlist ao3 link

Your head was pounding as you stalked through the hallways of the base, away from the gym. You didn’t know your destination, your heavy, angry footsteps becoming a monotonous beat that kept you from falling over the edge. You were filled with so many confusing and conflicting emotions, which made it hard to think, let alone even begin to comprehend the miserable cocktail thrumming through your veins. Your omega side was so enamored with Simon’s behavior, whining to stay close and let him apologize, but your more logical side wouldn’t let you. What had he done to deserve your forgiveness?

The short answer? Nothing. Sure, he stayed by you when you were sick, but he was the reason for it to begin with. Past then, it’s been nothing but fights and weirdness, and you hadn’t seen any glimpse of change or improvement. You felt lost and confused - the two sides of your being constantly at war with one another.

You were so lost in your own internal conflict, you didn’t even notice the other person in the hallway until it was too late, and your face met the hard planes of their chest. The scent of wind-carried sea salt, fresh candied apples, and the dust of a demolition site invaded your senses, and your head whipped up in surprise to find Soap looking down at you. His signature smirk was playing on his lips, but his bright blue eyes shone with concern as his hands settled onto your hips to keep you in place before quickly slipping off.

“Woah there, bonnie. Where ye headed with all that steam blowin’ out yer ears?”

You stared up at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - an apt representation of how you felt at the moment. You tried to come up with something, anything to tell him, but no words would fall past your lips. The vitriol you felt towards Simon died in the back of your throat, your omega caught between wanting to defend your alpha and the reality of your situation. So you settled for placation.

“I’m fine, Soap. Not a big deal.”

It was a lie passed through gritted teeth, and Soap could tell, especially as you looked away to avoid his eyes. His gaze softened, and he brought a gentle finger to your cheek to force you to look at him.

“It’s Ghost, yeah?”

You blew out a frustrated puff of air, unwelcomed tears welling in your lash line. You were angry - angry with Simon, with yourself, with your designation, with society as a whole, anything you could possibly blame to even attempt to make sense of all of your emotions. But even anger couldn’t completely mask the bone-deep grief that had settled over you like a lead-lined blanket. All you wanted was to feel normal again. Unfortunately for you, it seemed likely for that to never be the case again. You were bonded to an alpha who, up until a week and a half ago, refused to even acknowledge you outside of mission-related conversations, and now he had become some sort of overprotective, overbearing asshole.

“I just… I don’t know what to do. I want to hate him. Gods, I want to hate him. But…”

“He’s your alpha.”

“Exactly.” You ran a hand down your face, trying to force the traitorous tears away. Soap sighed in resigned understanding, his hand settling on your shoulder. You couldn’t help but notice how his touch was angled strangely, his wrist turned out in an odd angle that just so happened to press the scent gland on his wrist right into your own scent gland right in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You weren’t wearing your scent blockers, a medically necessary intervention to try and keep the bond sickness away. Why he wasn’t wearing his, you didn’t know, but it felt rude to point out or ask about. You tried to ignore it, to convince yourself that it was just coincidence, a mistake, but the way he pressed his skin further into yours made it hard to believe.

To confound the emotional turmoil even further, your omega was now not only at war with your logical, rational side, but also itself. Soap’s touch, his scent, felt good. Safe. More familiar to you than even your own alpha’s after the last few months. But that was just the problem, wasn’t it? Soap wasn’t your alpha. He was a part of your pack, sure, but he wasn’t your alpha. And right now? Right now all your omega wanted was your alpha, no matter how upset you were. But, you were far too prideful to actually admit that at the moment.

Instead, you gently shrugged off Soap’s touch. As his hand slid off your shoulder, an almost sad smile appeared on his lips. “He cares about you, you know?”

Your gaze snapped back to Soap’s, your lips parted in surprise. Your mind whirled, racing with conflicting thoughts, hopes, fears, and desires. Soap shook his head, that same sad smile accompanied by a small, sad laugh. “He does. He’s just shite at showin’ it. Just… give ‘im a chance, aye?”

And with that, Soap walks away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his military-issued cargo pants, leaving you completely shocked and stunned.

—

It was nearing midnight, if the time blinking in a bright red on your alarm clock was any indication, but sleep still stubbornly refused to take you. You were sprawled out uncomfortably on your military-issued bed, the result of tossing and turning nonstop since you had laid down. After your conversation with Soap, if you could even call it that, you picked up a shift at medbay, but even your work, something you had missed deeply in the worst throes of the bond sickness, couldn’t quell the pain and anger. But even worse than the pain and anger was the confusion. Why did Soap act the way he did? It felt like there was more than what he was saying, but maybe you were reading too far into it. And right now, as shit as it felt to say it, it was the least of your problems.

It had only been a few hours since Simon had interrupted your sparring session, and the bond was stronger than it had been, even with your anger and resentment and the distance that you had created between the two of you. You still couldn’t feel his emotions very well, even when you tried to focus on it, but you just chalked that up to the fact that your own emotions were blocking him out, as strong and volatile as they were at the moment. It didn’t matter to your omega though. Your base instincts were prowling inside of you, your skin prickling with the need to be near your alpha.

And that’s how Simon’s crumpled up sweatshirt that you had thrown into the corner ended up on your bed, tucked between your pillows as you laid in the dark room. Soap’s words echoed in your ears, his Scottish brogue repeating to just give Simon a chance. You were so tired. Tired of everything. The type of bone deep exhaustion that you knew a simple night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. And that type of fatigue only brings weakness, and weakness brings irrationality. Plus, Simon’s sweatshirt was losing its scent, leaving your omega side even more on edge. Even though you hadn’t touched it until tonight, it had been sitting in the corner for a week, and it barely held the residual scent of the harsher scents of Simon’s pheromones. You knew that already, as you had unabashedly buried your face into it a few minutes ago to try and subdue your omega side enough to find sleep. But instead of finding the smoked pine, wet gunpowder, and a freshly-lit cigarette smell you knew should be there, you found it all smelling stale and rotted, which only made your omega freak out more.

You flopped onto your back, a groan of frustration leaving your lips. You picked up your phone for the umpteenth time that night, but this time your finger hovered over Simon’s contact. Soap’s words whispered in your mind again, but this time, you listened.

Your fingers flew across the screen before your more rational side could stop them.

Hey. Are you awake? We need to talk.

You threw your phone down onto your bed, your hands flying up to cover your face as another groan of frustration pushed past your lips. You hated this. All of it. You wished you could go back in time and somehow stopped all of this from happening. But, it didn’t work like that.

Simon wasn’t in any better of a state than you. He rarely slept as is, but he had found it especially hard since you had left his quarters. His thoughts were all consumed by self-deprecation and fear, and those thoughts became especially loud in the darkness of his quarters, where your sick, rotted scent still clung to his bedsheets from where you had laid for those three days. When he heard his phone buzz from where it lay face down on his bedside table, he had half a mind to ignore it, just as he had done with everything other than work the last week and a half. But something told him that it was important. He sighed, stretching his arm out to blindly grab at the device from where he was laying face down in his bed. He looked at the bright screen, his eyes adjusting to the light. As soon as he saw your name flashing across his screen, he flipped over and sat up. His heart raced as he read your text, so many worst-case scenarios flashing through his mind.

He normally wasn’t the type to worry like this. To feel anything for anyone, as evidenced by the neglect he had put you through. But, after seeing you so close to death, and his conversations with Soap and Price, he had noticed it more and more. This all-consuming desire to protect you, to be what you need. But, he would still stand by what he told you that very first day, before you had passed out. If you still wanted to break the bond, he would.

He just hoped that this wasn’t what this conversation was going to be about.

Do you want me to come to yours or do you want to come here?

His response was short, succinct. The detached words completely betrayed the way his hands shook as he typed out the response carefully, trying to give you the space to make the decision without being too overbearing.

Your response didn’t come on his phone. Instead, 10 minutes later, there was a soft knock on his door. He jumped out of bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants. As he opened the door with one hand, the other was deftly tying the strings of his pants.

Your gaze fell down to the movement, your cheeks heating up in a flush of embarrassment before your gaze snapped up to Simon’s. Your tongue felt heavy, uncertain of itself. “Hi.”

Your scent hit Simon at full-force. You smelled better than you had the last time you were in his quarters. Your warm, caramelized vanilla, full of spice and the thinnest layer of medical antiseptic and gunpowder. It smelled much more like you, right, but there was still something off. You smelled… defeated, almost, like you had given up. And, maybe, you had.

“Hey,” he whispered back in response. He felt uncertain, something he wasn’t familiar with. “You said we needed to talk?”

You looked down at the floor, biting the corner of your lower lip. You knew what you needed, what your omega wanted, but your logical side was holding you back. You nodded slightly, keeping your gaze averted. “Can I come in?”

Simon nodded, even though you couldn’t see it, and stepped back. You stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind you. You looked around the room, noticing how much it hadn’t changed. Simon’s sheets were mussed up, and it was clear that he had been tossing and turning just as much as you had been. You sighed softly, running a hand down your face. Your omega side was whining, begging to be wrapped up in Simon, but it had finally started to settle down being within Simon’s quarters.

Simon stood awkwardly behind you - like a puppy afraid to be seen. You felt the emotions radiating off of him, smelled it in the air. His normal scent had soured slightly, but you could tell he was trying to hide it. You glanced over your shoulder at him, and, sure enough, his hand was clamped over one of his scent glands to try and dampen the scent. He stared back at you, his brown eyes filled with a sad warmth. A frown tugged at your own lips as you saw the sadness in his gaze, a strange feeling of guilt flaring in your chest.

“What did you need to talk about?” He asked softly, his gaze unwavering from yours.

Strangely, just hearing those words from him broke something in you. Maybe it was the fact that you were exhausted, your omega so wounded and confused, or that you were so tired of being enemies - whatever the reason, it truly didn’t matter. Tears started to well in your lash line, your eyes closing to try and fight against the unrelenting tide. In the brief watery moment, you saw Simon’s face morph into thinly-veiled panic, and right when your eyes closed, you felt his arms wrap around you.

“Hey, hey, love, shhh…” Simon muttered softly as he shifted his body to press completely against yours. Your hands came up to rest on his bare chest as the tears started to flow freely. Your chest stuttered as you tried to force air into your lungs, but this was all too much and yet, not enough. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you.”

You shook your head, but you weren’t quite sure what you were denying as the tips of your omega claws dug slightly into the thick muscle of his pectoral. “I… I’m tired, Simon,” you whispered in response, your voice weak and shaky. “I’m so, so fucking tired.”

He pressed you further into his chest, your head slotting perfectly under his chin. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head again, not trusting yourself to speak. Not trusting yourself to keep the armor of spite and anger that you had carefully crafted over the last few months at bay. You knew what you needed. From both yourself and him.

Vulnerability.

“Tell me what you need, love. Please. You’ve done such a good job blocking me out, I can’t get a read on you. I need you to talk to me. I want to help you, but I can’t without words.”

“I-I didn’t do it on purpose,” You sobbed out, pressing your face further into his skin, angling it to get as close as you can to the scent gland on the underside of his jaw.

A small grumble shook in his chest as he pulled you impossibly closer, a huff rustling your hair. He placed his lips against the top of your skull gently, rocking the two of you slightly as you wept. “I know,” he muttered, his lips brushing your hair tenderly as he spoke. “It’s my fault. I pushed you away. I fucked up. And I ain’t gonna stand here and make excuses anymore. There was reasons for why I reacted the way I did, but… now’s not the time to go into them. Just know that… I’m here for you. I got you, love. In every and any way that you want me.”

“I don’t know how to forgive you.” The words were small, little more than a breath of shaky, pain-filled air that brushed against the thin, delicate skin of his throat.

And, fuck, if that didn’t stab him through the chest like a twisting blade. He knew he deserved it, gods, he knew it, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I know,” he whispered in response, but his voice lacked any real strength. He sounded hollow, like your whispered admission had completely shattered him. “I know.”

“I’m just so tired,” you repeated, your voice breaking on another sob. “I don’t know what to do, I’m so fucking… I’m torn, Simon. Every day the logical side of my brain and my omega have been at war with each other, and I’m so fucking tired of fighting it. I give up.”

“You… you give up?” Simon whispered, his voice coated in shock.

You tilted your head up higher, moving away from him just enough to look up at him fully. Your cheeks were streaked with tears, the skin red and swollen. For the first time in a long time, you could feel his emotions through the bond. The shock, the self-hatred, the pain that ricocheted through his body felt almost like your own. Even through the onslaught of his emotions, you could feel your heart, which had been so cold and detached to his, warm slightly. He cares. You blinked, trying to will the tears away enough to look at Simon - really look at him for the first time, probably ever.

“I give up on pretending I don’t need you.”

Simon blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.

“What?” he mumbled, his voice still filled with shock.

“At least for now. I’m tired of fighting it. All of it. And I might not know how to forgive you, how to trust you outside of a battlefield, but I’m tired of sleeping in an empty bed away from the man I’m mated to. I’m tired of avoiding each other like the plague. I’m tired of feeling like I’m incomplete. I’m just… tired.”

Tired. Simon could work with tired. The trust and the bond strengthening and all of that can come after. But, it’s a chance. And that’s all he needed.

“Do you want to stay the night?”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. You knew you couldn’t run any longer. And you knew that this, even just for a night, would help soothe your omega. The actual conversation can wait until the morning.

tag list: @kerst666 @misscaller06 @letaliabane @sai-int @itsmeamysworld @massivescissorsthingperson @aeeliy @alkalineapparition @cringeycookies @trulovekay @luvlyleah276 @mundanenonsense @unclearblur @masterclassofescapism

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caitlynsrighteye · 6 months ago

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Caitlyn Kiramman x Reader(Vi replacement)

Takes place after S2E3. After their fight with Jinx and Caitlyn doesn't leave us TT.

Contains: wlw, smut, angst, f!reader, 1st pov, established relationship

wc: 931

Masterlist

_________________________________________

The night is cold. Outside, it's dark till lighting brights up the sky. Sounds of pitter-patter of the rain hitting the tall glass window. The mood is full of sorrow, yet pleasures amongst our bodies as I rock back and forth. Our centers are rubbing against each other. We breathe heavily as I do my best to keep pace, straddling her. I lean on her shoulders, pushing them into her soft yet firm matress. She lays still, her hands gripping onto my hips harshly, finger tips digging into my skin as I continue to ride her.

I look down at her and stare into her deep ocean blue eyes as they glance back and forth to mine and to the motion of my sweaty body. To her, this may just be a meer distraction from the pain and grief she has been going through the past week, ever since her mother and others were killed by Jinx. To me, it is a moment of bliss and love. After everything we've been through, she is the one I often think about. She never leaves my wandering mind. I think about her smile that she's lost, the light in her eyes, the spark in her laugh. Now, the only thing that sparks is the fuel of rage and hatred towards the girl I once called my sister.

"Ah... Cait..," I feel my heart race, and my stomach turn. I lean my head back in pleasure. The feeling of an intense release arriving shortly. The six foot enforcer says nothing, just grunts, and uses her hands to help my hips move faster. The both of us moan loudly. "Shit," she says behind her moans before pushing her head back into her pillows. She orgasms with a groan and grits her teeth. As she looks up at me, she quickly turns us both over. My back slams onto the cold matress, a refreshing feeling to my overheating body, and she kisses up my leg from my knee and to my groin. Soon licking and sucking my cunt quickly with one of my legs over her shoulder. I death grip the pillows that my head landed on and arch my back. I moan her name repeatedly. "Ah- fuck, Cait- ah!". Her tongue swipes and glides swiftly around my cunt, causing my release to zap through my spine.

After a moment, the shaking of my body begins to slow. Caitlyn licks her lips before wiping them with the back of her hand. Our eyes lock. She hides her pain well, a bit too well, but I know deep down she's hurting, bad. I reach out to hold her cheek, and she looks down at it. I almost touch her before she moves, getting up and sitting at the edge of the bed, opposite from the big window. I sigh. Saddened that she isn't able to talk to me or allow me to comfort her. I give her a moment, I sit up onto my elbows and start crawling over to her. Lighting strikes outside and lights up her room. I am able to get a quick glance at the details of her figure. Her messy shoulder-length blue hair, the toned lines of her arms that look a bit skinner than before, and some small scratch marks that scatter her back from earlier that evening.

I slowly stretched my hand out, gently grabbing her shoulder as she's leaned over onto her knees. Softly, I spoke, "Cait..." she doesn't move. After a second, I feel her inhale deeply before letting out a long sigh. "I'm sorry... it's just - " she stopped before finishing her sentence, but I understood. "Caitlyn, I am here for you. Let me be there for you. I will do anything. Just let me help you." She places a hand on mine and looks over at me. Her eyes are shiny from tears that struggle to eacape. I wrap my arms around her into a tight hug. Then I felt her tears drip onto me, like they've finally left a seal that Caitlyn has locked them into. They break free, and so do her cries. She leans into me, releasing sobs under her breath. I hold one of her cheeks in my palm and touch my forehead against hers as she continues letting out her hidden grief.

Her cries soon die down. Her reddened eyes meet mine, eye bags dark from exhaustion. We glance at each others lips and lean into a soft, comforting kiss. The kiss was not long, but it was all that we needed to exchange passion towards each other. Our lips unstick. Cait and I sit for a while before I pull her back, gesturing for her to come back to bed. She follows, and we both climb under her sheets. She cuddles and wraps her arms around me, giving quick pecks to the red and purple marks that are painted all over my neck and chest. Then she burrows her face into the crevice of my neck, her warm breath on my skin. Her breathing calms and slows, indicating that she'd fallen asleep. I'm happy with how the nights ended. The girl I love deeply in my arms, resting after all she's been through. I kiss the top of her head and close my eyes. Falling asleep and the contact of her body kept me warm throughout this cold, storming night.

______________

Note: i miss her sm, happy late bday loml

First time writing in years, in honor of season 2. Hope you enjoyed♡

#i think i miss my wife #caitlyn kiramman smut #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x y/n #caitlyn x fem reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn x you #arcane #caitlynsrighteye

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snnowwpheenix · 24 days ago

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Tokyo Revengers men would react if you became seriously ill (during pregnancy or labor), and through labored breaths you said:

“If anything happens… save the baby.” (Had to make some angst for a friend)

Part 1:

👑 Mikey (Manjiro Sano)

His world stops. You're pale, breath shaky — and you say those words with a faint smile. “Don’t say that,” he whispers, voice cracking. He grips your hand tightly, pressing it to his forehead. “I can’t lose you. I need both of you.” But deep down, if it came down to it… he’d honor your wish, even if it broke him beyond repair. Afterward, he’d sit by your bedside every day, whispering to your baby stories about you.

🐉 Draken (Ken Ryuguji)

His jaw clenches. He won’t cry — not yet. “You’re not gonna die. You hear me?” He says it like a promise, like a threat to fate itself. But if things get worse and the choice has to be made, he’ll scream through gritted teeth: “Save the baby…” Then break down, alone, when it’s done. Raises the child with your name stitched into every corner of their life.

🕊️ Takemichi Hanagaki

“No, no—don’t say that. Don’t say goodbye.” Tears flood his eyes instantly. “You’re going to make it. We’re all going to be okay. Please…” If the worst happens, he’ll sob over your memory every night, but he’ll give everything to that child. “Your mama loved you more than anything… even more than herself.”

🧵 Mitsuya Takashi

He tries to stay strong, but his hands shake. “If anything happens—” “Don’t say that. Don’t.” You’re everything good in his life. But he knows… If forced to choose, he'd quietly whisper, “Save the baby,” and walk away to grieve in silence. He’d raise your child with grace, and every stitch he sews afterward carries your memory.

🐯 Kazutora Hanemiya

His eyes widen in panic. “No. Don’t say that. You don’t get to leave me too.” He holds your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. But if he has to choose… he’ll break. He whispers it, choked: “Save the baby…” And that decision haunts him forever. He becomes fiercely protective of the child — but quiet when they ask, “What was Mom like?”

🐺 Baji Keisuke

“What the hell are you saying?” He tries to act tough, but his voice breaks. He presses kisses to your forehead. “I’m not letting you die. I’m not letting either of you die.” But if it came down to it, he'd scream your name as they took the baby out. He holds the newborn with trembling arms, whispering, “She gave you to me. You’re my reason now.”

🐥 Chifuyu Matsuno

“No, no, no, don’t talk like that.” His lips tremble, his grip on your hand desperate. “You’re gonna meet our baby. You have to. I can’t do this without you.” But if fate is cruel, he sobs quietly beside the incubator. “I’ll love them for both of us. I’ll raise them like you’re watching.” Keeps your photo next to the crib every night.

👑 Izana Kurokawa

He freezes. Those words cut deeper than anything else he’s heard. He leans in, voice shaking. “You can’t leave me. I finally have something good. I finally have you.” If he has to choose, he does it like a king making a sacrifice: Silent. Cold. Destroyed inside. He names the baby after you and rules his grief like a crown of thorns.

🖤 Kakucho

His eyes shine with pain the moment you speak. “I’d trade places with you if I could.” He holds your hand against his chest, praying, begging. If doctors ask, he can barely say it: “Save the baby…” He weeps afterward, quiet and alone — until he hears the baby cry. Then he pulls himself together. “You’re my reason to keep going now.”

💪 Taiju Shiba

He refuses to accept it. “Don’t speak death. We’re not losing you.” His grip is firm, grounding you. But if the worst comes… He makes the call. “Save the baby,” through clenched teeth and silent rage. He becomes a protective, gentle father — but never quite recovers. Only softens when the baby reaches for him and smiles like you did.

🧍‍♂️ Hakkai Shiba

He panics instantly. “Please don’t say that… please. I can’t…” He can’t imagine a world without you. But he knows what kind of mother you are — he knows you meant it. So when it comes down to it, he says through broken sobs, “Save the baby. Please save the baby.” He kisses the newborn and says, “You’re everything she dreamed of.”

💰 Koko Hajime

He goes pale. Your words hit like a bullet. “No. You’re not going anywhere. I’ll buy the best doctors, fly anyone in. Anything.” But when it’s out of his hands, he chooses. “Save the baby…” He’ll mourn you in silence. Luxuries don’t matter anymore. He raises the child quietly, but fiercely — the one priceless thing you left behind.

🐾 Inupi (Seishu Inui)

“Don’t say that. Don’t make me choose.” His voice cracks, full of desperate love. But when it’s time, he whispers it through tears: “Save… save the baby.” He weeps silently in the hospital corridor. Later, he holds your child close, whispering, “Your mama gave you everything… I’ll give you the rest.”

🌺 Ran Haitani

His smile fades instantly. “You really gonna say something like that, babe?” He tries to joke — but he’s falling apart. If it happens, he doesn’t cry in front of anyone. Just stares at the baby, voice low: “You better grow up knowing how badass your mom was. She gave you her whole heart.”

👑 Rindou Haitani

“No. Nope. I refuse. You’re gonna live. Don’t say goodbye.” He clenches your hand like a lifeline. But if your heart flatlines, he whispers to the ceiling, “She told me to save the baby…” He stares at the tiny face of your child and realizes: “Looks like her. Hurts like hell.” But he’ll raise them to be strong — just like you.

😈 Smiley (Nahoya Kawata)

“Hey, hey, don’t talk like that. You’re not dying today. Not on my watch.” But when you pass out, he grips the doctor’s coat. “Save the baby. Do what she wanted.” He’s the one holding the baby while laughing through tears, “She would’ve said you had her smile, huh?”

😢 Angry (Souya Kawata)

He sobs immediately. “No… no, you’re going to be okay.” If they ask for a decision, he shatters: “She said… save the baby.” And then he cries in silence for days. But once the baby holds his finger, he whispers, “I’ll protect you… the way she protected you.”

#tokyo revengers baji #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers spoilers #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers fanart #tokyo revengers oc #baji keisuke #hanagaki takemichi #manjiro sano #shinichiro sano #sanzu haruchiyo

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chillypowder · 7 months ago

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Timelines of love

Pairing: Ekko x Reader

Word Count: ~2,000

Genre: Angst, Tragedy

Summary: When you’re fatally caught in a Firelight raid gone wrong, Ekko uses his Z-Drive to try and save you. But no matter how many timelines he rewinds, the outcome only grows more devastating. Caught in an endless loop of grief and guilt, Ekko struggles to decide: should he let go or keep trying, knowing he might never succeed?

Warnings: Violence, repeated character death, grief, and emotional turmoil.

Ekko adjusted the dial on his Z-Drive with shaking hands, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs. The world around him shimmered like broken glass as time bent to his will. He clenched his jaw, focusing on the moment he needed—the instant before everything went wrong.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The light enveloped him, the sounds of chaos fading until they were replaced by a familiar scene: the Firelights’ hideout, moments before the raid. The scent of oil and grime mixed with the faint sweetness of the flowers you kept in a chipped vase.

You were there, standing at the table, running your hands over a makeshift map of the Undercity. Your brow was furrowed in concentration, your lips moving silently as you reviewed the plan. You were always so focused, so determined, and it made his chest ache to see you like this again—alive.

“Ekko?” You looked up, startled. “You okay?”

He couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room in two long strides and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder. You froze, confused by the sudden embrace, but then your arms came up to wrap around him.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice tinged with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lied, his voice muffled. “Just… wanted to hold you.”

You pulled back to look at him, your hands cupping his face. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Ekko laughed softly, his heart twisting in his chest. He couldn’t tell you the truth. He couldn’t tell you how many times he’d already seen this moment play out. How many times he’d tried to save you.

It always went the same way.

The Firelights set out to intercept a Shimmer shipment. The intel seemed solid—too solid. The ambush turned into a trap, and chaos erupted. Somewhere in the middle of it all, you were caught in the crossfire. A stray bullet. A collapsing structure. A knife meant for him.

Every time, you died.

And every time, Ekko rewound the clock, trying to change the outcome.

This time, he made sure to stay close to you, never letting you out of his sight.

“Stay behind me,” he urged as the team crept through the shadows, his voice low but insistent.

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, you know.”

“I mean it,” he said, grabbing your wrist. “Promise me.”

You hesitated, studying his face. There was something in his eyes—something raw and desperate.

“Okay,” you relented, your voice softening. “I promise.”

The fight erupted moments later, gunfire and shouts tearing through the night. Ekko’s staff whirred as he deflected bullets, his movements precise and calculated. He fought like a man possessed, every strike aimed at protecting you.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how fast he moved, it always ended the same.

This time, it was an explosion. A stray spark ignited a barrel of Shimmer, and the blast sent you flying.

When the dust settled, Ekko found you lying motionless amidst the rubble, your promise to stay behind him broken.

He rewound again.

And again.

Each attempt grew more frantic, more desperate. He changed the plan. He changed the route. He even tried convincing you to stay behind entirely, but you refused every time, your determination unwavering.

“I’m not sitting this one out,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “You need me out there.”

“I need you alive,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Your expression softened, and you stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek. “Ekko, you can’t protect me from everything. We all take risks. It’s part of the fight.”

He wanted to scream, to beg you to understand, but what could he say? That he’d watched you die a dozen times? That no matter what he did, he couldn’t save you?

Instead, he nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

In one timeline, he managed to keep you out of the fight entirely. You stayed back at the hideout, safe and sound. For a fleeting moment, he thought he’d finally won.

But the mission failed without your help. The Firelights were ambushed and outnumbered, and Ekko barely made it back alive.

When he stumbled into the hideout, bloodied and broken, the look on your face shattered him.

“You should’ve let me come,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “I could’ve helped. I could’ve—”

“I couldn’t risk losing you,” he interrupted, his voice raw.

“But you’re okay risking everyone else?” you shot back, anger and grief warring in your expression.

He didn’t have an answer.

In another timeline, he tried sending someone else in your place. But when the Firelights returned, it was with news of your capture.

He led a rescue mission, determined to bring you back, but by the time he reached you, it was too late. The sight of your lifeless body, bruised and broken, haunted him long after he rewound the clock.

No matter what he did, the timeline refused to bend. It was as if the universe itself had decided that you were meant to die.

The final attempt was the hardest.

Ekko stood in front of you, his hands trembling as he held your face.

“Promise me you’ll stay safe,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You frowned, confused by the intensity in his eyes. “Ekko—”

“Promise me,” he repeated, cutting you off.

“I promise,” you said softly, reaching up to brush a tear from his cheek.

It wasn’t enough.

He knew it wouldn’t be enough.

This time, he didn’t rewind.

When the fight broke out, he stayed by your side, doing everything he could to shield you. But when the explosion came, there was nothing he could do.

You were thrown to the ground, blood staining your clothes as your breathing grew ragged.

“No, no, no,” Ekko muttered, dropping to his knees beside you. He pressed his hands against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you gave him a weak smile. “Ekko…”

“Don’t talk,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ll fix this.”

You shook your head slightly, your hand reaching up to cup his face. “You can’t fix everything.”

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched you tighter. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m glad I got to fight by your side,” you whispered, your voice growing weaker.

“No,” he choked out. “You’re supposed to stay. We’re supposed to have more time.”

But your hand fell limp, and the light faded from your eyes.

For the first time, Ekko didn’t reach for the Z-Drive.

He sat there in the aftermath, cradling your lifeless body as the reality of your loss settled over him.

No matter how many times he rewound, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t save you.

The Z-Drive hummed softly on his wrist, a cruel reminder of the power he held—and the limits of that power.

In the days that followed, Ekko carried the weight of your memory with him. Your laughter, your determination, your love—they were all etched into his heart, a painful but precious reminder of what he had lost.

He still wore the Z-Drive, but he never used it to return to that moment again.

Some things, he realized, were meant to be let go.

Masterlist

#ekko arcane #arcane #league of legends #league of legends ekko #angst #ekko x reader #ekko #league of legends arcane #league of legends angst #arcane ekko #arcane season 2 #arcane season 2 spoilers #timebomb

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dragonridersandhighlords · 27 days ago

Text

Before You Leave Me | P R O L O G U E

masterlist | BYLM Masterlist

Summary: In the aftermath of devastating loss, Renna Sorrengail returns to Basgiath broken but breathing—trying to grieve, to heal, and to hold together what remains of the Sorrengail family. But when another tragedy strikes, Renna must decide whether staying behind is survival… or surrender.

Notes:

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, grief/mourning, ptsd, emotional hurt/comfort, found family, widow characters, loss of loved one, healing after loss

Word Count: 4.8k

The sky burned above the jagged cliffs, a turbulent clash of smoke and stormlight that mirrored the chaos of the Tyrrish rebellion. The rocks below Brennan glistened with blood, too much of it.

Naolin knelt beside him, palms slick and desperate against Brennan’s chest, his signet flaring with a wild intensity. Magic crackled between his fingers, drawn from the depths of his own being, from the soul of his dragon, from anything he could touch. “Come on, come on, stay with me,” he gasped, voice strained, teeth gritted as he fought against the tide of death threatening to pull his best friend under. “Don’t you dare quit on me now, you stubborn bastard—”

“I’m not—quitting,” Brennan rasped, his voice a thin whisper marred by blood. “Just.. need to… rest.”

“No,” Naolin barked, his eyes fierce with determination. “No resting. You’re going to make it. You have Renna. You have a future.”

But as Brennan coughed, the sound raw and agonizing, his heart clenched with fear. “She shouldn’t be here. She—” He winced, his breath faltering. “Naol. Promise me—”

A gust of wind heralded Renna’s arrival, and she leaped from her dragon before it even landed, stumbling across the scorched earth. Ash and sweat streaked her skin, riding leathers torn from battle, but her eyes—their fierce determination found Brennan’s instantly, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline.

“No.” Her voice cracked, desperation lacing her words. “No. No, please, Bren—”

Naolin nearly buckled under the weight of his own magic as she reached them, his strength waning. “I’m holding him—barely,” he ground out, pain etched across his face. “But it’s not—it’s not going to last.”

Dropping to her knees beside Brennan, Renna cupped his face in trembling hands, her touch igniting a flicker of warmth in the freezing grip of despair. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice fierce yet tender. “Don’t you dare look away.”

He blinked up at her, his eyelids heavy as the world around him faded. “You came.”

“You think I wouldn’t?” Renna’s voice trembled, each word steeped in a mix of desperation and fierce resolve. Tears shimmered in her eyes, catching the dying light of the flames around them. “You idiot, I’d follow you to Malek’s side in a heartbeat.”

Brennan's lips curled into a smile, a fragile thing that illuminated his battered face. Her heart cracked open at the sight, raw and vulnerable. “I love you,” she declared, the fierceness in her voice mingling with her tears as they traced paths down her cheeks. “I love you, Brennan Sorrengail. We’re going home. You hear me?”

“You… are home,” he whispered, his voice a mere thread of sound. With great effort, his hand rose, shaking, but he managed to cup her cheek, the warmth of his palm bringing a flicker of solace amidst the chaos. “Everywhere you are, that’s it.”

“Then don’t leave me,” she pleaded, the words catching in her throat.

“I don’t want to,” he choked out, a deep sorrow weighing heavy in his chest. “Renna, listen to me.” His gaze shifted to Naolin, who was visibly trembling, his strength waning like the last light of day. “You have to go.”

“No,” she whispered again, softer this time, her heart imploding with each syllable. “Please. Please.”

“You have to live.” Brennan’s voice, firm and steady now, cut through her despair like a beacon in the storm. “For Violet. For them all. They’ll need you more than ever. Mira will need you. My—my sisters…” As his hand slipped from her cheek, she caught it instinctively, pressing it to her heart, anchoring herself to him. “I can’t do this without you,” she cried, desperation lacing her every word.

“You can. Because you are the strongest person I’ve ever known.” His lips moved in a faint smile, a flicker of light amidst the encroaching darkness. “I believe in you. You remember that. You remember it every single day.”

Suddenly, Naolin groaned, collapsing sideways, and Brennan flinched at the sight, urgency flooding his voice again. “Renna, go.”

With her heart hammering in her chest, Renna bent over him, pressing her lips to his forehead, then to his trembling lips. “I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

“You will, one day,” he teased weakly, tears shimmering in his own eyes.

“I’ll see you in the stars,” she whispered, sobbing, and then she stood, forcing herself to rise from the ground, away from the most important person in her life.

She didn’t look back. Not even when the bond shattered inside her like breaking glass, a painful echo that would haunt her long after the moment was gone. She flew toward the horizon, half her heart bleeding in her chest and the other half buried in the ruins below.

Captain Auren didn’t look up right away when Renna walked in, eyes remained glued to the report in his hands, the parchment crumpled slightly from the force of his grip. Renna noticed the white knuckles pressing against the edge of the table, a telltale sign of his own struggle to maintain composure.

“You haven’t flown since it happened,” he finally said, his voice clipped and devoid of any pretense of small talk.

Renna stood before him, stiff and uneasy in her wrinkled uniform, the fabric still stained with the remnants of a battle that had taken more than just lives—it had stolen her heart. The blood on her sleeve had long dried, a testament to the past she couldn’t seem to escape.

“I know,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tempest swirling within her. It was the only truth she could offer. Anything more would be a lie woven from the fabric of her pain.

Auren finally lifted his gaze, piercing through the veil of silence that surrounded them. “You haven’t submitted to evaluation. You refused the healer’s clearance to fly.” Renna opened her mouth to protest, but Auren raised a hand, silencing her. “You’re not being reprimanded, Sorrengail,” he said, his tone sharper than she expected. “You’re being given an out.”

Renna blinked, confusion washing over her. “An out?”

“You want to die, lieutenant?” His voice lowered, laden with concern. “Because that’s where this ends. You walk back into active duty in your state, and you’ll be dead before you ever make it back to the skies.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating, slicing through her resolve.

When she finally spoke, her voice trembled but held fast. “I’m not resigning.”

Auren stepped around the table, closing the distance between them, his expression a mix of determination and empathy. “Renna, your bond is unstable. Your heart is shattered. Brennan—”

“Don’t say his name,” she hissed, eyes flashing with warning, a protective fire igniting within her.

“I’m not dismissing your grief. I’m trying to keep you alive. You’re not just a rider—you were a wife with bonded dragons. That kind of loss breaks most people.”

“I’m not most people,” she whispered fiercely. “And you need me here.”

“I need a Lieutenant who’s in the right state of mind.” Auren’s gaze bore into hers, steady and unyielding, as he reached for a scroll on the desk and handed it to her. “Indefinite leave. Effective immediately. When you’re ready to return—if you’re ready—we’ll talk. Until then, go somewhere you can heal.”

She knows he’s not lying, that she can come back at any time. So, she doesn’t thank him. Instead, she took the scroll, turned, and walked out of his office without another word.

Renna stood outside the Sorrengail quarters at Basgiath longer than she meant to, her heart a tangled mess of anticipation and dread. The door loomed before her, solid and unyielding, crafted from rich black ironwood. Memories flooded her mind—a vivid recollection of the day she and Brennan had approached this very entrance, his hand warm and reassuring in hers, their laughter echoing against the cool wood. Now, as she hesitated, her fingers hovered in uncertainty over the door, as if it might scald her if she touched it.

Just as she mustered the courage to strike the door, it swung open, revealing Asher Sorrengail standing in the threshold. He filled the frame, broader than she remembered, though perhaps it was time playing tricks, warping her recollection into something more fragile. His once-dark hair had silvered at the temples, and grief clung to the corners of his eyes like a shadow that refused to dissipate.

Without uttering a word, Asher stepped forward and enveloped her in a fierce embrace, pulling her so tightly against him that it ached. Renna stiffened at first, the shock of his warmth contrasting sharply with the chill in her heart, but then she melted into him, her hands clutching the soft fabric of his cream cloak as her forehead found refuge against his shoulder. They stood there in silence for a moment until Asher pulled back, his voice was low and laced with unspoken promises. “This is your home. For as long as you want it to be.” She nodded, swallowing hard against the swell of emotion.

Footsteps padded softly down the stone corridor behind him, a gentle reminder of life moving forward. Violet appeared—now sixteen, nearly grown, yet still holding onto that unmistakable softness that spoke of innocence lost. She halted mid-step upon seeing Renna, and it felt like a punch to Renna’s chest to see so much of Brennan in Violet.

“Hi,” Violet said quietly.

Renna exhaled slowly, allowing herself to truly feel for the first time in days. She took a step forward, summoning a gentle smile. “Hi, Vi.”

Violet hesitated, but then closed the distance, wrapping her arms around Renna’s waist. In that moment, Renna folded her into her embrace, closing her eyes and allowing the girl to steady what was left of her fractured heart.

“I miss him,” Violet whispered, the words fragile yet heavy with sorrow.

“Me too,” Renna replied.

General Lilith Sorrengail never offered condolences. Renna had expected that, knowing the stoicism that marked her mother in law as sharply as her commanding presence. What she hadn’t expected was the summons to the strategy room at dawn on her fourth day there, the chill of early morning creeping through the cracks of the grand old house.

“You’re not here to wallow,” Lilith stated, her voice a crisp blade as she remained focused on the maps spread across the table, every inked line and colored section detailing the battlefield like a living organism. “You’re here to be useful.”

Renna felt her spine stiffen at the clipped tone, the old instinct to salute bubbling to the surface. “Ma’am—” she began, but the words faltered under the weight of her memories.

“You were my son’s wife. But you were also a lieutenant with six campaigns and three command rotations. And Basgiath doesn’t waste resources.” Lilith's eyes flicked upward, steely and sharp, piercing through the veil of grief surrounding Renna like an icy wind. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Renna met her gaze evenly, the fire of determination igniting within her. “No, General.”

Lilith’s nod was curt, a small acknowledgment that both acknowledged her grief and demanded her strength. “Good. Sit down.” It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t comfort. But it was a beginning, a lifeline cast into the turbulent waters of her heart.

And by the one-year mark, she stood with Díom on the flight field, the dragon massive and unflinching beside her, a sweeping silhouette of green against the golden dawn.

"Ready, little storm?" Díom’s voice rumbled in her mind.

“No,” Renna admitted aloud, the wind teasing strands of hair from her braid. “But I think I need this.”

Díom exhaled, steam curling from her nostrils as she bent her head low. "Then we go slow. We go together."

Renna climbed into the seat, her fingers tightening around the pommel. Her heart thundered. Not with fear, not exactly—but with the sheer weight of what this meant. Of what she was finally ready to take back.

She gave a nod, and Díom leapt. Basgiath fell behind them in a blur of stone and shadow. The valleys below shimmered in the dawn light, rivers winding through them like veins of silver, glistening under the gentle caress of the sun.

Renna inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp, pure air that surged with the promise of a new beginning. And with that breath, something broke open inside her—a dam that had held back the tide of her grief for too long. It wasn’t silence anymore; it was sound. The wind howled past her ears, a wild symphony that mingled with the rhythmic whoosh of Díom’s powerful wings slicing through the crisp morning air.

As they soared higher, the world below faded into a distant memory, and she could feel the weight of her sorrow lifting, if only for a moment. For the first time since the cliffs of the rebellion, Renna laughed—an unexpected sound that burst forth, foreign yet freeing. It felt like shards of glass falling away from her heart, the sharp edges of pain softening as joy seeped in.

Díom’s laughter echoed in her mind, a deep rumble that vibrated through her bones. “There you are, little storm,” the dragon’s voice resonated, rich and full of warmth. They climbed higher still, bursting through a bank of clouds that loomed like an unassailable wall. As they broke through, the clouds erupted around them in a flurry of white, shimmering like foam tossed by an unseen tide.

Renna leaned forward into the motion, surrendering herself to the rush of wind and warmth that enveloped her. Her palm pressed against Díom’s neck, a reassuring presence that tethered her to this moment. "You’re not lost," Díom told her softly, the words wrapping around her like a balm. "Just finding your way back."

Renna felt the truth of those words settle into her bones as she chose to focus on the now—the exhilarating rush of freedom, the heart-pounding thrill of flight, the promise of a new chapter unfolding.

Snow clung to the corners of the windows, swirling gently against the glass in slow, rhythmic gusts, like nature's own lullaby. The fire crackled low in the hearth, its flickering amber light dancing across the ancient stone walls of the tower’s common room, illuminating the rich tapestries that told stories of long-forgotten battles and victories. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the biting cold that enveloped the world outside.

Renna sat curled on the couch, her boots kicked off beside her. A thick-knit blanket, worn from use yet soft against her skin, draped across her lap, cradling her in a cocoon of comfort. Beside her lay a scribe's report spread open on the cushion—its pages filled with intricate notes on border unrest that Lilith had asked her to review before next week’s strategy brief. Yet, her attention was far from the inked words that spoke of conflict; it drifted instead to the soothing crackle of the fire and the way the shadows danced across the room.

Across from her, Violet sat cross-legged in one of the well-worn leather chairs, the material creaking slightly under her movement. A precariously balanced stack of texts rested on the armrest, their spines a riot of colors. Violet’s silver hair was pulled up in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face, and a quill tapped distractedly against her chin, echoing her growing frustration with the material before her.

“You know, for being the smartest people at Basgiath,” Violet muttered, a playful frown creasing her brow, “the scribes require an unreasonable amount of reading.”

Renna grinned without lifting her gaze, her heart lightened by the familiar banter. “Says the girl who reads like it’s a competitive sport.”

“I do not—”

“You do. It’s endearing.”

Violet rolled her eyes, exhaling softly as she flipped a page, the sound crisp and precise in the otherwise tranquil room.

A sudden knock came at the tower door—sharp, precise, slicing through the warmth of their camaraderie. Renna frowned, instinctively pushing off the blanket that felt like a second skin.

“It’s late,” Violet said, glancing at the ornate timepiece on the mantel, its hands inching toward the hour of dusk. “No one ever knocks this late unless—”

With a determined resolve, Renna opened the door, her heart skipping at the unexpected visitor. A third-year Scribe Cadet stood in the hallway, his face pale under the glow of the wall sconce, the flickering light casting eerie shadows on his anxious features. He held out a sealed letter, his hand trembling slightly as he offered it to her.

“For Lieutenant Sorrengail,” he said softly, the weight of his words heavy in the air.

Renna stared at the seal—its design familiar, a mark she recognized before even touching it. Her fingers closed around the parchment, yet she hesitated, the gravity of the moment anchoring her in place.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, and the boy nodded, relief flooding his expression as he hurried away down the dim corridor.

Renna's fingers trembled as she peeled back the seal, the crack of parchment breaking the silence like a sharp intake of breath. As the letter opened, a rush of dread clawed at her insides, and her breath caught in her throat like a lifeline slipping away.

“No…” she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips as if to deny the truth she feared to confront.

Violet’s voice trembled, laced with concern. “What is it?” The question hung heavy, charged with a desperation to shield herself from the answer.

Renna turned toward her, her heart pounding like a drumbeat. The words clawed at her throat, struggling to break free against the rising tide of despair. “Vi, sweetheart…” Her voice cracked, the vulnerability spilling forth like a dam breaking, and in that moment, Violet’s eyes widened, understanding dawning painfully clear.

Violet staggered back a step, her expression crumpling like fragile parchment in a storm. “No. No, he was—he was fine.” The disbelief dripped from her voice, a desperate mantra against the harsh reality.

Without hesitation, Renna reached for her, pulling Violet into her arms. As if the world had tilted on its axis, they sank down to the floor together, the gravity of their grief crashing over them like a relentless tide.

They remained there for what felt like an eternity. Violet curled into Renna’s side, the familiar position echoing memories of their shared sorrow, and now, it was her father’s loss that shadowed them both. Renna's hand shook as she cradled the letter, thoughts spiraling into an abyss of anguish. Asher had been the calm in their storm, the final thread of Brennan’s wisdom woven into the fabric of their lives, his quiet voice of hope now silenced forever.

With his absence came an unsettling shift, a cold wind sweeping through Renna’s soul, chilling her to the core. She looked down at Violet—her brilliant, stubborn shadow—and the realization struck with sudden clarity: the time for waiting was over.

The following days blurred together, the tower cloaked in a heavy silence that mirrored their grief, each heartbeat echoing their loss. Violet spent most days in her room, Wrenley Tavis and Dain Aetos sneaking out of the Rider’s Quadrant to be there for their friend.

Mira arrived halfway through the wake, her anger manifesting in a punch into the stone walls, splitting the skin of her knuckles. And Lilith—Lilith remained a stoic figure at the edge of the terrace, the storm raging overhead reflecting the turmoil within.

But Renna saw the way Lilith clutched her late husband’s folded cloak, fingers lingering on the fabric as if seeking comfort from a memory that was both sacred and suffocating. The tension in the air crackled, the remnants of shared grief swirling between them like a storm threatening to break. Renna noted the slight quiver in Lilith’s jaw, a fleeting sign of vulnerability as she turned away from the gathered officers, her stoic facade faltering just for a moment.

That night, Renna stood in the general’s office, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders like a leaden shroud. The room felt both foreign and familiar, filled with the scent of polished wood and old parchment, echoes of decisions made in this very space reverberating in her mind. Gathering her resolve, she forced the words out, the truth she had kept buried for three long years clawing its way to the surface. “I’m going back.”

Lilith didn’t look up from her desk, her movements precise and methodical, as if she could carve away the tension lingering in the room. “No,” she replied, her voice steady, almost mechanical.

“I’m not asking for permission.” Renna’s voice rose, fierce and unwavering, an ember igniting into a flame.

Lilith’s gaze finally lifted, sharp and assessing, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a drawn blade. “You’ve been more valuable here than you ever were in the field.” The words dripped with authority, yet there was an undercurrent of something deeper—fear, perhaps, or a desperate plea to keep her close.

“I’m not alive here,” Renna hissed, the bitterness of her truth tasting like ashes on her tongue. “I’m surviving. There’s a difference, and you know it.”

Lilith leaned forward, the weight of her presence bearing down on Renna, hands braced on the desk like a fortress. “You think throwing yourself into another battlefield is going to heal what happened to Brennan? To Asher?”

“No.” The word slipped out, fragile yet defiant. “But staying here while good people bleed out there makes it worse.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t waver. “You said I was already leading. Let me do it where it matters.”

“You want the front.” Lilith’s voice dropped, dangerously quiet now, as if the very mention of it held the power to shatter them both. “You want death.”

“I want purpose.” Her breath trembled. “And I want a reason to stop running from what I lost.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and fraught, until Lilith exhaled slowly, the sound echoing with resignation. She pulled a sealed folder from her desk drawer, the motion deliberate, each second stretching into an eternity.

“Samara,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of an irrevocable decision. “You’ll command the third strike unit. They’ll report to you directly.”

Renna stared at the folder, her fingers betraying a moment of hesitation, the gravity of the choice before her sinking in. “I thought you’d fight me harder,” she said softly, the tremor in her voice revealing the raw edges of her vulnerability.

Lilith looked away, her expression clouded with an unspoken pain. “Asher said you were ready a year ago. I just didn’t want to lose the last piece of my son.”

Stepping forward, Renna reached for the file—and without thinking, she fetched for the general’s hand–for her mother-in-law’s hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words carrying the weight of her own grief intertwined with gratitude.

“Good luck, Captain Sorrengail.”

Lilith didn’t reply, but as Renna left, she heard the door lock behind her—a finality that echoed in the stillness of the room. And then, faintly, the sound of a woman finally allowing herself to cry.

Renna stood in the center of her room—Brennan’s room—her pack full and resting at the foot of her bed. The familiar surroundings felt laden with memories, every detail echoing the essence of him. The walls, adorned with the remnants of his laughter, seemed to whisper secrets of their shared past. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows that danced across the wooden floor, mingling with the bittersweet ache in her heart.

A soft knock broke the stillness, and then the door creaked open, revealing Violet, barefoot and delicate, her hair plaited neatly down her back like a ribbon of night. The sight of her stirred something deep within Renna, a protective instinct that surged to the surface.

“You’re really going,” Violet said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it rang clear in the charged atmosphere of the room.

Renna turned slowly, her chest tightening at the sight of her. “I am,” she replied, the weight of those words heavy on her tongue, laden with unspoken fears and lingering regrets.

Violet hesitated, her small frame silhouetted against the doorway, before crossing the room with a determined grace. In one fluid motion, she wrapped her arms around Renna, embracing her tightly, as if she could physically pull her back from the precipice of departure. It was still surprising sometimes how fiercely Violet could hold on for someone so small, but in that moment, she was a force of nature, grounding Renna against the swirling chaos of their emotions.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Renna whispered into her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and the faint remnants of childhood innocence. “I already know.”

Violet stepped back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, brimming with the weight of their shared grief. “I need to,” she insisted, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, her vulnerability laid bare. “When Brennan died… I didn’t think we’d have anything left of him. But then you stayed. And you were this… anchor. Not just for me, but for Mom, too, even if she doesn’t say it.”

“I stayed for him,” Renna said softly, her voice tinged with the warmth of cherished memories.

“And we stayed because of you,” Violet replied, a fierce determination lighting her eyes. “You made it bearable. Losing him. Losing Dad.”

A lump swelled in Renna’s throat, the weight of her emotions mingling with the grief that clung to her like a second skin. It felt as though the very air had thickened around her, wrapping her in an embrace both comforting and suffocating. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words could take flight, a second voice, rich and warm, broke through the heavy silence.

“She’s right, you know.”

Mira stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, her posture relaxed yet defiant. The usual sternness etched in her features was softened today, her gaze carrying an understanding that seemed to wrap around Renna like a protective shield. “You kept this family from splintering when everything else fell apart,” she continued, her voice steady yet tinged with an emotion that mirrored Renna’s own turmoil.

Renna blinked rapidly, the intensity of Mira’s words igniting a fire in her chest. Her eyes burned, threatening to spill the tears she had held at bay for too long. “I don’t know if I did enough,” she admitted, her voice cracking under the weight of doubt.

Mira stepped closer, the space between them shrinking, as if closing the distance could somehow bridge the chasm of uncertainty that loomed over them. “You did more than anyone asked of you,” she asserted, her tone firm, laced with a conviction that could not be ignored.

Renna turned her gaze between them, the two sisters who had become such an important part of her life. The little sisters she had never had but had gratefully gained when she had married their brother. One, a fierce warrior proving herself within the wing, and the other, the gentle soul Renna knew would always be safe behind the safety of the walls of the Archives.

“You both know I’ll come back, right?” Renna asked, her voice barely above a whisper, a fragile promise hanging in the air like the last rays of daylight before twilight descended.

Violet’s smile was a bittersweet curve, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that sparkled like starlight against the backdrop of their shared grief. “You better,” she replied, her voice a melodic plea laced with hope.

“And I,” Mira interjected with a playful smirk, a flicker of mischief lighting her features, “am tired of everyone calling you the more likable Sorrengail. Piss some people off as Captain, please.”

Renna laughed, the sound bursting forth like a release of pressure, blinking rapidly to stave off the tears threatening to spill over. “I love you both,” she said, her heart swelling with a fierce affection that transcended words.

“I love you too,” they chorused in unison, the warmth of their bond enveloping Renna like a treasured memory.

With a final embrace the three Sorrengail girls shared, Renna felt fortified, the weight of their support wrapping around her like armor as they walked side by side, the faint echoes of their laughter trailing behind them.

The flight field loomed ahead, an expanse of earth and sky where destinies intertwined with the whispering winds. It was here that Díom awaited her, the sleek form of the green dragon outlined against the canvas of the twilight sky, poised and ready. The air crackled with anticipation, and Renna felt her heart race with the thrill of what lay ahead.

Just before she mounted Díom, Renna turned her gaze skyward, her eyes searching the vast tapestry of stars that began to emerge like tiny beacons of hope against the encroaching darkness. She inhaled deeply, the scent of freedom mingling with the fading light, and allowed herself a small smile—a quiet moment of connection. In that fleeting instant, she knew Brennan was looking down on her, beaming with pride for the path she had chosen.

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