Christine - A Yandere Short Story
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?"
More Posts from Solace-inu and Others
𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐑Ī𝐙𝐄𝐒, 𝐃.𝐓
pairing: daemon targaryen x martell!reader
summary: a week after the tournament day, prince daemon and y/n became something more.
words: 2.8k
author's note: I personally hate the smut part, and I really think it sucks. I am truly sorry, guys :( also, I know Mysaria is from Essos and she understands high valyrian, but let's just ✨️ pretend ✨️ she doesn't. and I know dragonstone is literally inside a volcano BUT for the story's sake let's forget that. again, I am so sorry about the smut part. I love you all and thank you so much for the support y'all have given me on the first part. ❤️🩹
reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. i hope you like it!
18+ warning
warnings: dub-con, rough sex, degradation kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), daemon being hot while speaking high valyrian, daemon being hot while dominant, daemon being daemon.
· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ୨♡୧ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·
"You never said we were coming to Dragonstone." Y/N muttered while getting out of Faora's back.
Daemon chuckled. It was kinda obvious that his plans wouldn't be shared so easily when he invited his wife to a dragon ride. The last few days they had spend together, the prince found himself very comfortable in her presence and discovered that he liked being with her. He thought that bringing her to meet their future home and the perfect place to consumate their marriage was a brilliant idea.
They watched the dragons be lead to the dragonpit, and the prince took the lady's hand in his, leading the way towards the castle.
Adjusting the cloak on her body, Y/N shaked a little bit. The castle was settled on the top of a mountain, and it was freezing cold. The south is even hotter than the Crownlands in west coast, and growing up in Sunspear, the capital and one of the warmest cities of Dorne, Y/N thought she could never get used to this kind of weather.
"Are you cold?" Daemon questioned, taking her closer to him and wrapping an arm behind her neck.
"A little, yes. I didn't thought it would be so cold, but it's a beautiful place. It's cloudy, I love it." She smiled. It was different from everywhere she had ever been, but she could definitely see why he loved that place.
The last three days, Daemon couldn't shut up about Dragonstone and how it was his favorite place on earth. He had been on Meereen, Volantis and Essos, but being trapped in a castle on the mountain was his favorite place on earth. He told her what his childhood was like, and showed himself to be real interested to know the same about hers. Y/N thought that perhaps it was too early to share memories with him.
Inside the castle, Daemon took Y/N gloved hands in his and gave her a little tour. It was an enormous place, and even though it wasn't the kind of thought she wanted right now, her head took showed her how perfect that place was to raise a family with Daemon. She wanted that, and it was her duty as a wife, but the non-stop gossip about the prince's mistress around King's Landing was making her feel a little bit insecure about their future. She knows that they need to discuss their relationship, but he seemed to be enjoying spending time with her the last few days, so she never talks about what's bothering her.
"Daemon!" Y/N turned around to the voice behind them.
"Fuck." He muttered under his breath. "Mysaria. I thought I told you to leave before my arrival."
The woman laughed humorless. She gazed at the princess from head to toe, narrowing her eyes as doing so. Y/N felt like cutting the woman's head with a sword for looking at her like that.
"Ao dōrī ivestretan issa aōha līve istan kesīr." Y/N turned to her husband, speaking in a language that his mistress couldn't understand. (You never told me your whore would be here.)
"She wasn't supposed to be here. I'll take care of it." He assured her, leaving the princess' side and grabbing Mysaria's arm.
Y/N went for the room at the end of the corridor. It was the biggest room inside the castle, and also it was Daemon's chambers. At first she looked at it with romantic eyes, watching scenarios that they could be living there through the years. But that easily crumbled once she remembered that his mistress had also been here. She knew that this shouldn't matter, he was a man and had his necessities. But she thought about how many women Daemon had brought there, and then she wondered why would he keep that one. One of the rumors around the capital is that he was planning to marry and have children with her, but King Viserys forbid his brother to do so. That was probably true.
She waited for Daemon to come, but then she heard the high pitched sound of Caraxes' roar. Y/N went to the window and saw the Rogue Pince on top of his dragon, with the woman behind him. She couldn't believe that he would leave her. It took a few hours before he was back again.
When he came into the room, he noticed her angry features. Daemon thought she looked really cute, but it was no time for compliments that would make her even more angry.
He broke the ice, knowing she wouldn't say a word before he explained himself. "I already told you, she wasn't supposed to be here."
"Where were you?" The princess questioned.
"You really don't want to know." He said with a little bit of annoyance.
"But I do, Daemon! I thought you left me here!" Y/N replied angrily.
"I would never do that. I took her back to Pentos." He tried to take the princess' hand but she smacked him off.
"What? Essos? You crossed the narrow sea?" Y/N frowned in confusion. She couldn't understand why would him do that.
"She's not here anymore, so it doesn't really matters." Daemon tried to get close but she stepped backwards.
"But it does! Why are we even here!?" Y/N snapped.
"I am the prince of Dragonstone! This is my home, our home! The last thing I want now is to talk about her while we're on the home of our future children!"
Y/N's mouth opened in shock. Now it was time to discuss what kind of relationship they had?
"Children? Daemon, what are you talking about? I don't even know what we have! Until last week I thought you hated the idea of being with me." Y/N chuckled in confusion, making the prince roll his eyes.
"Gods, don't be so fucking dramatic. I happen to like you, that's all. Would you rather I was here with Mysaria, leaving you hanging in the capital all alone?" He questioned.
Y/N clenched her jaw and fist, resisting the urge to punch her husband's royal face.
"What did you just say?" She took a step further, her face was an inch away from his.
"What I meant to say," He started, getting even more close to her where their lips almost touched, "is that I'm trying to start a life with you. We're married, after all."
"But that's not what I heard!" She said harshly.
Daemon's hand grabbed her by the throat, and his body crashed with hers when her back hit the wall behind her. Y/N gasped softly, a little bit astonish by his actions.
"Stop being so tough!" His said between gritted teeth, "Shut your fucking mouth and listen to your husband. That's what good wives do."
She chocked on her own words and pride, nodding to whatever he said, without questioning it. After getting to know the true Daemon Targaryen, she lost all the magic of a perfect prince that her mind created through the years. But now, Y/N couldn't understand why she have never felt so attracted to him. He was being rude and possessive, and somehow that turned her on.
"Why do you always have to act like this when you're with me? It's like you have fun arguing." Daemon whispered, prepping kisses on her neck.
"You're being unfair, we haven't argued in a week." The princess closed her eyes, losing herself to the touch of his soft lips.
"And yet you refuse to open yourself to me." His hands left her throat and went to her jaw, grabbing it tightly. "But not anymore. I shall make you give yourself entirely to me."
"Open your mouth for me, princess," He demanded.
Y/N did as he asked, and the prince bit his lip as he entered with his thumb into her aperture. The girl closed her lips around his finger, and sucked her cheeks, creating a vacuum. She licked his finger and softly bit the tip of it, which made him smirk. Daemon pulled his thumb out and wrapped her throat with his hand.
Daemon pulled her up, intertwining her legs around his waist. He walked through the room and tossed her body on the bed. Y/N watched him taking his clothes off and then getting on top of her.
"You have no idea about the things that I want to do with you, Y/N. The things that I want to make you feel."
Daemon started to go down her body touching her clothed pussy. The princess gasped at his touch and bit her bottom lip. Her nails were deep in the bed sheets and her heart was beating like a drum. His hands assaulted her trousers, until it met her panties' fabric.
"You are so wet, all for me. My good little princess." Daemon praised her in a low voice, while rubbing his thumb against her clothed clit, sending shivers down her body, "Tell me what you want, Y/N, I want to hear you."
The girl never felt something like that before. Her body was screaming to be touched. She craved his hands on her body, craved his mouth on her. She needed him to be fully inside her like she needed air to breathe.
"Please, Daemon" The princess moaned as he made circles with index finger on her clothed clit. "Please, make me yours" She begged.
"See, I don't think you understand, my little sand dragon." He whispered, leaving a soft kiss on her inner thigh after taking her trousers off, "You're already mine. Mine to do whatever the fuck I want."
He took off underwear, leaving her vulva uncovered. Daemon grabbed her waist and brought his face against her intimacy, making her shiver as she felt his cool breath touch the sensitive skin of her core. His thumb found her swollen clit, where he made slow circular moves and she moaned to his touch. The princess' hands brushed against his silver hair as his mouth touched her wet center. He made slow moves with his tongue, sliding it from her entrance to the clit. Y/N bit her lip as she moaned, feeling the ecstasy building inside her like she was about to come at any moment.
"Fuck, Daemon–" She tried to warn him but before she could finish her sentence, she came into in his mouth.
Daemon licked his lips before climbing up her body and fit himself between her legs. He helped her to take of her dress as her breathing was normalizing after the adrenaline. He lowered his boxers, freeing his hard cock from his underwear. He brushed his tip at her slit and fit into it. The girl could feel his length entering her slowly, while his hands found her breasts and squeezed them tightly. She whined to the contact as he began to move his hips back and forth in a slow rhythm. His mouth found her neck where he left kisses and hickeys, and extended it's actions to her chest right after. The Rogue Prince took her hard nipple into his mouth and started sucking on it. She rolled my eyes in pleasure as her nails raked his back. His thrusts started to get faster, making his hips snapped into hers while he moaned against her skin.
"You're so fucking tight, princess," He whispered next to my ear.
Y/N turned their bodies on the bed, placing herself on top of him. She took control and looked at him underneath her, so impotent. The princess grabbed his hands and took them to the top of his head. Daemon started to groan while she was riding him, which sounded like music do her ears. It was enough for her to know she was giving him so much pleasure, moving her hips in different ways and motions, going up and down on his hard cock. For someone who was having sex for the first time, she was experienced. Her father made her take lessons with his whores back in Dorne, preparing her for this moment, where she woud pleasure her prince husband.
"You feel so good inside of me," She moaned into his ear to be provocative.
"You're having a great time, huh? Let me show you who's in command here," He freed himself from her hands and grabbed her hips tightly.
Daemon had his hands on her waist with his thumbs pressing into my sides. He buried his entire cock inside of her cunt, making her take every inch of him. She whined loudly, grabbing his shoulder trying not to lose her balance.
He moved his hips up and down, fucking her hard and going deeper in every thrust. Y/N moaned against his skin, when her mouth met his neck, leaving marks on his collarbone. She felt his thick length hitting her g-spot, making her bit my lip hard not to scream.
"Do you like that Y/N? I know you do. You take my cock so well, it's like you were made for me." He growled while pounding into her.
"I'm gonna cum, Daemon!" She cried out.
"Look at you, my slutty little princess taking me like a whore. I'm gonna cum inside you and make you swollen with my child. I bet you would love that, wouldn't you? You're gonna look so pretty when I make you fucking pregnant." He increased the pressure of his hands on her hips, grabbing it more tightly, where would probably bruise later.
His praisings and degradations were driving her insane. She could feel her second orgasm coming and she knew he was close too. Daemon started to slam himself inside her, making her come on his cock. He growled into her ear and kissed her mouth as he came inside her. Y/N felt him twitching through her walls, filling her with his seed.
She fell by his side and hugged his naked body, placing her head on his toned chest. Daemon gave her a soft kiss on the forehead, and closed his eyes in relaxation. They quickly fell asleep due tiredness.
Her fingers slightly danced through his silver long hair, forming braids with it. She hummed a song, while Daemon played with their 2 year old daughter, Rhaenya. The young girl had curly silver hair, due the princess' Velaryon blood, and lilac eyes like hers and Daemon's. Since she was born, the prince decided to take a break on wars and anything that could risk his life. No one would thought that the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, loved being a parent.
Princess Y/N was 5 months pregnant of her second — and last — child. They came to the conclusion that being in a small family was for the best. In a political statement, they should have as many children as they can, so they can spread the Targaryen line. But, they lived comfortably being in a small family environment, away from the capital, the king and it's dramas, so no one could tell them how to live their lives.
"Emagon ao thought bē brōzāt?" Daemon asked softly, chuckling while Rhaenya played with his nose. (Have you thought about names?)
"Nyke emagon. Skoros bē ao?" Y/N smiled, finishing the fifth braid on his hair. (I have. What about you?)
"Nyke emagon issare otāpagon bē Daemor, isse case ziry iksos nykeā valonqar." Daemon smirked, bitting his daughter chubby cheek and making her yelp. (I have been thinking about Daemor, in case it's a boy.)
"Daemor? Skoros does bona poghash bē ao hae nykeā kepa?" Y/N laughed loudly, which made her child laugh too. Daemon frowned. (Daemor?What does that says about you as father?)
"Kostilus nyke tolī Targārien than nyke rattan naejot sagon. Nyke also thought bē Rhaegor." The prince rolled is eyes to his own sentence. (Perhaps I am more a Targaryen then I liked to be. I also thought about Rhaegor.)
"Nyke raqagon Rhaegor. Lo ziry iksos nykeā hāedar, nyke istan otāpagon bē Daerys." Y/N confessed. (I like Rhaegor. If it's a girl, I was thinking about Daerys.)
"Sir, skoros does bona poghash bē ao hae nykeā muñnykeā?" Daemon said, getting a wicked giggle from his wife. (Now, what does that says about you as a mother?)
"Hae nykeā muñnykeā? Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon. Hae nykeā ābrazȳrys, ziry poghash 'nyke jorrāelagon issa valzȳrys'" She kissed the top of his head, making the prince smile. (As a mother? I don't know. As a wife, it says "I love my husband'.)
"Avy jorrāelan, issa byka rizmon zaldrīzes." He turned around, facing her. (I love you, my little sand dragon.)
Daemon pecked her lips, making her smile even larger. The little girl wiggled her arms, asking for her mother embrace. The princess took the young in her arms and kissed her silver curls.
"Avy jorrāelan tolī." (I love you too.)
It's another masterpiece I just read this recently and I wished I discovered this sooner the plot and the writing is fuckin great 😔🤌✨ holy shit 👁️👄👁️
pretty thing
Itadori has been having difficulty controlling Sukuna. Desperate, Gojo comes to you for your help; he has already tried to quell the situation, but to no avail. When Sukuna does not cooperate, you are left in a dangerous situation as he threatens your life in hopes of gaining a leverage to use against Gojo: the woman he longs to love.
pairings: f!reader x gojo / f!reader x sukuna
contains: protective gojo, angst, friends to pining lovers (reader/gojo), possessive sukuna (reader/sukuna), pining sukuna (reader/sukuna), hurt/comfort (reader/gojo), captor/captive (sukuna/reader), slow burn but fast (reader/gojo), eventual smut (reader/gojo), NO SPOILERS, NON-CANON EVENTS, its so worth it i promise
warnings: provided for each chapter respectively: threats of rape/non-con (sukuna), slight dub-con (sukuna)
part i
part ii
part iii
part iv (to be announced !)
series taglist [open!]: @bloombb @holychocopie @descargueestoporgojosatoru @smurfflynn @nanaminshousewife @yelzoldyck @reichanyo @the-fandoms-georgie @araragomennnn @ghostly-jar @ladyoutofreality @multistan-247 @senjuasuna @rxs-dump @undertaker-02 @daddyissuesmademe @michibuni @uh-kay-shuh @vv3nti @grim-gal @mizukilia @4den @pulchritxde
! important ! if your user is bolded, i am unable to tag you
My copium au where they get to grow up
Never disappoints.
Top tier DC fanfics right here people 🤌✨
The Cop and the Bat - Bruce Wayne/Battinson x Fem!Reader (includes smut)
Synopsis : Two years ago, you were “saved” by the vigilante they know called “The Batman” from joining up with a gang. At the time, you saw this as the only escape from the tough life you lived down in Gotham’s slums. But he beat up those who wanted to recruit you and a bunch of other lost kids, and changed your perception of life. You started to train to become a cop, wanting to help better the city. Wanting to tackle the corruption right at its core. Ah, to be a youngster full of dreams
TW : mention of cheating, and there’s a NSFW scene. 18+, minors do not interact. Some The Batman spoilers. Strong language. Violence.
For real, if you are underaged, or uncomfortable with this kind of content this story isn’t for you . I have many SFW work available for you to read over on my masterlists blog : @ella-ravenwood-archives. Please. This is smut with feelings and an actual story, but still it iz wat it iz. Be aware of that (I will also mark it once it’s coming in the story, to be fully safe).
__________________________________________________
“Crimes are always the highest in poor neighborhoods”, said an article you once read, when you were in high school, in your “current event” class. It made you chuckle, as you looked around you and saw a decrepit “school” full of teachers afraid of their students, and students terrified of their teachers.
You know what was even scarier ? The fact that so many of you just decided that : “that’s just how it is”, and settled to have a life of misery, fighting every day for survival down in Gotham’s slums.
No change had happened in such a long time, every single person living under the line of poverty just decided to live with the fact it was never going to change. And that’s an awful thing to think about. At the same time, if you expect nothing from life, you can only be pleasantly surprised, right ?
Yeah. No. Because even when you expect nothing, a place like Gotham City always had “surprises” that you definitely could do without. Like the local mafia taking hold of the neighborhood’s electricity, and you had to pay them to keep the heater on. And in Gotham in winters ? Saying it was cold was an euphemism. It was either finding the money, or freezing to death in your room.
Finding money.
Was this life ? A perpetual fight to keep your head above the water, to be able to eat at least a meal a day ? What a nightmare.
Naturally, as you grew up, you slowly drifted more and more towards a world you never thought would be yours. A world in which there was “easy money”.
Crime.
Keep reading
Marvel: What If be like…
Episode 1: What if Captain America…but girl?
Episode 2: What if Star Lord…but Black Panther?
Episode 3: What if the Avengers died lol
Episode 4: What if the most dark and depressing thing you’ve ever seen from this franchise, sending you into an existential tailspin of horror and despair so you have to just simply sit on the floor for a while and contemplate the futility of your own free will?
Episode 5: What if zombies
𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 (part 1)
✧˚ · . three minutes past his 27th birthday, the mass serial killer known as 'dawnbreaker' finally meets the girl from his dreams
✧˚ · . part 2
✧˚ · . warnings:- dawnbreaker!zayne x fem!reader, reader is coded to be smaller and shorter than zayne, reader is coded to be feminine, canon typical violence, mentions of blood, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of food, reader is a baker, soft sex, cuddling, unprotected sex, size kink, brief mention of oral sex, petnames (darling, little one, my love), mentions of illnesses, talks of murders, zayne murders someone, suicide, spoilers for zayne's lore, alternative timeline, mentions of babies, mentions of pregnancies, nightmares, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IN THE NEXT PART
✧˚ · . dawn says: NO STANDARD HAPPY ENDINGS HERE !!
minors and ageless blogs do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption
✧˚ · . playlist
꒰ tagging @adelheidvonschicksal ꒱
Dreams.
Dreams are all he has of her.
That strange girl with a smile like the sun. Her bright cheeks, radiating warmth that touch his scarred hands which were unworthy to hold her.
He remembers kissing her; caressing her face. Tasting strawberries off her lips.
She haunts the crevices of his memories; toes the line between reality and part of his maladaptive dreams.
Sometimes, he swears he can hear her voice in the winds, smell her perfume when he stalks past a bed of wildflowers.
And to his dreams he seeks her out.
This time, she’s sitting on a park bench, handing him an apple.
Can you peel it for me? Her bright eyes quicken the pathetic beating in his chest. You need to give me an apple peeling lesson—no one does it like you, Zayne.
It’s been so long since anyone has uttered his name. She made it sound like the sweetest overture; vowels and consonants clashing together, tapping past palette, teeth and rolling off her tongue with a languid ease.
Zayne.
Zayne, you’re impossible, she scoffs, setting her cards down on the table with a scowl.
I thought you sent me those snowballs to make fun of me, Dr. Zayne.
Zayne… can I hold your hand?
I love you, Zayne.
The shape of her warps, and twists. Different hairstyles, seasons. Different shades of smiles she reserves only for him.
Sometimes, the pathways of his subconscious take a turn which leaves him reeling—her face, closer to him this time.
Curtains of her hair fall right into his warm cheeks, her mouth parted to exhale breathy whines.
Glancing down the length of his body, he sees the flushed folds of her tiny pussy wrapped around his cock; dribbling excitement down his pelvis and the bed they were fucking on.
“Zayne, I can feel you so deep in me,” she sounds breathier here and it notches up his insanity. “Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.”
She pulls him into her embrace, his cheek right on her chest. Thud, thud, thud.
Don’t ever let me go, Zayne. Her heartbeat calms him, soothes him deeper. But, it’s much too loud this time.
Thud, thud, thud.
Zayne stirs in his threadbare sheets, wincing. Awake from his dream.
Piercing sunlight dances in his eyes, and he blindly gropes for the curtains, knocking over a few pill bottles in his wake. They rattle, and roll under his bed, causing a ruckus which joins the cacophony of boots stomping overhead. His neighbours were fighting again, the husband throwing his usual tantrum.
He grimaces, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Despite the rays leaking into his room past the drapes, the sight before him is drab. Gray walls, a plastic chair and spindly table, his old monitor beeping joylessly in the background. Nothing stood out except for the bright orange wrappers of his current favorite chocolate brand.
It was tangier than the ones he tried—filled with an orange caramel which melted over his tongue the second he popped it into his mouth.
Once the sugar rush spiked his bloodstream, Zayne headed into the bathroom to shave and freshen up. His standard garb of black on black was completed with a black trench coat, and an additional pair of gloves.
They were a necessary accessory for today’s look.
After all, he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind once he was done with the job.
Casting a glance to his monitor, he narrows down the street he wants to explore, and the house whose entire circumference was covered in a glowing red.
A young man who had once served the army had been reporting massive migraines and hallucinations for the past few days. Doctors had tried to save him, but nothing they gave could make the ache in his head subside.
All signs point to a classic case of degeneration.
Initially, Zayne paid little attention to his case; there were so many of them, it was hard to keep track of. But, the young man was insistent. He had reached out to Zayne with a huge deposit and a will to pass along to his family.
Who am I to refuse him? He stares at the blinking red dot, committing the house number to memory. After all, they’re just checks to me at the end of the day.
Zayne straps a blade inside the hidden compartment of his worn down leather boots, patting his coat pockets for a spare gun just in case.
Check, check and check.
He was ready to start the day; ready to start another kill.
It was time for work.
Walking past the streets of this old town, something tickles his memories and gets him frowning.
Zayne racks his brain as he removes his gloves. After one furtive look around, he discards the blood-soaked covers into the closest bin, glad that he had the foresight to wear them in the morning.
The sky above is turning, a chill nipping on the tail end of a breeze. He tugs his coat tighter across his body, walking closer to the walls with his collar turned up.
Across the road, a pair of headlights cut through the foggy darkness, and he freezes, hiding himself in the shadows until the truck rolls by.
Exhaling quietly, he takes a corner, down an abandoned promenade. Signs tacked to boarded up windows flap in the passing breeze. He keeps his head down, hands tucked neatly in his coat pockets.
The air is still, only the sounds of his boots crunching under gravel.
Somewhere to the front, a neon sign flickers, catching his attention.
Special 4th of September sale: Chocolate cake!
Below, in a smaller font, it read: Open from 9PM-1AM.
His stomach rumbles, and he grabs at it with a scowl. Though it was much too late for a cafe to stay open, Zayne wonders what harm could he get into if he decided to make a pitstop. Considering it was only 15 minutes till midnight, he still had plenty of time to spare.
Thinking about the sleeping pills he was running low on and how he was going to get them restocked, Zayne ambles towards the glass door, pushing it open. The sound of a tinkling bell shatters the hushed peace.
Instantly, the scent of chocolate, vanilla and coffee hits him, fragrancing the air with a faint recollection of comfort he can’t quite put his finger on.
“Welcome to the Nightstar Diner!” A preppy blonde waitress gives him a smile and ushers him to a corner booth, where she saddles him with a menu and a whole stack of cheap napkins.
“Today’s Wednesday—Wellington Wednesday. We have a huge array of mains and sides for you to choose from, and you shouldn’t skimp out on dessert! The city’s best pastry chef has just returned from an excursion to Floris, so we can absolutely guarantee the best treats to satisfy your sweet tooth.”
Zayne hasn’t really frequented this place in town, so he actively listens.
As she prattles on, she flips the menu open, gesturing to the bestsellers.
Beef mushroom ragu, he decides. And for dessert—a chocolate cake.
That should be enough food to pass as a birthday celebration meal.
He points to the items he wants, lifting one finger up.
She pauses, blinks. “Oh. Give me a second,” she fishes a notepad and pen from her apron, writing down his order. “One Ragu Wonderland and BonBon delight, right?”
Zayne grunts in assent. She giggles, grabbing the menu from him with an enthusiastic nod.
“You got it, sir. Coming right up!”
Thankfully, she has enough sense to leave him alone. Most of them do, anyway.
Like a prey able to sniff out a predator, the normal ones would put a wide berth of space between them and him; sensing the implicit strangeness he carried around like a second skin.
Zayne casts his gaze towards the outside world, watching trees sway in the wind, a broken street light flickering in the distance.
It’s a nice neighborhood. He should make an effort to explore out of his comfort zone once in a while.
The waitress returns a few minutes later, carrying his main dish.
Here you go, she enthuses and Zayne wonders how her cheeks don’t split from all the smiling she does.
He nods his thanks and digs in, chewing slowly—trying to savor a rare flavor other than cloying sweetness.
The food is good.
Zayne doesn’t really have much of a fancy palette to brag about, but he can be picky with his food when he wants. That’s the main reason why a few carrots strips are hidden underneath his plate. Other than that, he supposes it was a solid dish.
He signals to the waitress for dessert. She cleans up after him, noting the neglected carrots with a laugh.
“Not a fan of your veggies, huh?”
Zayne blinks, and shakes his head lightly.
“... right.”
Evidently spooked by his lack of words, she picks up the heavy plate and swiftly cleans up the carrots with a cloth.
The next time she drops by with his cake, she doesn’t say another word, setting it down with a polite nod.
He remains mute, picking up the gilded silver spoon (a nice touch to make this place more upscale than what it actually is) and scoops up the soft chocolate mousse.
Before he can take a bite, his phone chimes, and he puts down the spoonful of cake; picks up his phone to check the spam message and the time.
Midnight right on the dot.
Happy birthday to me.
The world doesn’t change; doesn’t celebrate with him.
All it does is continue to bustle, deafen and destroy. Spinning on an axis while he stays still for a single second, absorbing the tranquility of this moment.
Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t last long.
The bell chimes again, breaking apart his concentration. Zayne notices a woman entering the shop, her entire face hidden by her hoodie.
“... sorry, I’m late.”
Chatty waitress breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She drops her voice to a whisper, but Zayne still catches every word crystal clear; her voice floating right over to him.
“I was getting scared for my life. That guy there—” He feels both their eyes on him; Zayne pretends not to notice and spoons more cake into his mouth. “—gives me major serial killer vibes. Like Dawnbreaker vibes, y'know? I was about to call the police. But, since you’re here, I can fucking relax.”
The dark-haired man freezes at the unexpected call out of his alias, anticipating the other woman to agree with her; tell her to stay put while she dials for the police.
Maybe the waitress recognises me from somewhere?
Zayne was a millisecond away from standing up and leaving, when he hears the other woman’s scoff and giggle.
“Don’t be silly. Him? He’s just a man eating alone. Not every guy who doesn’t flirt back with you is a stone cold killer, Serina.”
Stunned, he raises his eyes, curious about this poor judge of character when he completely freezes.
Her hoodie is down; hair falling right in her face.
Lightning strikes him, staking to the spot.
Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.
A lifetime of memories flash in his mind, all of them condensing right down to the sight of your pretty eyes locked right onto his.
Those eyes he had only seen in his dreams soften at the sight of him; the exact same color and shape he had memorized since she started haunting him fifteen years ago.
No… it can’t be.
She parts her mouth, and his mind flashes to her leaning on top of him. Her warm breath on his cheek, her lips slotted perfectly with his own.
“... are you alright, sir?”
Her voice echoes; rings faintly like someone had hit him over the head with a chair. Zayne snaps out of his stupor, realizing the bite of cake poised halfway into his mouth had freefallen off his spoon and splattered onto the table.
Those eyes were looking right through him. In his periphery, the waitress frowns.
But, he doesn’t bother noticing her.
His entire attention was locked onto you.
Before you could ask him again, he stands, chair scraping loudly in the resounding silence. Blonde waitress gasps, backing up when he approaches them, but he swerves straight for the glass door, setting a large bill on the counter; paying twice over for his meal.
Zayne’s lungs feel like bursting, white-hot flames engulfing his every breath. He stalks towards the shadows, swiveling around to hide in the darkness while he keeps his gaze trained on the tiny cafe in the distance. He sees you picking up the cash, a faint smile on your lips while chatty waitress scowls with her arms crossed.
Watchful green eyes follow your path to his table, the kitchen. Then, you disappear and Zayne feels the fever dream break.
He stands, as if in a stupor.
While his mind was playing catch up with what had happened, his hand was already reaching for his burner phone, snapping a picture of this idyllic cafe for future reference.
Zayne has half a mind to storm back in there and demand who you were; why you had been residing in his dreams for the better part of his life.
But, even someone like him is aware how crazy that sounds.
Plus, if he scares you, there is no telling what you would do—the thought of you walking away and being frightened of him leaves a strange lump in his throat.
Zayne swallows it down, peels his gaze to the tiny lit cafe for another glimpse of you.
You were missing, presumably back in the kitchen.
He waits, and waits, rooted to the spot. Time slips by without warning and soon, the waitress starts to clean up, dustpan and broom in hand. You appear, closing the shutters and switching off the lights. Zayne thaws from his frozen voyeurism, watching you walk to a parked bike, unlock it and straddle the seat.
You cycle away, and he fights back the urge to follow after you. To track you down and note your address.
It would be absurd.
His cover would be blown immediately.
Zayne couldn’t risk his entire identity hinging on a chance to speak to you; to ask you who you were and what you wanted from him.
So, he did the next best thing: note down the name of the cafe, the exact time he met you and the color of your bike.
Just in case he needed to find you again.
(He wanted to find you again).
The sleeping pills he normally ingests at this time remains on the floor, away from his restless gaze.
For the first time in a long while, he tries to drift off without those white, round-shaped crutches—unable to sleep a wink for the entire night.
Zayne wakes up and forgets about the beeping monitor and red lights. He debates between traveling back to the cafe or extending his research to find you. In the end, after a full day of staring at the water-stained wall, he snaps out of his funk, finding the clock flashing 9:05PM.
He dresses down in a black turtleneck and charcoal gray pants. Ditching his pristine coat, he chooses a black windbreaker instead, nervously running a hand through his dark locks.
The trip back to the cafe takes him more than an hour, but it was all worth it when those warmly lit windows came into view; he finally felt like he could breathe again.
Your bike was parked outside, locked with a standard clamp. He could see the top of your head from behind the counter. Despite his reservations, Zayne takes one step forward. And then another. He approaches the cafe, pushes the door open.
You immediately notice him, and a smile spreads across your lips. “Hello, sir. Welcome. What can I get for you?”
He tries to ignore how you basically push aside the blonde waitress to serve him, menu in hand. She huffs, but doesn’t say a word, going back to wiping down the counter methodically.
Zayne returns to what was quickly becoming his favorite booth, randomly pointing at a bowl of basil pasta. You smile, jotting it down. “A good choice, sir. Anything to drink?”
“Water.”
His voice is hoarse and low from long stretches of silence and he fights back a wince when you blink, taken aback.
“Oh. Of course. Long day, huh? I’ll make sure it’s extra chilled so you can quench your thirst, sir.”
You reach for the menu, and in the split second when he passes it to you, both your fingertips brush. A spark goes off, shooting into his skin like a mini lightning bolt. He grunts at the same time you gasp. You immediately follow up with a profuse apology: I’m sorry about that, sir.
He shakes his head, telling you without words that it was fine.
You shoot him another apologetic look and walk back to the kitchen. Your scent lingers around him—vanilla and strawberries—and despite himself, Zayne can’t help but lean forward, eyes closed and inhaling your wonderful fragrance.
His ruminations are cut off by a crisp click landing on his table; the blonde waitress giving him a tight smile as she sets down his glass of ice cold water.
Zayne drinks from it, unable to stop his eyes from darting to where you had disappeared to. He feels antsy; on edge. Like he had to know exactly where you were or else he would never feel at ease.
To take his mind off the unbearable distance, he drags a napkin towards him and fishes in his jacket pocket for a pen. Zayne doodles the first thing that comes to his mind; a cross section of a heart.
It’s intricate and uses up enough of his time for you to arrive back with his food.
“That’s pretty,” you muse, standing next to him with your head craned forward to catch more details. “Is that a human heart? It’s very detailed. You must be a surgeon.”
He blanches and shakes his head.
No, that will never be me. It’s him. That job will never be my reality.
Zayne clears his throat. “I… have a lot of interest in hearts.”
It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken in days. He hopes it doesn’t make him sound weird and off-putting. But, you smile, and then laugh.
“You know what, maybe Serina was right. You could most definitely pass as a serial killer.”
“I’m not charming enough.”
He never expects to make a joke, and judging from the surprised look on your face, neither did you.
“Well, that’s a reassurance, though I can vouch for it differently.” He blinks at your words, sharp mind coming to a hard pause. You continue on like you hadn’t just made him malfunction. “May I sit and watch you draw?”
Zayne hesitates, not for the reasons you’re thinking; he’s worried he would scare you away. However, your dilemma was different.
“I-It’s just we don’t get many customers at night… as you can see,” your cheeks surge with warmth and you point to the starkly empty cafe. “I won’t get in trouble and I promise I won’t distract you. I just like to watch people immersing themselves in art.”
You sit opposite of him while you speak, and he has to duck his head to hide the growing smile tugging on his thin lips.
“I see. And aren’t you worried in the slightest how your friend might perceive you?”
You feel Serina’s judgment burning into your back. Ignoring her, you shake your head.
“I don’t care.”
Whatever curiosity you ignited in him wasn’t as one-sided as he expected. Calming his racing heart, he picked the pen up and continued to draw.
"May I know your name, sir?"
He pauses, wondering if it would be perfectly fine to reveal this bit of himself to you.
It's just your name... no harm can come from it.
"Zayne."
"Zayne," you repeat.
His name passing through your lips is the sweetest sound he has ever heard in this life; it sends shivers up his spine, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.
"Yes."
You smile, bright and inviting. "My name is Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He nods, and returns back to his sketch.
Feeling your eyes on him wasn’t the most nerve-wracking; it was how close you were that he could breathe you in.
The smell of strawberries and vanilla seemed to coat your every pore, diffusing across the table where Zayne could no longer ignore it.
“What perfume are you wearing?”
His question took you aback.
“I’m sorry,” you immediately apologized. “It’s a little too strong. I went heavy-handed with it.”
He shades in a pulmonary artery, humming. “It isn’t bad. Do not misunderstand me. I find it quite delightful.”
You exhale a laugh. “Strawberries and cream. A local perfumer. I can share with you his details if you would like.”
Zayne flits his eyes back to you, nodding.
You try (and fail) not to be mesmerized by the shade of green in his gaze; it reminds you of verdant trees swaying in the spring breeze.
A comfortable silence lapses around the both of you. Zayne eats while he puts the finishing touches to his masterpiece. You watch every stroke of his deft hand, notice the scars on his wrists.
Once he was done, he wordlessly hands you the decorated napkin, much to your surprise.
“I couldn’t—” you start hastily.
“Take it,” he interjects, standing up. Fishing in his pocket for a large bill, he hands it to you without another word.
You take care not to crumple his drawing in your hand, money in the other; watching the broad of his back grow smaller as he ambles towards the door.
“Will you come back?”
Your voice carries right over to him; Serina glances up from her phone, caught off guard by your eager question.
Zayne looks over his shoulder, an unfathomable emotion in his dark green eyes.
You hesitate, wanting to retract your sudden question. But, he stops your thoughts right in their tracks when he nods.
It warms you up instantly, and you break into a big smile.
Zayne doesn’t say anything else, turning on his heel and leaving the cafe.
The overhead bell tinkles, and the doors snap close. Serina pushes herself off the counter to give you an inscrutable look.
You don’t have to ask what’s on her mind; her sneer says it all.
“He’s bad news. I don’t trust him.”
Quietly, you pocket his drawing, standing up with resolution locked right on your shoulders.
“Too bad I do, then.” You walk back towards the kitchen, wondering how you were going to repay Zayne for his kindness.
Staring at your ingredient list, you get to work—pulling out an assortment of bowls and icings as your mind whirs from one recipe to another.
Apparently, Serina wasn’t done lecturing you. She tails you into the kitchen, arms stubbornly crossed over her chest.
“I have a bad feeling about him. I don’t think you should get closer.”
Something in her tone catches your attention. You take in those sour, pursed lips; the petulant look in her eyes. It all becomes clear when her envy starts to stink up the room.
Choosing your words carefully, you mumble, “You don’t have to worry about me.” With more confidence, you chuckle.
“If anything happens, I’ll run straight to you. I’m sure Detective Callaghan can help me.”
Her scowl deepens. “My dad would tell you to listen to me.”
You can’t help but smile at the childish lilt in her mumbled words.
Knowing how unwarranted your friend’s worry could be, you try to ease her concern as best as you could; softening your stance and voice.
“You’re right,” you say, plunging your hand in your pocket and feeling for the napkin; crumpling the edge between your forefinger and thumb.
“But, I can protect myself, Serina. You know I can.” You turn to face the counter, ignoring her gaping shock.
“Trust me when I say: I know in the very depths of my heart that he would never hurt me.”
Every night, like clockwork, Zayne would drop by the cafe at 9:05 PM on the dot.
You would greet him with a smile, and a nod, directing him to his favorite booth where he would order one main, one dessert, and you would both spend the night chatting in low tones about anything and everything under the sky.
Some days, it was drawing. Then, baking. Once, you brought up books, and that conversation had managed to span past closing time until Serina, fed up with waiting for you, had handed you the keys and stalked away with a flippant, “don’t forget to switch off the lights.”
Since it was almost two in the morning, Zayne offered to walk back with you to your apartment which was nearby, though you hastily told him it was fine and you could manage.
After that, you had assumed he was silently sending you off from the sensation of his eyes boring into your back, but when you turned around, he was already gone.
Today, the cafe is set up a little differently; blue balloons adorning walls, kids running around squealing. Adults were chattering and ordering dessert, and you had your hands full.
You could only speak in snatches to Zayne—running between the kitchen and tables with a notepad in hand and flour streaked on your cheek. However, your friend didn’t seem to mind; lost in his own thoughts while sipping a hazelnut latte.
Once the commotion settled down, you sidled into his booth, a tired smile on your face.
“Sorry about that,” you hummed. Wordlessly, he passed you a napkin, pointing right at your cheek.
You blink, swiping at the same spot he indicated, finding flour streaking the paper. “Oh. Thank you.”
He exhaled a humorless chuckle.
“Busy night?”
You hum, smiling at the family of four who were busy devouring some cake. “I love watching families celebrate special days. Makes me think of my own.”
There was a hint of sadness in your tone, one he couldn’t miss.
“Is your family… here?”
You shake your head, turning your gaze to the outside world. Zayne tightened his hands into fists, fighting back the urge to reach out and touch your face.
“They all died when I was a young girl. Wanderer attack.”
You force a smile, even when he could plainly see how much the memory still scarred you till this day.
“I’m… sorry. For your loss,” Zayne clears his throat and tries again. “Grief is strange. It doesn't become easy, but we grow a better capacity to withstand it. I would rather feel grief in its totality and learn to manage its burden than to never feel it at all.”
“You must have felt a lot of grief in your life.” He finds you smiling sadly at those words. “How about your family, then, Zayne?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have a family, either.”
The conversation suspends on a note of shared vulnerability and sadness. You twist your fingers, eyes glassy like you were a million miles away.
“I know this isn’t the best of times, but I made something for you.”
Before he can speak, you stand up and walk back to the kitchen. The family of four were already at the counter, paying for their meals. He sees a chubby boy nodding off to sleep against his father’s shoulder, while a cherubic baby babbles in his mother’s arms.
It must’ve been that little boy’s birthday.
He suddenly thinks of Georgie; how he would be thirteen if the Abomination hadn’t claimed him.
Those grave thoughts threatening to pull him under disappear when you return, a cake box in hand.
Opening it, you surprise him with a perfectly iced chocolate cake, made with a glaze that reflects back the cafe’s warm yellow lights.
“Hmm.” He tilts head to the side, studying the perfect icing technique. “This is nice. Did you make it?”
“Mhm hmm.” Your eyes twinkle when you say, “I saw your membership card information. We met on your birthday, right? And I thought—strange… you never had a cake. So, I made you one. And you seem to love chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, too.”
Shyly, you pass him a candle. “Do you want to light it up?”
Zayne stares at the cake. And stares at it some more.
“Zayne?”
He raises his eyes to find uncertainty flashing across your features. The lump in his throat thickens and he shakes his head, trying to stop your thoughts from jumping to hurtful conclusions.
“It is beautiful, it’s just…” the quiet man trails off, unsure of what else to say but the absolute truth. “... No one has ever celebrated my birthday before.”
Your eyes widen and they flash with something tender and pitiful. “Oh.” He expects for you to coo at his misfortune, like so many were prone to do. But, you giggle and stick a candle into the perfectly glazed dome, lighting it up with a flourish—like you had done this a million times before.
“Well, I’m happy to be the first one to celebrate it with you… even if it’s a week too late.”
He has to breathe a soundless laugh at your satisifed expression.
“A week later is better than none at all.”
You put your hands together, and quietly sing him a ‘Happy birthday’. Zayne finds it alluring and haunting how the flame dances over your face, throwing shadows across your pretty features.
You finish the song, and he awkwardly ducks his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice his bright red ears.
“Come on,” you cajole, gesturing at the candle. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”
He does as you say, although he knows it’s futile to wish on candles; why would he when his dream had already come true?
But, he goes along with the charade, eyes closed and hands clasped together under his chin. Once he pretends to make a wish, he blows out the candle, and tries not to laugh when you clap excitedly.
Moments later, you pass him two spoons, and the both of you dig into the cake.
He finds the cream a perfect balance between light and sweet; not too overpowering or cloying.
“Good?”
He nods. “Very.” Taking a generous bite of the chocolate, he fights back a smile. The perfect ratio of bitterness and indulgence. “You have a great talent for sweets.”
It was rare for Zayne to compliment you, and even rarer for you to be so affected by such simple words.
Your face burns, and you cough to hide your flustered expression. Zayne notices the dusting of warmth on your cheeks and fights the urge to reach out and pinch them.
“It’s getting late. Do you want me to walk you back home?”
This time, you take him aback by your enthusiastic nod.
“I would love some company.”
He waits for you to clean up, bears Serina’s eye roll and scoffs when she tosses the cafe keys at him with a curt, “goodnight”.
Feeling antsy, he tries to help you clean up his spot, to which you screech from the end of the kitchen: “Zayne, don’t you dare do my work for me!”
He pointedly ignores you, picking up stray plates and cups. Walking into the kitchen, it’s amusing how easily he weaves his way through the mess of boxes on the floor and piles of dishes. He puts them all in the sink, switches on the dishwasher when your back is turned.
“Zayne, please. This is my cafe and you’re my guest. You don’t have to help me!”
Petulance coats your every word, and again, he finds it hard not to chuckle.
What is she doing to me?
In a span of a few days, he had gone from stoic and stone-cold to laidback and languid. Those sleeping pills he used to rely on were stowed away in his medicine cabinet; his nights restful and calm.
No longer does he dream of her—of you—because you’re right here within reach.
Zayne doesn’t take such an occurrence lightly.
He treasures every moment with you; the boring mundane and the stretches of comfortable silence. If there was one thing he could live with in this bleak life, it was waking up with the thought of your smile.
“Thank you for walking me home,” you utter softly, bike wheels tinkling as you push the handles, walking in tandem with him. He slows down his pace to match yours, hands behind his back.
“Happy to be of service.”
You cast him a sly look, one which ignited his curiosity. “Is there something particularly on your mind?”
“Oh, nothing,” you mumble breezily. “Just that you remind me of a guard dog.”
A dip appears in between his brows. “Do I scare you?”
Snorting, you shake your head. “Of course, not, silly. It’s your demeanor.”
You pretend to puff out your chest, back ramrod straight to mimic his perfect posture. “You walk like this all the time. You could almost pass as a soldier.”
The corner of his lips twitch at your antics. “Fine. I will be a bit less guarded around you.”
“Why don’t you show me another side of you, then?” Your sudden quip makes you stop dead in your tracks, and he does, too. Zayne sees you struggling to put your thoughts into words. He wonders what exactly you mean by that question.
“Hmm?”
“It’s just,” there’s that flush on your cheeks he finds adorable again. You take a deep breath, and look him right in the eye. “It’s just—I really think you should ask me out on a date.”
Doubt flits in those gorgeous green eyes, and you nearly blanche, wishing you had a time machine to go back and smack yourself across the mouth for even uttering those words.
Without much preamble, Zayne lifts his hand, and you hold your breath. You expect him to caress your cheek, not tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch feels peculiar, if a little comfortable—like an abandoned house left behind years ago only to still feel like home the second you pass through the door.
“I can’t,” he sounds pained, as if the thought alone was forbidden. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
You take a step back, perplexed. “What do you mean? Hurt me? I never thought you would.”
His hand withers to his side, expression unreadable. “I’m not…” It's his turn to struggle with his words. “... not who you think I am.”
Who I think he is…
You swallow hard, trying to hide the disappointment dragging your smile down.
His rejection stung harder than the time you sliced your index finger while handling a lemon meringue filling. It burns through you, drying up your hopes. Making you question the real intention of his presence in your life.
“Oh. I’m… sorry.” You duck your head, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremble in your lower lip. Zayne remains stock still, and like a statue, you couldn’t unearth what was going on behind his stony facade. “I was too bold. It w-won’t happen again.”
Regaining your composure again, you plaster on a smile, though he could plainly see it was fraying at the edges.
Zayne doesn’t know what else to say; how to patch up your hurt.
His silence is mistaken for indifference; fuelling more of your doubt and despair.
“Zayne… are you angry at me?”
He looks up, confusion written clearly in his gaze. “No. Why would I be?”
You’re floundering, unsure how else to remedy this situation. “It’s just… I gave you the green light to ask me out on a date and you’re telling me you can’t because I don’t know the real you—whatever that means. Come on. Give me something to work with. Isn’t it obvious? I really like you.”
Despite his hesitation, Zayne has to admit one thing: you had more courage than most people he knew.
Who else could stand there, shaking with their heart on their sleeve and still hope for the best?
Something in him snaps at the thought, and he’s sweeping you into his arms, much to your surprise. Your arms flail at your side, breath caught in your throat. You feel his lips in your hair, those shockingly warm palms flat on your back.
“You’re much too good for me,” he mumbles, sounding strained and breathless. “I don’t think I deserve such goodness.”
The scent of him lingers on your skin after he releases you, the look on his face dissolving the last of your resolve.
You reach for him, taking both of his hands, squeezing them tightly.
“I don’t care,” you rush the words, wanting them to hit and stick. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re a sweet person, Zayne. And I want you to know that. You do deserve goodness—every single drop of it. I hope you will allow yourself that for once.”
Your words, though innocent and pure, hit him right where it hurts. He clenches his fist, scared that he might accidentally crush your fingers with how tightly he was holding your hands.
“I’m not a good man,” he rasps, those green eyes gouging through your soul. “I’ve done a lot of things—”
“And I will be the judge of that.” You peer up at him, willing him to look away.
He doesn’t, keeping his gaze steadily on you.
Pursing your lips, you shake your head. “You give me so little faith, Zayne. I know a good person when I see one. If you let us take that step forward, I’ll make up my mind once I know the real you.”
Were you… challenging him?
You might be more insane than him; crazier than what he gave you credit for.
But, the ache inside of him doesn’t want to subside, and he’s reaching out to touch your cheeks, cupping your face fiercely in his grip. Softly, so he doesn’t scare you away, Zayne caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, feeling your skin divot and dip under his touch.
So fragile… so easy to ruin.
He would never ever hurt you; Zayne makes himself promise that over and over again when he leans close—close enough for his lips to brush yours with a chaste kiss.
Your breathing catches, lashes fluttering and tangling with his own. You don’t push into the kiss, letting him gauge the distance and test his self-control.
The pressure of his mouth feels nice; lips slightly chapped but warm and full.
He pulls back slightly, and you can taste the chocolate he had earlier; his cool breath stirring the loose locks of your hair.
“You have no idea how much I’ve longed to do that.”
To you, it may sound like the musings of a mad man, but to him, it was fifteen years of longing condensed into one moment.
Hungrily, you ache for more of him, and Zayne couldn’t say no.
Your shaky hands sink into the lapels of his jacket as you tug him closer into your orbit. He relents, falling into you like a new star about to shatter from a nebula—an explosion of want painting each hot breath as your lips meet over and over again.
Your bike tumbles to the ground, and you almost fall along with it, if it weren't for his strong grip on your arms.
Zayne steadies you, breathing hard.
“This is going too fast.”
His warning doesn’t phase you, not when he’s looking at you like you were a piece of forbidden fruit served to him on a silver platter
Since this world had been ravaged by the passage of time and destruction, the two of you were the only ones on the street. There would be no eyes witnessing this shocking indiscretion; no one to stop you from taking his hand and gesturing to your apartment complex in the distance.
“Would you like to come over to my place?” you exhale. The look in your eyes is breathtaking; rooting him to the spot.
Forgetting his fears and hesitation, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your cool knuckles.
“Lead the way, little one."
Zayne corners you against the wall the second your door falls close behind both your backs.
He’s in your space, breathing in your air, touch more possessive than you could ever imagine.
Those strong fingers grip your hips tightly, almost as if you might disintegrate if he loses his hold. You gasp when he pulls you flush to him, pressing his straining hardness right onto your clothed clit.
“I cannot be gentle with you, little one,” he murmurs, bucking his hips. Your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head at the spark of pleasure painfully zinging down your spine. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”
He devours the question on the tip of your tongue: What do you mean a long time?
Zayne doesn’t give you time to think. He’s kissing you like you were a glass of water in the middle of a desert that he had been denied gratification from; the fervor drives you dizzy.
Fuck, he groans, and it sounds tormented—coming from the depths of his chest. I need you, my little one.
You grapple at his shirt, his jacket, his hair; anything to pull him closer.
It’s borderline insane—sleeping with a man you had only known for a week. But, you couldn’t explain it.
Zayne feels safe. The moments in which you see him everyday softens you to the idea of him in your life; invites a warm feeling settling right in the hollow of your chest, just above your heart.
You might think you recognize him from somewhere—perhaps, your soul knew him even before your eyes did.
Whatever that strange feeling was, it culminated into you shakily gripping his face, looking deep into those green eyes that held a lifetime of secrets in them.
“Zayne… I’m not afraid.”
You take his scarred hand, guiding it to your chest where your heartbeat stuttered and throbbed under his splayed palm.
“I told you—you would never hurt me. I know you won’t.”
How ironic—a man with more blood stained on his hands, touching and caressing a precious bloom who had not yet lost her innocence.
If it wasn’t such poetic justice, he would’ve thought his life was made up to be one big fucking joke.
Even if you were his due punishment, Zayne wants to be trapped, like a moth to your flame; drowsily sinking deeper and deeper into your light.
His lips touch yours, cool from the autumn chill. You respond back, lips parting so he could slot his tongue past those plush barriers, going right into the heart of your mouth.
He’s never kissed anyone like this; where his soul was screaming to be poured right down your throat.
Everything about you was sin incarnate; close was never close enough when it came to consuming your passion.
Tightening your hold on his hand, you pull back with a soft gasp. The glow of the street lights outline your puffy lips in a hazy orange, and Zayne has to physically hold himself back from crashing his lips onto yours again.
You tug his hand, ripping his mind off the thought of taking you right against the wall, as you lead him down the hallway and straight into your room.
It’s cozier than he imagines; fluffy pillows and a soft teal bedspread.
You sit on the edge, and he eyes the empty spot beside you.
“Hey,” your hushed voice snaps him out of his reverie. “Come here.”
You stretch your hand towards him, a soft smile in place. Zayne thinks he’s never seen such significance in a single motion; the only woman he’s ever loved, reaching out beyond his fervent dreams and subconsciousness to show him that she was here.
That she was real.
He takes your hand carefully, allowing you to bring him back into your orbit. His back meets the bed, and you cautiously straddle his hips, getting used to the feel of him underneath you.
It’s nice—his edges fitting right with yours.
Closing the distance, you lean in, planting your lips on his once more.
The feral desire he feels at the doorway kicks up a notch, and the hunger he tries to tame can’t be controlled.
He grips your hips, turning on his side to push you down to the bed. Your hair splays out on the sheets, cheeks warm and lips swollen.
Zayne’s hands tremble when he reaches for your jumper, fisting the soft material and tugging it up slowly. He watches—waits for your reaction.
You keep on looking at him with those half-lidded eyes, begging him to take the leap.
Tugging the jumper up, he’s rewarded with stretches of soft skin as far as his eye could see; further up and the lacy cups of your bra reveal themselves.
You’re much too ripe. Much too alluring.
He can’t keep his eyes off your plush mounds, feeling like a complete idiot when he gapes at them for a second too long.
“You can touch them,” your soft quip makes him blink. Slowly, a hot flush creeps up his neck, and his ears grow warm.
Zayne figures it would be best to undress you; all these pesky layers were getting in the way of the true gift he wants.
Your jumper slides off your frame and onto the floor, and your pants follow suit. Left in a mismatched pair of lacy underwear, Zayne feels the heat going straight to his pelvis; pooling south and he’s painfully hard behind his restrictive slacks. You’re a dirty painting coming to life, wide doe-eyes watching his every move, plush lips parted and wet with a mixture of both your spit.
Zayne can’t take it any longer; he needs to taste you or else he would go insane.
“Ask me to undress you,” his voice comes out gravelly, low and urgent.
You lick your lips, darting your eyes from his mouth to his chest and back again. “Please,” it’s soft, and so, so sweet when those words roll off your tongue.
“Make me yours tonight, Zayne.”
Fuck. He feels a spike of lust going straight to his cock and heartstrings. His nostrils flare, and he grapples for your bra straps and band of your panties with those large, veiny hands.
“That’s not what I said, little one,” he says, and in the heat of the moment, it almost comes off as a growl.
You lift your hips high enough for him to slide off your skimpy lingerie; sit up for him to get rid of your bra.
The air is starting to shimmer with undeniable heat, and if you were a cold glass of water, condensation would be beading on your surface; trickling and seeping right into the mattress.
You’re much too exposed—naked for his scrutiny. There’s barely any light in the room, all brightness sucked in by those glorious green eyes darting up and down your body, stoking the fire in them that’s burning to frightening heights.
Without a second thought, you cross your arms in front of your chest, growing shyer.
He shakes his head, gently prying your arms away from your body. “Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you—all of you.”
You barely have any time to prepare for what comes next: Zayne leaves kisses on your cheeks, neck, shoulders and chest. Making his way downwards where you needed him the most. Those warm lips press into your pelvis, your inner thighs, kissing the tension away.
A gasp slips past your defenses, the sharp nip of his teeth on your sensitive thighs bringing you back to the present.
It’s dizzying—you lean up to find his head of dark hair right in between your legs.
Zayne’s eyes are closed, a worshiper right at your altar, his cheek pressed to your inner thigh.
Puffs of warm exhales graze your skin, and you feel him right where you need him.
Finally, his tongue touches your clit, runs through your folds; sending shocks down your spine.
Zayne, you cry out his name. Oh God…
The pleasure is overwhelming, dragging you under. You reach for him, twining your fingers in his hair to anchor yourself.
Tastes delicious, he mumbles. Like the sweetest dessert I’ve ever had.
You whine, never expecting such a sentiment from him. He’s getting you so wet only to lap it all up; completely starving for you.
You always had an inkling that he was a giver, but here in your bed, Zayne doesn’t hesitate to offer you everything.
Pitchy whines and gasps were your reward for him; growing dizzier on his tongue.
You’re shaking, desperate and aching. And he’s unrestrained, clamping his hands on your thighs to stop you from squirming, keeping you nice and open for him.
“Shit,” he mumbles. “You’re so beautiful to me.”
It’s like he knows your body inside and out; how you like to be licked, how you twitch and gasp when he sucks on your bare clit. His groan resonates in your core, deep and carnal.
He needs you just as much as you need him.
“Zayne,” you mumble wetly, tugging on his hair. He lifts his head, green eyes almost dark with an unnamed emotion that makes your stomach flip in nerves. You bring him into your arms, twining him fast to your chest. In the darkness, you don’t see his scars or the brokenness lining his very being; only focused on how amazing he feels flush on you.
You’re much too close, and it should scare him.
Instead, Zayne finds himself entranced by your doe-eyes and wet, swollen lips. He wants to devour you piece by piece; eat you all up until you’re one with his bones.
Taming those emotions down, he touches your face instead, caressing the soft plush of your cheek.
“Tell me what you want,” his voice is soft, non-intrusive.
It warms you, makes you fall deeper into this trance he has you trapped in.
You’re trembling, he notices. Zayne guides you onto his lap, letting you take the lead. He doesn’t want you to be afraid; he would never forgive himself for hurting you.
He waits for you to become comfortable enough to meet his eyes, smaller palms gently folded on his chest.
“... I’m nervous.” Your teeth catch on your lower lip, mind caught in this tug of war. But, you’re dripping on him, sweet little pussy making a mess on his thigh.
Such conflict intoxicates him—makes him want to push your decisions so it would always be him, him, him.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, strong and reassuring.
Sweeping you to his chest, he adjusts his lower body, so that you feel it.
The tip of his cock, hidden from your view, prods your tightness. You freeze, and he shushes you.
“Little one… you know what’s going to happen, right?”
You nod, despite your anxiety. Zayne frowns and rubs your back.
“There is no need to be afraid. I will never harm you. You’re safe here.” With me.
“I know,” you shut your eyes, breathing in deeply. “It’s just…” You trail off, and determination lights your features.
You sit up, fully in control now. Zayne watches the determination unfurl; how you grasp him in your smaller hand and stroke him from base to tip. He fights back a hiss, head thumping back onto the soft bed.
That feels so good.
He’s much too big to fit in one go; you had to buy yourself some time to wrap your head around his sheer size.
Wetness coats your wrist, and you glance down, shocked to find a clear bead dribbling from his tip. Something urges you to taste him, and you are about to trail down his body; to repay him for his first selfless gesture, when he grasps your hand, shaking his head.
“I can read your intentions, little one. I do not think it would be wise.”
You pout, about to ask him why?
He doesn’t give you a moment to voice out your disappointment. Flipping you back to the bed, he pins your hands down, nudging your thighs wider so you’re spread out nicely for him.
With his free hand, he lines himself to you, dragging the heavy tip in between your folds. You’re so wet, it’s messing up on his cock and his resolve; messing with his mind.
Zayne fights to be gentle with you, resisting the urge to sheathe himself in one go—not wanting to hurt you.
“Please…” you whimper, shamelessly begging. “I need you, Zayne.”
You’re being so good for him, he wants to do nothing but stuff you full of him; his cock, fingers, tongue, love.
He pushes in, not wanting to delay another second longer. The stretch is tight, gets him gasping and groaning.
You squirm and shift, trying to get him all in. Sweat beads on your forehead, teeth gritted.
“Relax,” his voice is low and hoarse. You need to relax or else I can’t get in, darling.
He releases your hands, sinking down into your open arms. He cups your pussy, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You’re doing so well for me, beautiful. So, so well.
You wrap your arms and legs around him, keeping him in place, shaking from the stimulation.
He’s halfway in; your eyes start to fill with tears.
Zayne watches your every expression, stopping when you twist your head to the side.
“Does it hurt?” He almost pulls out, but you tighten your grip on him, furiously shaking your head.
“N-no.” The emotion is thick in your voice. “It’s…”
You hiccup, trailing off.
What is it, darling? Tell me. You can tell me anything.
“It’s… familiar. What we’re doing.” Your cheeks were warm, your flustered expression making something in his chest twinge. He leans close, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead.
“If it makes you feel any better—you’re driving me insane.”
He can hardly form proper words, cock so heavy it’s almost painful. But, he pulls the desire from overtaking him, from overwhelming you.
“You’re so beautiful… I must be dreaming.”
Zayne wants to spell his devotion on your skin, fill you up until he’s the only thing you can taste in the back of your throat.
You whine, trying to hide your face, but he won’t have it. He grabs your hands, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the bed.
“Don’t hide from me,” he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off your parted lips and glossy eyes. “Never hide yourself from me again, my love.”
… My love.
You don’t have a second’s respite to take in that sweet nickname, your pussy stuffed to the brim with him.
Zayne sinks right down to the hilt with little resistance, giving you all of him.
He breathes sharply, breathes you in. Hips rocking, pumping deeply in and out of your little cunt; your wetness coats him from base to tip, a sweet squelch filling the air every time he shallowly fucks into you.
You’re gasping, arching your back. Fingers flexing in his strong grip. Zayne thinks your body was made to be poetry; the circle of your nipples hardening, shapely hips clipping with his; delicate throat exposed to his biting kisses.
He sucks your skin, leaves his marks of possession anywhere his lips could touch.
“Such a good little one,” he murmurs, pressing his face in the crook of your neck. Releasing his hold on your wrists. You latch onto him, arms around his shoulders and thighs wrapped around his waist; letting him rock you apart slowly.
Feels so good. You feel so good, Zayne.
Needy little gasps. You’re clenching down on him so well.
Zayne feels like he’s on cloud nine; lost in the hazy stupor of your body. Strawberries and cream swirl around him, drowning him in a fruity, lactonic coma.
He noses your pulse point, completely putty for you.
It’s a mess where your bodies meet; slick staining the sheets. He’s too out of it to realize he’s making love to you raw. Zayne fights back the fog—reminding himself to pull out. I can’t spill inside of you.
You’re making it hard for him to stick to that resolve, especially when you whine in protest.
I want it… need it inside of me, Zayne.
“Careful,” he grits out when you start to feel too good; squeezing down on his cock like your walls were made for him.
Like fast melting snowflakes, his will of steel is disintegrating right in your warm pussy.
Want to feel you all inside of me… make me yours, Zayne.
His breath catches, turning into a groan. It feels too good, he was a split second away from insanity.
Weak, a voice chimes in the back of his mind. You’re growing weaker for her. He wants to smother the apprehension; tunes into your breathy whimpers and moans.
You crave him—every low growl, every hard dig of his fingers into your fleshy hips.
You’re so sensitive, you can feel every twitch of his tip catching on your golden spot. His jaw grows slack, the pleasure building and building. Every stroke drives you closer to the edge, and you’re whimpering his name over and over again, blinded by the cresting pleasure.
“Zayne!” your mouth falls lax, cries bounding across the walls.
Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his biceps. The pinch of pain shoots straight to his cock, and Zayne has to bite down on the release threatening to burst into you.
Not yet… focus on her…
Your orgasm crashes into you when you least expect it. Shattering through your entire soul.
Zayne! Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You pant over and over again. So good, so good—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.
He’s not planning to, not when your contractions grow stronger and nearly pull him inside your body. He thinks you could steal his soul with how intense your pussy is squeezing down on him.
Fuck, little one, he gasps, eyes nearly rolling back into his head. S’like you were made for me.
You’re shaking, so sensitive from cumming. With how good his strokes feel, the sensation builds up again—this time faster and more intense—reaching its fever pitch like a wildfire.
Shit! Shit… again. I-I feel it again.
“One more?” he groans, sweat slicking his dark bangs to his forehead. Your eyes get hazy, lidded; mouth falling open and the tip of your tongue slightly lolling out.
You look so fucked out, Zayne thinks he should destroy the entire universe so he could be the only one to see you like this.
A dark rush of possession shoots through his veins, and you clamp down on him—tighter and growing more delirious.
Twinges of pain join in tandem with his strokes, the head of him bumping somewhere too deep inside of you to name. It sparks and withers, makes your thighs clench and toes curl.
But, you welcome the discomfort—beg him for more.
Harder, Zayne. Make it hurt.
He’s gritting his teeth, gorgeous green eyes so hazy it fogs up your mind. His cock splits you wide open, walls trembling every time he rams into you so hard you feel the pain shooting up your spine.
You cry out, start to sob.
More, more, more. Please, give me more.
“Cum for me, darling,” he says, and it’s not a request—it’s a command. Your body responds in kind, quick to bend and break just for him.
He has you in the palm of his hands; has you cumming again for him.
Zayne presses forward, fucking into you hard enough for the bed to shake. He gives it to you good, milking out as many pulsing contractions out of your body before you’re wrung dry.
You gasp and arch your back, till only your shoulders are touching the mattress. His thrusts grow harder. Sloppier and messier. One, final hard push.
Zayne breaks, spilling into you with an almost unbearable warmth. Pumping you to the brim with his load, he doesn’t let a single drop leak out of you, plugging you up and lifting your hips with those veiny, strong hands so you were full of him.
Fuck, little one… so good to me. His words are slurred into your throat, almost incoherent.
“God…” your voice is raw and hoarse. You touch his chest, glide your hands through the slick sweat coating his back.
Zayne remains deep inside of you, keeping you well plugged until you swear both your breaths become one.
He turns you to your side—reaching for your warmth and firmly lodging his face in the crook of your neck. Are you alright?
He holds you like this, your back to his chest, palms splayed possessively over your belly and chest.
You nod, completely exhausted.
“Zayne?”
“Hmm?”
This time, you’re not afraid to voice this part out; the part which hesitated for a split second before you let him consume you.
“Will you stay the night?”
He places a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, lashes tickling your cheek.
“Only if you let me.”
Of course, you would. Irrational as it was, Zayne was a part of your life now. This stranger turned lover whose touch could bring you alive in so many ways.
“I do,” you whisper back. “For tonight… and perhaps… many more nights after this.”
He falls into a silence—far too quiet that you thought he might’ve dozed off.
But then, his arms pull you closer, and you think you might fold under the weight of his hold when his words fill you back up with all the light the universe has to offer.
“Yes,” he murmurs, certain and true.
“For as long as you let me, I would love to be here with you.”
Linkon City’s best cardiac surgeon stirs in his sleep, the beginnings of his nightmare locking him in place.
He dreams of him again—that darker, murderous version of himself. Those dreams always start the same; gray walls, cracked mirrors, dark leather gloves stained with blood. Bodies exploding into Protocore dust.
Each of them follow the same devastating pattern, and yet, his dreams feel different.
This time, there’s a girl in them. She’s smiling at him, playing with his fingers. Feeding him spoonfuls of cake. The images come to him like broken polaroid flashes; each one more intimate than the last.
Her bare thighs peeking from under his black shirt. Her palm on his heart. Her head on his chest—a familiar weight. He even dreams of her on her knees, tiny hands braced on his thighs, while her mouth wraps around his thickness.
Something ignites his curiosity, and when Zayne looks closer, he finds her more than familiar.
She was you.
Well, not quite you you.
This you felt more tragic than the one in his life; her smiles fainter, cracked with pain and the weight of an unknown burden.
Sadness coats those eyes of hers, though her lovesick expression never wavers.
Her arms feel like home, and he discerns that the other Zayne—the one who had haunted him since he was twelve—is far happier than he has ever been.
Zayne, do you ever want a family one day?
The both of them (him and you) were laying on a picnic blanket, watching the clouds shift and change. There’s a parked motorcycle with two helmets on the pillion seat nearby, a box of chocolates melting beside your hand. You lazily pick up one piece, unwrapping the foil and popping it into your mouth.
This Zayne glances at you, his eyes alight with curiosity.
“Why do you ask?”
You nudge his shoulder, beckoning him to follow your line of sight. He leans up on one arm, looking at where you were pointing.
A nest of caramel-colored bunnies appear by the bushes nearby—mama bunny in the front, with her little balls of fluff trailing right after her. Such a sight was rare in their world, and Zayne is shocked these tiny creatures have yet to be eaten by Wanderers.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” You take his hand, twining your fingers with his. “My mother always told me this old wives tale from long, long ago. If rabbits appear before two lovers, they would be blessed with a family. That’s why I asked.”
She is bold; bolder than you in his life.
The Zayne of this world tightens his grip on her hand. A look flits across his face, one which Zayne recognises as a fleeting desire and sadness.
He feels the other Zayne’s conflict; the yearning clashing with logical reasoning—a daily struggle he encounters even in this life.
But, unlike him, this Zayne was adamant in falling in love with his version of you.
He pulls you to his chest, nose buried in your hair, cheek pressed to your shoulder now. They must smell like strawberries—he knows that scent very well.
“I do,” he whispers, almost mouthing the words into your skin. “I want everything with you.”
Zayne jolts awake the second those words leave the other Zayne’s mouth.
He blinks, groggily taking in the darkness; broken by your steady snores beside him. It’s early—4AM in the morning and he has two more hours before he has to be up.
His heart is racing, but not for its usual reasons. Typically, those nightmares leave him incapacitated, frozen completely in fear until he forces himself to his feet, lunging towards the bathroom to scrub off the imaginary blood from underneath his nails.
But, this time, those dreams leave a hollow ache in his bones.
He glances over to where you lay, still sound asleep. You would be up an hour after him, dashing to the bathroom and tripping over your feet with your toothbrush clenched between your teeth; rushing to get ready for the day. Zayne knows this because he’s seen you doing it over and over again—across many different lives.
I want everything with you.
Zayne reaches over, gently draping an arm around your midsection. You mumble in your sleep when he pulls you closer, palm splayed protectively over your belly.
He lets himself imagine, for a split second, how you would look all swollen and full with his baby—the curve of your belly, your radiant skin and glowing smile.
The ache appears again.
Despite his reservation and hesitation, he thinks back to the Zayne in his dreams. How he would be feeling the same way—perhaps, with even more bitterness.
Linkon’s best cardiac surgeon mulls over that thought in his mind, and as he falls back asleep, he faintly hopes the other Zayne’s wish would come true.
The night stretches into a tolerable silence.
Zayne glances at his watch, waiting for his next customer to appear. Her profile reads as a widow who recently uncovered a coin size bulge on her arm. The signs had appeared soon after, her physical health rapidly deteriorating.
He’s supposed to meet her here tonight, at this alleyway a neighborhood away from your apartment, but it appears she’s late. Zayne glances at his burner phone, noting your text to him.
What time are you coming home tonight?
His heart warms, and a faint smile plays on his lips.
10PM. I'll wait for you, little one.
“Mr. Zayne?”
A hoarse voice cracks through the silence like a whip. Zayne immediately straightens, stowing his phone away and hides a gloved hand behind his back. Sharp and thin like a blade, the icicle appears in his grasp, poised for attack.
Her hair is in a disarray, eyes swollen with globs of black mascara streaking down her cheeks.
She walks with a limp, and he can tell the Abomination was overtaking her with each passing second.
Her ragged breathing fills the alleyway, and he swears her eyes shine indigo for a split second.
Someone like her was too far gone; couldn’t be saved.
The best thing he could do to help was to end her misery early. She stops, sways on her feet, and plunges a hand into her pocket to pull out a wad of cash, tossing it to him with defiant nonchalance. Zayne catches it, stows it in the lapel of his jacket.
Her eyes droop closed, and she goes completely still.
The night air crackles with tension, and Zayne swears he smells burning skin.
A tendril bursts from under her eye, and one more pierces through her cheek.
“Before you end me, Mr. Zayne… can I ask you something?”
Many of his paying customers would use this moment to share their last wishes and requests; or, to confess a sin they couldn’t bear to carry anymore before they greeted the grave.
He waits, a patient Grim Reaper for them to lay down their burdens on his already strained shoulders.
“Have you ever been in love?”
His mind immediately jumps to you. Zayne blinks, and his silence must’ve been some form of confirmation because she starts to smile. There’s bliss in her expression, even as a faint purple light halos around her face.
“I was in love… so in love with him… the sickness ended his life and he gave it to me. His name was Kai. We were married for 5 years when we discovered the symptoms. I was always there for him, and he, for me.”
She takes in a shuddering breath, and Zayne can’t rip his eyes from her. “If you have someone you love in this fucked up world, take care of them, Mr. Zayne. Nothing here is permanent. Everything here is… pain.” Her eyes leak fresh tears, and in this light, she almost looks fully human again.
But, Zayne knows what she is; what she is capable of. He has to end her before the sickness can fully set in.
“My only consolation is that I can see him again. I dream of him all the time, Mr. Zayne. He’s in a field. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to come to him. I’m paying you a lot of money so that you can send me straight to my Kai, do you understand me?”
Zayne nods, voice caught in the back of his throat.
She closes her eyes, and the fear morphes into peace; her expression serene and accepting like a dying saint.
Softly—so softly that he almost doesn't hear—she whispers her husband’s name.
The icicle in his hand solidifies, and he removes his arm from its hidden view behind his back, aiming the shard right for her heart.
Another tendril bursts from her stomach, and she cries out in pain.
Zayne takes it as his cue to lunge forward, pushing the entire chunk into her heart.
Her blood stains his hands, his coat. The pulsing purple light fades into the background and her body dissipates a second later; becoming one with the dust stirring his black boots.
Zayne gets onto one knee, inspecting the last few fragments of her. Evidently satisfied with his work, he stands, and makes the slow, arduous journey back to your apartment.
He doesn’t expect you would be home by the time he reaches—an hour earlier than what he had told you; nor to hear your gasp reverberate across the house when you notice his bloodstained clothes.
It’s too late to cover up now.
Zayne remains frozen in place, eyes wide and locked onto you.
You take one step towards him, and then another. You’re in his shirt and nothing else, hair freshly washed.
The smell of strawberries makes him dizzy, and he has to stop himself from rushing towards you—conscious of how he must look right now.
Like a monster standing under the lights, eyes frenzied and specks of blood coating his chin and chest.
“What happened?” You ball your hands into fists at your sides, expression wide and hurting. “Did something happen—”
“It is not my blood.”
His words stun you, and you take a step back, hands to your mouth. “Zayne…” you speak through the cracks of your fingers. “Did you… did you…”
Zayne can’t pretend with you, not when he wants you to see him fully for who he is.
“A monster stands before you,” he mumbles.
Daring himself to look into your eyes, he holds your gaze, throwing your words—your promises—back to your face. “You said you would be the judge of that—well, here is my truth.”
Zayne curls his shoulders forward, eyes to the ground to avoid your prodding gaze. “You may know me as Zayne, but I go by another name…”
He exhales it into the suffocating silence, shattering your hopes in him—your believe that he was a good man:
“Dawnbreaker.”
cries and dies thinking about what comes next .... also... reblogs and feedback are very much loved !!
©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy my concept, repost my stories or translate and post them to other platforms
suck, and i cannot stress this enough, my cock to the fucking base
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20's | 18+ blog, I occasionally share fanfictions here primarily in second person POV. ➜ Please pay attention to the tags and warnings on the fics.
271 posts