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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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Cain (p4)

Tw: Cain is really violent, like verbally violent. Tantrums, toxic relationships, isolation from friends and family, sexual content, sexual descriptions, profanity- like a LOT of them, Cain losing his shit really frequently. Gender neutral reader, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This is part 4.

Click here for part 5

Click here for part 1

Cain tries. He really did.

The first week or so after his earth shattering confession, Cain was elusive. You hardly see him at home, not even for meals. But you know he's eating, because you would leave leftovers in the fridge and it would disappear the next day. You thought he was avoiding you, and you understood, because you practically rejected him at first.

He came back one day, seemingly waiting for you in the living room. To your surprise, instead of only acknowledging each other with a split second glance, Cain tried to make a conversation.

"How was it?" He asked.

You asked him what he meant.

"Your day." Cain continues, looking right into your eyes, which caught you off guard. Usually, eye contact means he's about to stir some trouble up, but you think this time he's actually making an attempt to communicate. "How was... your day?"

You told him that it was okay. Then you asked him about his day.

You could definitely see that he physically stopped himself from responding like he used to. Cain closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering.

"My day is okay too."

And both of you left it at that, as you did your own thing, he did his own thing... which happened to be reading a book of sorts? Strange, he doesn't seem like the type to even be remotely near words. But you didn't want to pry and potentially get your head bitten off.

"It's cold." You turned to him and finally noticed that he's actually bundled up in a hoodie instead of his usual sleeveless shirt. That made sense, the seasons are changing, and very soon you would see frost on the sidewalk again.

Come to think of it, he has recently changed up his fashion sense to cover up a lot more, adjusting according to the weather. No more ripped jeans, instead opting to wear a pair of thick cargo pants with numerous pockets. He also got himself a new pair of shoes, trading in his tattered sneakers for a new pair of combat boots.

You asked him if it bothers him. Cain seemed to pause and think about his answer for a moment before replying.

"I always hated the fucking cold." He spoke with a sense of dread in his voice. Cain knows that he can't change the weather, and he just needs to tough it out. He has done this for years, ever since he was abandoned in that dumpster. But it doesn't make it easier, and each winter feels as intense as the last. And the worst part is, he doesn't understand why the bites of frost disturb him so much. Cain never found out how he was abandoned by his parents; he only knew that they did.

You nodded and decided to just... put aside a bit more cash for the heating bill. You cranked up the heat enough at home to make it comfortable for him. The water heater is also switched on 24/7 now, even if it does hike up your bills. Sometimes you even think the apartment was a little too warm for your liking, but seeing Cain being a lot less miserable made you suck it up and just wear lighter clothing instead.

And you didn't think much of it, until there was one night, when the wind was howling and all you could see was powdery white outside; You heard a knock on your bedroom door, and you were about to fall asleep in a pair of shorts and shirt, because the thermostat is dialed all the way up that it felt like summer. Upon opening it, you saw Cain towering over you, exuding vulnerability. He's not wearing his hoodie, but a white t-shirt, a pair of comfortable plaid shoes, and warm, fuzzy slippers. You were surprised that he showed no signs of sweating, unlike you, struggling to cope with the artificial heat, yet you do so for the sake of your troubled roommate.

You asked him if he needed anything from you. Only to be pulled into his arms for a tight hug. You were about to say something, but you felt wetness on your shoulder. Cain was crying.

"I don't... I don't know what I'm feeling..." Although muffled, you could hear how pained and conflicted he was.

You patted his back as he let it all out. You were dying to ask him questions, but knowing Cain, it wouldn't get you very far if he wasn't ready to share it in the first place.

"It feels good. I-It's warm." He spoke between sobs. "Please... let me stay."

You didn't understand what gave him the impression that you were planning to kick him out anytime soon. You told him that he's welcome here. And that was all he needed to hear tonight.

And what neither of you knows is that today was his birthday, or rather, the day those bystanders found him discarded like trash. Cain may not remember, but his body does. And it was the first time in his life that he wasn't shivering on this special day.

And Cain is afraid, utterly terrified to lose what he has now. Yet he doesn't know how to keep it. So he latches on, he does his best, he tries.

He slept in the same bed as you that night. It wasn't comfortable at all; his body ran hot. And on top of the running heaters? You felt like you were in a furnace. Cain had his arms wrapped around you at all times, constricting your movements, but he wouldn't budge, no matter how much you squirmed. His hold felt desperate; you could feel the aching yearning he held in his body for decades. Cain would bury his head at the back of your neck, making you wonder if he just liked the feeling of being suffocated by his own breath.

You woke up the next day earlier than he did. Cain was still clinging to you with dried tears on his face. But you didn't have the heart to wake him up, because he looked truly peaceful. Though you didn't have to wait long until he opened his eyes and groggily rubbed them, freeing you from his prison.

You greeted him and asked him how he slept last night.

"Good..." He yawned and stretched his arms. Well, at least one of you had a good night's sleep. Cain doesn't seem to be particularly embarrassed that he reached this level of intimacy with you; hell, he doesn't seem to see it as anything out of the ordinary at all. It's as if he were sleeping in the same bed as you for months.

He got out of bed to freshen up, leaving you to finally reclaim your space and take your turn to doze off. Luckily, today is an off day for you, or you would have gone to work in a sour mood.

"Who the fuck are you all?!" You were jolted awake by Cain's sudden outburst in the living room. You heard extra voices and assumed he had opened the door to someone.

An argument ensued, making you scramble back up on your feet to see what was going on. Upon poking your head out of the door frame, you saw Cain heavily berating someone outside your apartment.

You called him by his name, and that caught his attention. "I don't know who these assholes are, they are not coming in!" He yelled, attempting to shut the door on the visitors.

You caught a glimpse of your long-time friends' confused and horrified faces before he slammed the door loudly against them.

Oh.

You forgot that they were visiting. Shit.

You see that Cain was agitated, threatened, even. He began hurling profanities at them, wishing doom on them, so on and so forth. He was panicking; the only way he could express this was by lashing out and pulling on his already messy, short, fiery hair.

You tried calming him down, but that only made him spiral more.

"They said that they're your friends-- They're nothing! They're nothing to you, they don't fucking matter! They're scum, they're trash!" He screamed as tears streaked down his frenzied face. Cain began hyperventilating, the more you tried to get him to see reason. "I'll fucking kill them, I fucking will!"

You decided to shut up and let him burn all his fuel out. All this while, you were extremely baffled as to what suddenly set him off. You know, Cain could be somewhat decent to strangers; he doesn't go off on the delivery men that sometimes come here to give you your packages or food. He would sometimes even be the one who signed the delivery confirmation form with no issue. Not even door-to-door salesmen would make him erupt like this; at most, he would just close the door on them. Why is he suddenly so territorial?

And as predicted, his explosion ended with him curling up into a pathetic ball of misery on the floor. You think your friends decided to leave you and him alone for a while, you're definitely getting a very concerned phone call later.

So, you did. And you managed to convince that you're okay, and Cain is a good man. It was challenging, but they decided to respect your wishes. Or maybe they also didn't want to deal with that unstable landmine of a person.

You don't think he left the apartment without you during the entirety of winter. He would flare up as soon as he felt a draft, and you wonder if it's a traumatic response to something. Either way, you don't think you should pry if he's not ready to talk about it.

Cain got very comfortable with you now. The sofa bed is left empty, now he goes straight into your bedroom. It doesn't matter if you're purposely hogging the bed, he would either manhandle you as if you're his beloved stuffed teddy bear, or have the audacity to say, "Scoot your ass over."

He developed a habit of possessively wrapping his arm around your waist whenever both of you were out. Instead of waiting for you to move out of the way or barking commands to move aside, Cain would just manually move you by guiding your shoulders or sometimes, your hips.

He seemed to be starved of touches. Whenever you take an afternoon nap without him, you would wake up to find Cain holding you in his arms. And he gets annoyed at you for waking him up. When you would spend the day watching television on the sofa, Cain would either lie his head on your lap, or trap you into his- making you his personal lap table for the bowl of popcorn you two shared.

Cain needed something to occupy his hands. So he chose to massage yours instead to soothe himself. It felt nice to apply pressure to your palm and fingers, but sometimes he wasn't aware how strong he was. You would wince at the pain, which caused him to frown, and spit,

"Fucking wimp."

But then, he would bring your hands to his lips to kiss them, and adjust his strength to not hurt you anymore. He wouldn't outright apologize or thank you for most things, but he has his own way to express remorse, guilt, and gratitude.

It felt... strangely natural. He wasn't making it awkward at all when he transitioned from not touching you at all to giving you regular cuddles, kisses, and even sharing beds. Cain moved like it's always been this way, as if he had always given you a kiss on the forehead before dropping you off at your workplace, as if he had always kissed you on the back of your neck to thank you for the meal. Whenever you stood in front of him to say something, he would have his large, calloused hands gripping your arms in place as he listened. You never knew what the purpose of it was, as he doesn't seem to be aware that he's doing it.

You're not necessarily complaining that whenever the two of you waited at the bus stop, in the cold, he would bury you in his chest. It's ridiculously warm, and he would wrap his heavy coat around both of you. Cain would absentmindedly rub your back up and down, stroke your hair as he remains hypervigilant for any assailants that could attack the two of you. And you would be lying when you said that it doesn't make you feel all fluttery inside.

Cain was willing to open up even more on how he feels about various things. But it was still excruciatingly difficult.

One day, he decided to talk to you about your giving nature. It occurred when you decided to give a homeless man some spare change.

"Why did you do that?" He asked when you and he reached the comfort of your apartment. Cain didn't remove his coat just yet, while you're practically stripping everything off yourself because your heating system is too efficient.

"Why did you give that bum money? He didn't work for it." He clarified what he meant. You can see that he's asking from a place of curiosity, not hostility or judgment.

You shrugged and said that it makes the world a better place.

"How?" He furrowed his eyebrows in frustration.

He would have enough money to buy himself something hot to eat and drink.

"That's bullshit. He's going to waste it on booze and drugs."

You asked him how he would know.

"All these bastards think about is their next high." He frowned bitterly.

You said that everyone can change. You wanted to tell him off for being a hypocrite, but it probably isn't a good idea. He vehemently disagreed.

"No they fucking can't. You're being used, you're being a damn jackass! You should have kept that for yourself, these fuckers can't even give you anything of worth back but have the balls to ask for a handout!" He was getting more and more exasperated by the second.

You decided to clam up.

"They're scum, they're all fucking good for nothing pieces of shit!" He continued his angry ranting as he entered the bathroom to freshen up.

And conversations that were deeper than small talk usually go something like that. You refused to be the one who started chatting, allowing him to take the initiative. It seems like he's jealous that you're also generous to other people, as anytime he sees you doing a good deed, he would be throwing a tantrum about how you're letting others walk all over you.

You can't really do donations under his watchful eyes anymore, because he would find a way to get it back from them and return the cash into your wallet.

He's always the nicest when it's just the two of you, and the concept of the world stopped existing. The apartment is his safe haven where nothing outside matters. He is in no way romantic, but he would be much, much tender compared to when you first met him. However, it is actually agonizing to live with him hovering over you every waking minute. If the shows you watch involve the topic of child neglect or even families in general, no matter how mild, no matter how positive or negative, ten times out of ten, he would have one of his infamous, explosive meltdowns.

Oddly enough, he's mostly unaffected by documentaries, even if they potentially touch on his traumatic experiences. He tends to watch those that describe how everyday things are made, unfazed by true crime.

You avoided nature and animal documentaries because Cain would get unbelievably distressed if they involved the abandonment of their young.

Outside of that, you don't know what else to do with him. Cain seems uninterested in anything creative, but recently got obsessed with chess for some unknown reason. Regardless of your chess skills, he would beat you in almost every game, only losing to you when he first started out.

Perhaps it was boredom. Perhaps it was arousal, but you and Cain would begin to frequently have sex. And he fucks like a rabid animal, forceful, angry, desperate and primal. Cain would leave bite marks deep enough to bleed, as if he's trying to shred you into pieces. The curtains are always drawn shut because of his inclination to go down on you anywhere in the apartment. He has no problem bending you over the kitchen counter, making your legs spread on the sofa bed, pinning you against the wall, pounding you deep into your bed, letting the sound of the shower drown out your moans... The only place that's off limits is whatever table that held his valuable chessboard and pieces.

And you know that it just takes a deep kiss on the lips to initiate it, where both of your tongues must dance together. Cain would escalate quickly by rubbing his hands under your clothes. But he wouldn't press it if you decided that you're not in the mood anymore; he would just need to deal with his disappointment and sexual frustration on his own, in pure silence.

Cain doesn't say anything when fucking you. There will only be grunts and groans, but no dirty talk. Probably since he's too busy biting the hell out of your flesh.

His aftercare is a bit strange to you. It would be a strange mix of his usual harshness and an unusual dose of sentimentality:

"Get up." He would order you after a long session of post sex cuddling. Knowing him, you shouldn't oppose it.

"Go shower. I'll clean up." He began chucking the blankets, bedsheets, and pillow cases into the laundry hamper. Once he's done and sees that you're still there, he would turn to you and give you an affectionate peck on the forehead.

"You've been so good to me." He then squeezed the cheeks of your face firmly, causing you to pucker. Cain would chuckle at how silly you looked before kissing you lightly on the lips.

"I love you." He would whisper in your ear before letting you go, patting your head in praise.

However, if you just stood there and watched him ready the laundry basket, he would get annoyed.

"The fuck are you doing there, standing ass naked? Either put on some clothes or go take a damn shower." He would point in the direction of the bathroom. This would be enough to send you on your way.

Overall, you think Cain is a confusing man with moods that swing like a pendulum. You don't think he really feels shame towards you, just familiarity, trust, and comfort. And you feel honoured that you get to see his sweet side (sometimes), no one else outside of this apartment could ever hope to witness it, as he's just so spiky towards everyone. You're still so curious as to what sets you apart from all the other people who tried to help... You assume that Cain does have people who tried putting him on the right track in his life, but he pushed them away.

So one day, you mustered the courage to ask him about it. Expecting nothing more than some deranged yelling, you braced yourself:

"They shoved their help down my throat."

To your surprise, his response is as if you asked him for the time. Your speechlessness prompted him to continue.

"I fucking hated them. None of them really wanted to help me; they just wanted to feel good." He scrunched his nose as if he recalled something disgusting. "To them, I'm nothing more than a broken pet to fix. Something that should get no respect. Something practically useless in everything else, but gets them off like some street whore."

That sounds similar to what you thought of Cain. But you didn't say that out loud.

"They can take their fake sympathy and shove it so far up their asses that it kills them. Fuck them all." He snarled.

You let him release whatever steam he had for them. Well, that made sense that he gets crazily upset when you try to impose help without his request in the first place.

Once he's done, he decides to get up from his seat and pick up his now-worn duffel bag. You didn't have to ask him where he's heading out to.

"I'll be back by eight, I just need to get some stuff. Leave your bedroom door open for me." He pecked you on the cheek and smoothed your hair.

You watched him open the door and turned back to face you one more time:

"And don't fucking open the door to anyone that isn't me! You have a habit of doing stupid shit that's going to get you killed if it wasn't for me looking out for you!" He scolded before slamming the door behind him.

You wonder if Cain thinks of you as someone needing his protection, and so that's why you're not a threat to him but an object of his affection. You sat with this question, and you pondered if Cain genuinely thought of you as someone who is handicapped in some way. Made sense, your boundary-setting skills are non-existent, and you're always people pleasing, no matter how detrimental it is to your wellbeing. That's how you scored Cain.

Finally home alone after a while, you felt a little clueless as to what you should do. You know you should update your friends and family that you're doing well, and Cain is nothing they should worry about. Then again, you don't feel like talking to anyone right now.

The apartment looks pretty messy, with all the random junk Cain would bring back. God knows where he gets this merchandise, or where he got the money to buy it. You are actually in heavy denial that he's been shoplifting and wanted to believe that he's living honestly.

You thought it would be a good idea to tidy up a bit before he gets back and unloads more things from his duffel bag. It's a mystery how that bag could contain ungodly amounts of stuff.

You decided to start with the most cluttered part of your living room: the sofa bed. You know these are things that Cain would use daily, but it wouldn't hurt to organise them a bit.

The first thing that caught your eye? The book that Cain was attached to lately, and was almost obsessively reading. You wonder what was so interesting about it until you read the cover of the book.

It was a copy of "How to Be a Good Boyfriend".

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #yandere x darling #oc cain #male yandere x reader #male yandere x you #tw toxic relationship #tw violence #tw sex #gender neutral reader

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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Can we still expect the reader's gender to remain neutral even in a later 18+ scenes? (if there will be) and will the writing remain neutral about the reader or will there be times when we get reminded that you wanted them to be male? (hope im not coming of as rude🙏 will always love your stuff regardless💕)

girl i just go with vibes , if there's a change ill say it in the beginning

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere male #oc cain

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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I'll show cain a real toxic relationship the moment he touches my phone and I bang his head on the table, but then I'll feel bad and kiss his head, it can go both ways🙌

Now THATS what Cain is talking about😍😍😍😍😍😍, mans will become obsessed with u real quick, real hard

#yandere #yandere x reader #x reader #reader insert #yandere oc #yandere male #oc cain #tw toxic relationship

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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does cain have anything fun he does with his time besides laundry

Well i mean he gets into fights, steal shit from everyone and everywhere, watch the roomba, zone out in your presence, arson. Many other fun things, mans gets the fuck around town and living in the moment with no phone

#yandere #yandere x reader #x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #oc cain

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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Cain (p3)

Tw: Violence, Cain is a mean asshole, he is also mentally unstable, lost his shit in this chapter; smashing furniture and shit. This is just abusive relationships man, yandere themes. Reader is gender neutral. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This is part 3

Click here for part 4

Click here for part 1

Days turned into weeks, into months. You've let this stranger live in your apartment rent-free. But you don't think he's a freeloader, because you noticed that whenever something runs out at home, be it eggs, toothpaste, or your favourite snack, it magically replenishes itself. But you knew Cain was behind this; you barely go to the grocery store anymore because it just keeps getting replaced with new versions of it.

You know that he's not paying any of it. The first time you went grocery shopping with him and saw him with the duffle bag, it had a purpose. His stopping by your shopping cart every so often had a purpose; his being a jerk about people looking at him also had a purpose.

You deduced all that when you came back that day and found that there were duplicates of every item you bought in your pantry and fridge. You weren't hallucinating, you weren't going crazy, you didn't pay extra. Cain stole a copy of what you lawfully bought that day.

Asking him about it (no matter how gently) will make him yell at you for being "ungrateful", "picky" and a "Stuck-up asshole", and make him storm off to "cool down" somewhere else on earth. He would come back either injured or with a whole bunch of random valuables, which would disappear the next day. Being the kindhearted person you are, you wanted to think that Cain returned the items to their rightful owners.

Regardless, Cain still replaces your favourite cereal whenever it's running low.

He still maintains his quirk until now: refusing to eat anything unless you take a bite or sip out of it first. You don't have to worry about cooking too much and wasting the leftovers, or eventually finding out that you don't like the dish. Because Cain is like your compost bin, he would just eat it for you.

He doesn't cook. You found that if you left nothing behind, he didn't get to eat that day... or so you assumed. But either way, you made it a habit to cook a larger portion so he could be fed too.

Conversations are few and far between. You know virtually nothing about the man aside from a few fun facts: he likes keeping his hair red because you caught him one day dyeing his hair with a box dye in your bathroom. You thought that you're going to get kicked out or yelled at because it might be an embarrassing situation to be seen in, but instead, upon noticing that you're there, he said:

"Go piss or shit. I don't care." while applying dollops of dye to his hair in front of the sink mirror.

You said that you do mind it very much, you want your privacy.

"Then hold it in. I'll get out when I'm done." He said so nonchalantly.

Other than that, he's surprisingly respectful in his own way. You thought you would need to do everything yourself on top of taking care of a grown man. But Cain learns. He observes you and, most importantly, does what you do to keep this household afloat.

He noticed that you would clean the dishes a few hours after the meal. Cain would do the same thing, just an hour before you're expected to get up and do it.

He noticed you would take out the trash whenever it filled up, which used to be weekly before he came along. Cain would take care of that before you do.

He noticed that you would stress over the bills and how much it has risen since he came into the picture. And there was the question of your mortgage, too. You're too scared to start charging him rent, fearing that he might not take it well, as he seems to be the type who does not like explicit directives.

However, it seems like he would pick up on it. You would find extra cash that is sometimes speckled with some red liquid. And these aren't chump change either; they can go up to hundreds of dollars, usually enough to cover all your bills and give you a bit of fun money.

He would put them in places where you would absolutely find them, but it's an objectively strange choice. You found a rolled-up stack of hundred-dollar bills in your shoes once, five dollars in the shower caddy, twenty dollars taped to the inside of your uniform (scratching you as you put it on), eighty dollars under your pillow... Asking him about his choice to do this leads to the same angry rant about how you're looking down at him and not appreciating his efforts.

Out of all the places, you don't think that he has ever put cash in your wallet. But with the help of Cain, you managed to get yourself a brand new phone and made the mistake of getting him one too. To which, he took great offence until you framed it as your thankfulness for his efforts around the house. And it was a token of his appreciation. Only then did he accept it without speaking any further.

He's unfortunately not too much of a tech wizard, often leaving them at home when going out for long periods. The way he acts made you wonder if he's someone from the 90s being brought forward into the present.

Cain also had an effect on your work life.

You don't think you have missed a bus anymore, as Cain had the balls to block the doors and force the bus driver to wait for you.

Whenever you're doing the closing shift, he would be there to escort you home. And it was the safest you've ever felt, despite feeling embarrassed when you think Cain is being unnecessarily hostile to innocent people who just "appear" unnerving.

You had an idea to try and get Cain to work alongside you. In hindsight, that was a terrible idea. Surprisingly, Cain agreed to it. Since this is a small town, your boss favours you; he had no problem getting in without an interview or even a background check.

He got fired and banned from the establishment on his first day.

A woman in her mid-ages complained to Cain that her coffee wasn't done well when he had followed all the instructions to a T. She has complained that it wasn't hot enough for her, despite it being at a temperature that can burn. You don't know what set him off that day; maybe it was the ridiculous nature of her complaint, or maybe she reminded him of his many foster mothers who neglected him.

To your horror, Cain decided to splash the cup of coffee against her face. She screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Raising his voice, "Fucking hot enough now, isn't it?"

Cain walked out of the cafe with eyes all on him; it was a miracle that no one was recording. And it was an even bigger miracle that you kept your job, the woman didn't press charges, and neither did your boss. You, of course, apologized profusely to them.

The woman screamed about suing them all, putting Cain behind bars, and closing the cafe down. But you never heard from her again, not even a subpoena. You thought she had a change of heart, and such a nice woman for forgiving everyone.

You expressed your thoughts about it, and Cain kept his lips sealed. He also didn't want to look you in the eye. Perhaps he's feeling remorseful?

You had no idea what happened to your bicycle; it disappeared the day you got your new phone. Asking Cain about it will just earn you a huff and silence. Pressing him about it will get you yelled at for being a dumbass and potentially being part of the statistics of idiotic bicycle deaths.

You think he sold your bicycle.

But it's alright, because he made it up to you by getting a Roomba. You don't know how that is the equivalent of your bicycle, but in his mind, he thinks it is. It was one of the things he's actually proud to present to you, and you didn't have the heart to express anything less than gratitude.

You have to admit that it's quite interesting and fun to watch the small robot just scutter around the room. You would catch him doing that, too, and he doesn't seem to care that you're there, unless you stare at him for too long and not at the Roomba.

Laundry is a strange ordeal with him. There is a Laundromat nearby, and he would always be the one to do it. Whenever you tried doing your own, he would hiss and snarl like a wild animal before snatching it away from you.

As it turns out, he just likes watching the clothes spin and spin through the windows of the front-loading washing machines and dryers. You deduced that it's almost meditative to him, because he would be at his calmest in the laundromat... as long as no one keeps his eyes on him too long.

You even joined him one day, sitting next to him and watching the hypnotizing spin. He paid you no mind, but you knew that he was aware of your presence, as there was one time someone tried striking up a conversation with you. Only for the stranger to be met with Cain's snappy attitude, no one dared to approach you after that.

All seems well. Even though it felt like you were walking on eggshells around him at first, you quickly learned his unspoken, sacred rules and easily maneuvered this strange friendship you have with him. You think Cain is perfectly integrated into your life, and he seems content either sleeping on the couch or on the floor.

He never asked for more, but you're sure that his back is probably killing him from sleeping like a shrimp. So you made the change from a regular couch to a sofa bed, and you made sure to clarify that you're doing this for yourself. Cain didn't object to it, which you can safely interpret as approval.

And approved he did, he was the first one to try out and explore the new piece of furniture. Cain hogged it entirely, using it as a bed and also a shelf, having items randomly placed as if they're soft plushies- you noticed that he's a bit of a hoarder with the random jewelry and items he brings home. He wouldn't encroach on your cabinets and drawers, save for that one portable closet you bought online for him. It was empty for a few weeks until he got the hint that it was for him to put his own stuff. And boy, did he really utilize it.

He doesn't verbally express his gratitude, but you know that he's not taking whatever you gave him for granted. You can see it in his actions, you can feel it.

You don't really have a lot of contacts in this town. But sometimes you do have friends and family flying in and asking if they could spend the night at your place. And you're always put in an extremely difficult position, because what the hell should you tell them? You tried asking Cain if they could stay over, and he flew into a fit of rage. Now, you only saw him cry once, and that was when he first asked you if he could stay at your place. But there were hot, angry tears whenever you mentioned friends and family.

And you could tell that he felt really hurt for some reason. You couldn't tell what the hell he was ranting about, but he goes ballistic over the thought of you having a life outside of him.

Unfortunately, you end up turning them away, because at one point, his outburst got so bad that he took your phone and smashed it against the ground while screaming about how life is unfair to him, about how he wishes death upon your friends and family that he hasn't even met, about how it was only supposed to be you and him. And no one else.

You told him that you didn't understand why he was so upset over your friends and family. You said that you wouldn't have them over if he doesn't want them encroaching on his space. Though you felt bitter when you realized you didn't have full control over your own home.

"Of course you don't! You don't- Don't know what it's like to be me! I fucking hate it, I fucking hate myself! I-I-" He was pacing around, tugging on his hair and grinding his teeth. His teary face scrunched up, as if he were in unbearable pain.

He curled up into a ball on your living room floor and just sobbed. He was expressing a lot of pain, the type that would kill any normal person. But not him, because he's strong and fueled with determination to live in spite of it. But there is only so much stress a man like him can handle.

You looked around. And saw the broken furniture, electronics, and decor that Cain destroyed during his massive meltdown. Most importantly, the phone that's in pieces on the floor. You should have left, you should have called the police, and changed your locks.

Yet, you made the conscious decision to stay and hold a respectful silence for him. You didn't touch him, you didn't give him words of comfort, you just stayed.

And to Cain, that was his first taste of warmth that didn't scorch him. The type of warmth that soothes him, the warmth that he was supposed to receive from the one who loves him.

He mumbled something. You let out a "huh?" as you didn't catch what he said.

"I'm sorry..." He muttered in between sniffles.

That shook you to the core; it was the first time you had heard him apologize. It must have taken tremendous strength for him to have said that. And so, you verbally and clearly forgave him.

He broke down further, crying harder and coughing more.

You didn't know why or what you were doing, but you scooted over and coaxed him to place his head on your lap. You then started to play with his hair. And this seemed to lull him into a deep sense of safety, as you saw him struggling to keep his eyelids open.

He felt warm.

Over the following days, Cain tried his best to clean everything up and to replace whatever he broke. Which is nice of him, but you knew he shoplifted a lot just to do that, and you wished he didn't.

Neither of you spoke about the incident. You end up using his phone as your own now. Cain offered that as a solution. He didn't mention getting another phone for you or himself, though.

Disappointed, but accepting, your friends and family ended up deciding to get a hotel instead. But the visitation date would be pushed back further. You don't think it was a good time to talk to Cain about them visiting, regardless.

Life went on as usual. Except Cain would be at home a lot more, seemingly wanting to get close to you. His temper became much milder, and he became a lot less snappy, instead opting to stay silent when he gets irritated.

You didn't think much of it, until one day he dropped this bomb on you:

"I'm in love with you."

He said this with such conviction, no room for doubt, all certainty. It wasn't phrased as a question, but a solid statement.

You were sitting on opposite sides of the dining table, doing the crossword puzzle book Cain got you as a silent apology for destroying your phone. You looked up and examined his face.

His eyes were soft. Weary, even. There was no hint of wrath, trickery, or shame. There was an air of desperation and even... vulnerability around him. It's a new look on him, and it felt uncanny to you.

You have no idea how to respond. So you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, but said nothing.

Eventually, you expressed that you're speechless and you don't know what to do with his confession.

He looked crestfallen. Cain then averted his eyes to somewhere else. You saw that he's blinking a lot more and taking deeper breaths.

You thought that was the end of that conversation because he didn't continue it for a while.

But you were wrong.

"...What would it fucking take to make you love me, huh?"

You felt the chills down your spine once you heard the harshness return to his once tender tone. He's back, and he's pissed.

His expression became mean. He became the Cain that you always knew. You sighed inwardly, realizing that you had made him put his walls back up.

"Was everything not enough?! Am I not enough for you, huh?! You think you're better than me?!" He shot up from his seat and slammed his hands onto the table. You winced at the sheer volume of his voice. But you could feel the excruciating torment of being rejected once again, and he felt cold. He felt unwanted once more.

You made yourself much smaller in your chair, putting your hands up as a shield.

"You're a fucking asshole, a fucking piece of shit, I hate-" He choked on his own tears, knuckles turning white over how tight he balled his fists. "I..." He gulped and then coughed, then gasped for air. Then sobbed.

It was a pitiful cycle, and it was scary to watch. But you do so anyway, because you believe that everyone deserves to be heard, no matter how insane.

Cain collapsed back into his chair and sobbed into his hands. He kept wiping his eyes and nose harshly, until they turned red.

"I-I can never hate you, I can't. I..."

Cain sounded so broken. But there isn't anything you could do aside from waiting it out.

"I don't know..." He rasped. "I'm in love with you, and it hurts. It really fucking hurts."

You gave him a minute to calm down before speaking up.

You asked him how you could help. To that, you were met with a long pause from the distressed man in front of you.

He reluctantly put his hands down, not before giving himself one last wipe.

Cain then brought his gaze to yours, and you never realized how beautiful his deep brown eyes were. Tortured, but they held an almost ethereal quality to them.

"Will you... Love me back?" He asked, with caution and hope.

You hesitantly replied that you could... try.

Save for the birds outside and the humming of the refrigerator, it was a pin-drop silence. It seems like Cain was processing all of this on his own.

You don't know if you should have said that. Immediately, you started wondering what you had gotten yourself into. But before your thoughts could get too deep,

"Thank you."

It was said in earnest, filled with gratitude and reverence.

Both of you spent the rest of the afternoon in each other's quiet and comforting company.

#yandere #tw yandere #yandere concept #yandere male #yandere oc #reader insert #x reader #yandere x reader #oc Cain #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #male yandere oc #male yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #tw violence #tw unhealthy relationship

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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wait shit what eye Color was Cain damn i forgor 💀

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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helo i love comments thank you for comments and reblogs with comments 🫶🫶

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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Cain (p2)

tw: violence, Cain is fluent in profanity, you're getting harassed, catcalling, Cain is mean as hell to you, he's also a pretty weird guy. Slowburn, but eventually yandere. The reader in this series will be gender neutral, but it was originally designed to be male in mind. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This is part 2.

Click here for part 3

Click here for part 1

You beat yourself up for not having the spine to say no. You worked hard to earn enough money so you could have a place you could truly call your own, and now, by having Cain, you're back to square one. But how could you say no to someone who's been beaten up by life? You would feel bad if one day the news said that he died outside, cold and alone. And you knew, with his life like this, he would be met with similar fates as your imagination.

So you promise to show him the way back to your modest apartment. You're in a small town, so it's much easier to be a homeowner here as the prices are much lower than those of a big city.

However, you can only bring him home after work today. And you clearly expressed that. He stayed silent and wouldn't offer his thoughts on that. So you assume that he agrees.

You're already half an hour late, even if you take the next bus.

There were some more awkward moments where neither of you talked. It's hard to get a read of him; you don't know how he feels about you, the world, or himself now.

You hesitantly took some cash out of your wallet and tried giving it to him. You said that it should last him until it gets back, but your good intentions were met with scorn. His mostly neutral face contorted to that of vexation.

"Fuck you, bitch! You think I'm some good-for-nothing scum? Huh? I don't want your money!" He yells at you before hopping off the bench and storming off to nowhere in his usual fashion. You only saw him from the back, but you could tell that he was wiping something off his face.

You were left utterly speechless, with some cash in your hand. Earlier, he seemed to want to avoid the rain. But now, he has no problem marching through it.

So you had a choice to put it back into your wallet. However, you decided to just leave it on the bench... more like slot it between two planks to hide it a bit. You don't really know why you did that, but you knew it would probably help him or someone else who actually needs the money somehow.

As if on cue, the next bus arrived to pick you up. You didn't look back and just headed in.

The doors shut, and you took a seat. A passenger was blocking the window that faced the bus stop. It's a shame that you didn't see him coming back to search the area, eventually finding the money that he truly needed to get through the day on his own.

You had to get through your own day, though. And you decided to work longer hours to compensate for your tardiness. Which meant you had to be the closer to this quaint Café you work at. The promise to bring Cain home slipped your mind, and luckily, it did, or you would feel guilty the entire time you're stuck behind the counter. He must be waiting there cluelessly.

The day consists of, well, coffee making, cleaning... and it's just boring. On a good day, you get to chat up with nice customers to pass your time. On the bad way, you would be hurriedly emptying the cash register while you have the cold barrel of a gun pointed at you. Today is just one of those days where it's neither good nor bad, it's just mundane.

You're not keen on being the closer. This town is somewhat known for their "colourful" personalities. They tend to come out when the sun goes down, and this cafe closes well after that. But you trudge on, as you know life too goes on.

Soon, you found yourself flipping the sign on the door from "OPEN" to "CLOSED". It's the end of the business day and it's time to go home. You did what you have to do and double checked, you wouldn't want to be responsible for any break-ins, damages or spoilages.

You stretched your arms and yawned. Pausing midway when you realized that you probably left Cain waiting aimlessly. You picked up your pace and ran to the bus stop, maybe if you could catch an earlier one, you would get there and not witness too much of his wrath.

"Hey, what's the rush, beautiful?" You ignored the cat caller in favour of catching the bus that's fast approaching. You let your feet propel forward, you felt the burn in your lungs as you ran.

But it wasn't enough. You couldn't catch it. So you slowed down in desolation and panted.

"What's the rush?" You look behind you to see a stranger with a sleazy smile. You felt a little bad for judging his looks, but he doesn't make you feel safe.

"Let's get to know each other a bit." He approached you. Oh god, it's one of them. This is why you hated closing shifts; these creeps are everywhere when it goes dark.

You politely declined and said you have somewhere to be. You began walking away quickly, but he followed you.

"Aw, c'mon. Don't be like that, I just wanna talk." You hastened your pace, but the stranger had no problem catching up. You hissed curses under your breath, as there was no one around at the moment, you didn't think you saw any surveillance cameras either. Why did this Cafe close so late?

You told the stranger to get away from you. But that didn't ward him off. It did the opposite, as he suddenly shot out to grab your wrist. You screamed and began thrashing, but you knew no one was there to save you. But you had to try, you're not in any capacity to fight him off... or even fight through a paper bag.

"Fiesty thing, aren't you?" He sneered, managing to restrain the other wrist. The stranger laughed at your pathetic attempt to free yourself.

You thought you were done for until,

An empty bottle crashed onto his head. You shut your eyes tight as some of the shards got onto you, which managed to loosen his grip on you enough to escape.

"What the f-!" A fist collided against the side of his face as he turned around, causing a crack to resonate in the air, and immediately knocking him out cold. You gasped in horror, looking at your violent, drunken savior.

Of course, who other than Cain would do this for you?

You heard him hiccuping and saw him stumbling a bit as he rummaged through the stranger's body. He took some jewelry and his wallet. You tried saying something about the morality of that, but you were swiftly met with a slurred "Shut up."

You asked him how he knew where you were. His eyebrows scrunched up in annoyance.

"How do you think? I followed you. Stupid." He mumbled, taking the cash out of the stranger's wallet and chucking the empty accessory against the unconscious body. Cain gave him one last kick to the ribs before stumbling towards you.

He slapped the cash against your chest, letting it go before you had the chance to grab it. So it fell to the ground, but you can clearly see that he had given you sixty dollars, triple the amount of cash you tried giving to him earlier today. It looks like Cain still got a bit more cash after giving you that. You wonder how much this stranger was carrying.

You told him that you didn't want this money. He merely ignored you and slowly and unsteadily made his way to the bus stop.

Well. It's a shame for it to go to waste, and this should be compensation for causing you so much distress in the first place. So you picked them up and spared a glance at the stranger who was on the ground. You're afraid that he's heavily injured, or worse-

"He'll fucking live! Move your ass, the bus is here!" You jumped when Cain hollered.

You then ran towards him, who appears to keep the doors open despite beration from the bus driver.

You apologised as soon as you entered the vehicle, even tipping him a bit more money for the trouble and paying for Cain's fare. The driver grumbled something and told you to take a seat.

You did as you were told and decided to sit next to Cain, all the way at the back of the bus. He was resting his head against the glass window, and his eyes were closed.

The ride was mostly uneventful and quiet. Save for the unstable man that you promised to house tonight. But he isn't interacting with you much, focusing on not completely dozing off. There were bruises on his knuckles and fresh cuts, too, no doubt from defending you earlier and probably something else that occurred during the day.

The bus was empty, save for the two of you. So when a woman entered from a stop, and decided to sit too close to you and Cain...

"Sit somewhere else, bitch." He growled, which caught you off guard. You thought that he's mostly unaware of his surroundings.

The woman reacted in surprise, and decided to sit far, far away from the two of you.

And you felt bad. Because she probably just wanted to be in the company of someone, it must be scary for her to be out alone this late. But you decided not to say anything, Cain is actually quite scary and you're really doubting your judgement to let him stay with you tonight.

When it's your stop, you turn to him to wake him up, only to find that he's already standing. Albeit wobbly from the alcohol.

He was the first to leave, you apologized to the bus driver profusely as you followed along. You only received a dismissive grunt.

You found Cain standing there, using the dented bus stop pole for support. Waiting for you to lead the way.

And of course you did, reluctantly. You started walking in the direction of your apartment. Cain followed you without saying a word too.

You eventually reached your apartment, though. Unfortunately for him, there isn't a lift. But fortunately for him, you're living on the ground floor.

Cringing as you let him in, you observed what he's doing first. He simply plopped himself down onto your couch as he caught a breather. You stared at him, but he doesn't seem to be doing anything else.

"What are you doing? Shut the fucking door! Anyone can just get the hell in!" He suddenly snapped at you. Immediately after, you closed your door.

"And lock it too!" You did just that.

Then...

It was just silence. Cain just stares into space as you cautiously move around the room to get to the kitchen.

You asked him if he wanted anything to eat.

No answer. But you know he heard you.

You took that as a yes, so you proceeded to cook two portions of a very simple dish: Egg fried rice. That's all you could cook anyways, you had forgotten to do some grocery shopping this week.

The entire time, he didn't budge from his seat. Not to turn on the TV, not to snoop around. He's just sitting motionless there, you think Cain must be utterly exhausted.

Once it's finished and the aroma of delicious simple cooking filled the air, you plated it. A dish for each person.

You placed one on the coffee table in front of him, while you dug into yours. Cain just averted his gaze away from you or the food and did not attempt to even touch it.

You held your tongue and focused on eating your portion. And you think that it's too much for you because you already felt full despite only eating a quarter of the heaping plate.

Cain still hasn't touched his plate, and you could tell that it went cold. But you're not one to force people to do something.

You just told him to wrap it in cling wrap and put it in the fridge if he's not hungry. You got up to pack away your leftovers, planning to have them for breakfast the next day. This entire time, Cain was almost in a catatonic state, not speaking or moving very much.

You announced that you're going to get ready for bed, and he's free to use the couch. You also told him where to find extra blankets in your various cupboards.

No response. Not even a grunt of acknowledgement.

You sighed. There's not much you could do except lock your bedroom door. You don't think there are a lot of valuable things in your living room anyway, so if he were to rob you, it'll just be nothing more than an inconvenience and a mess to clean up.

And so, you went ahead and did your usual routine to feel fresh and ready to sleep. It didn't take egregiously long, but long enough for Cain to do some damage to your home if he wanted to. However, you tend to see the good in people and prefer not to think of them in that light. You had a strong belief that he wouldn't do that to you out of courtesy... right?

You feel an extra washing of dread as you scrub yourself with soap, letting your mind race about him. Please, please, please don't prove you wrong, and turn up to be the biggest mistake of your life. You begged internally, hoping hard that he would just go to sleep and disappear on his own the next morning. Maybe leaving a note telling you that he's going to be fine.

Once you're done freshening up, you get out of your bathroom to see... the lights were still on. However, it seems like Cain was already out cold.

Strangely, there were signs of use in your kitchen. You quietly made your way to the sink and saw that there were more dirty dishes and containers that you hadn't accounted for. Baffled, you checked the fridge to see that every and any foodstuffs that were half-opened, half-eaten from prior dinners were gone. Some of which were old and were supposed to be thrown out today, but it's gone, and the bin showed no signs of solid food waste. Even sodas that you sipped a bit of and forgot about for days are gone. The only thing that was left untouched was anything that had its packaging intact, and his pristinely kept portion of egg fried rice, which is still in its original plate and covered in cling wrap, like how you asked him to.

You were perplexed at his choices. Why would he eat stale leftovers and not freshly prepared or untampered-with food? You tried thinking hard about it, and the only conclusion that sounds plausible enough to you is that... he thinks they aren't poisoned. Logically, if you were evil, you probably wouldn't poison your own unwanted leftovers but would instead do so to enticing, fresh, and delicious batches. Like the dish you prepared for him outside his supervision.

With the short time that he could have possibly done this, he must have eaten everything cold. You don't think he could have cleared out most of your fridge from unappetizing leftovers if he took the time to microwave each thing. You felt bad for the man, but it's not like you forced him to do it. Neither could you stop him.

You're too tired to do the dishes now. And it's going to wake him up, so you're planning to do them sometime tomorrow. Though he should have done it instead.

You tiptoed to where he was lying and saw that his eyes were fully closed. His arms were crossed, and his chest rose up and down as he breathed. You know that it can get quite cold at night, so you went and took out a folded blanket. It would be a nice gesture to drape the fabric over him, but seeing that he probably wouldn't appreciate that, you placed it near him instead. He will put it on himself whenever he wants to.

You switched the lights off before retreating back into your room, locking the door behind you.

You unfortunately couldn't get much sleep that night. Worrying about what Cain might do to you or your beloved home, you became hypervigilant. Every little noise causes you to jerk in place, and you perceive everything as danger now. Luckily, tomorrow is your off day, and you wouldn't really need to worry about responsibilities. Maybe you should ask him to come with you to the grocery store and figure out what he wants to eat.

And here comes the sunrise. You felt groggy and completely like shit. But you're alive and well. Exhaling a breath of relief, you got out of bed and opened the door with caution, expecting to see that the state of your living room had been turned upside down. But no.

It's pretty much the same as how it was left last night, with the dirty dishes, except Cain isn't to be found anywhere, and the blanket was messily strewn on the couch. No notes, no indication as to where he might be at this time of day.

You noted that a pot was used. Checking your freezer, it seems like he ate a good chunk of its contents. Again, the only things that were missing were freezer-burnt leftovers. Oddly didn't use up the chicken nuggets or fish fingers. The fried rice was still untouched in the fridge.

The day went by uneventfully, aside from having more dishes than usual to wash, you spent your time doing what you would usually do. Cain was still out there, somewhere. You hope that he's not getting in any more fights, but you knew that a free, fiery spirit like him can never find himself outside of trouble.

At one point, you got ready to go to the grocery store.

You left your room and locked the door. Then, you began walking towards the direction of the bus stop with your eyes glued onto your cracked smartphone. You were making a list of things that you're supposed to buy, but it seems like you didn't learn your lesson since the last time you biked and texted. As you kept going, and going, and going--

You choked when you felt a powerful tug on the back of the neckline of your shirt. This inevitably made your phone slip out of your hand and hit the asphalt, where a car that's been sounding its horn continuously ran over it and utterly destroyed it this time. You stumbled as you tried to regain your balance.

"Watch where you're fucking going!" You heard that familiar yell in your ear, but you couldn't escape it as he held you tightly by the shirt. "You're no better than the deaf and blind with that damn thing, good that it's fucking destroyed now, maybe then you'll learn to pay attention!"

You stammered apologies as he gave you an earful, you tried to pry his grip away from your shirt, but to no avail. He lets out an exasperated groan before letting you go. You immediately tried retrieving whatever is left of your pancaked phone, but Cain grabbed you by the shirt again to prevent you from getting hit by an oncoming truck. Which also further flattened your beloved device.

"Leave it! You can't do shit with it anymore." He dragged you away from the electronic gore scene. You frowned, feeling a sense of despair, and were about to cry from your loss, until-

"Where the hell are you even going, anyway?" He lets you go, but grabs onto both your shoulders. Probably to prevent you from turning around and making a mad dash for your pulverised phone.

You told him that you wanted to go to the grocery store. You then asked where he went, which doesn't seem like a good idea because it sets him off further.

"Mind your own fucking business! I do what I want, I go wherever the hell I want." He barked.

Hypocrite, you thought.

Before you could say anything, Cain dragged you along with him. You struggled to keep up with his large strides. You wondered where he was taking you until you saw the bus in sight. Oh. Not the exact bus that you wanted to take, but it still brings you to a grocery store nonetheless.

He made you get on the bus first, you greeted the bus driver, paid for your and Cain's fare. You knew he probably would just pick a fight with the driver if you didn't.

The ride wasn't very riveting. Neither of you talked, and you get the sense that he probably wouldn't appreciate you prying into his life. You noticed that Cain was carrying a duffle bag that wasn't there yesterday; it's not yours either. The curiosity was killing you, but you're too afraid to ask.

The bus dropped the two of you in front of a suburban shopping mall. Not only does it have a supermarket, but it also has a bunch of other stores; the only thing you can afford there is to leave.

You looked at Cain. He looked at you. And he gestured with a jerk of his head to move along. He is definitely someone who isn't big on words.

He followed behind you, and you wonder if he has a goal here. You deduced that he doesn't like walking next to or ahead of you unless he knows where to go. As you tried to match your pace with him, Cain would slow himself accordingly. There were many times when you would peek over your shoulder to see how Cain was doing, and you always caught him staring ahead, around him, not necessarily at you, with a neutral look. His hands would be tucked into the pockets of his ripped jeans with his duffel bag slung over his shoulders.

However, each time you looked behind you, Cain appeared more and more visibly irritated.

"Might as well walk backwards!" He was loud enough to garner some attention nearby. You quickened your pace and stopped looking over your shoulder.

"What? Think I can't handle myself? Huh? You think I'm some fucking pervert? Huh?" He continued snarling at you, but now in a quieter tone, nonetheless still threatening. "Just keep walking, don't piss me off." You were so relieved that he didn't demand an answer to that question, and the rest of the journey, it was as if your head was locked to face only forward.

You're terrified of him, even such a simple, small thing as this sets him off. At first, you thought that he didn't have any rhyme or reason to his outbursts. Until you noticed that people all around you are avoiding eye contact with Cain, and he seems content. You wonder if he just doesn't like to be perceived, either in a good or bad light. Perhaps that's why he gets neurotic over certain types of help- unsolicited and pushy ones are met with great resistance, but if you just leave it out with the implication that he is free to use it, he would take it with no fuss.

You're still a bit salty over your umbrella. Maybe that's why you're psychoanalyzing him in broad daylight; it feels better to think that you're helping a mentally ill person instead of someone taking advantage of you.

Upon reaching the supermarket buried deep inside the mall, you took a trolley with you, but made the mistake of asking him to put his heavy-looking duffel bag in it.

"Fuck off." He hissed before stomping away into one of the aisles. Well. You should have known, no good deed goes unpunished.

You made your rounds, buying whatever you could remember from your list, feeling that fear of accidentally making eye contact with him and getting yelled at in public. So, to other customers and staff, you just looked so engrossed in picking your fresh produce. Each time, you instinctively reached for your phone in your pocket, only to remember that it's been destroyed. It felt painful, you almost wished that you were flattened instead of your electronic companion.

You think that he had passed you and your trolley multiple times, but you kept your gaze down in fear of accidentally inciting a one-sided fight with him. But you recognize him from his tattered shoes, ripped jeans, and duffle bag. You don't know what the hell he is doing, periodically standing next to your trolley for a few seconds before leaving you on your own again.

And finally, you're done. You decided to look up and search for him. Think of the devil, he emerged from the snack aisle. But with nothing to buy.

You told him that you're ready to check out. He stayed silent, but gestured for you to lead the way.

It went by without a hitch. Cain wasn't with you at the cash registers; you don't know where he was until you left the supermarket and saw him waiting there, leaning against a pillar and looking terribly unapproachable.

You told him that you're heading to the food court to grab something to eat. You were about to ask what he wanted to have for lunch, until you realized that it probably isn't a good idea. So you left it at that.

"Go." He ordered.

You hope that over time, he becomes nicer to you.

So you took multiple escalators up, window shopping on the way to the food court, pretending that you do not have a live grenade of a human man trailing behind you.

You were half expecting him to yell at you for taking too long to get there, as he seems like he's the type to not like beating around the bush. But even if you were staring at a clothed mannequin, a gaming console, a flat screen TV, or otherwise for a ridiculous amount of time, he didn't complain. It was only when you accidentally looked at him directly does he had a problem with it. You quickly learned to just ignore his presence as a self-preservation measure.

Upon reaching the food court, you made a beeline for the nearest stall. It happened to be a company that sells typical Western fast food: burgers, fries, and the lot. You decided to conduct an experiment that involves you buying two burgers, nothing else. No drinks and no sides. You hypothesize that if you give him something as a token of appreciation, he would accept it.

So when your food came, you and Cain sat down at a table.

You told him that this burger is for him. Almost instantly, he snapped, "I don't want it."

Then you said that it was to thank him for not letting you get hit by a car and a truck earlier today.

He became silent.

You unwrapped your burger and took a bite. As soon as you swallowed that bite, Cain snatched it out of your hands and began munching on it, pushing his unwrapped burger towards you.

You couldn't help but ask why he only eats the things you've already eaten.

He, too, couldn't help but ask: "Why are you up in my business all the time?" This time, there wasn't too much hostility. It was more neutral sounding, a bit more bored than usual. You noticed that he's a fast eater; he had already finished half of it at the end of his question.

You chose your answer carefully, even considering not answering at all, but ultimately you said that you think he is interesting to you.

He scoffed and shook his head, scrunching the empty wrapper. "Nothing is interesting about me." You think he's somewhat flattered despite hiding it under layers upon layers of rudeness.

You opened your mouth to disagree and make your case, but he cuts you off:

"Eat your damn burger." He aggressively pointed at it.

You took that as a signal to end the conversation.

But he decided to add in a bit more precious information:

"Give it to me if you can't finish it."

And you took that as a reward for your bountiful patience.

#yandere #yandere x reader #x reader #reader insert #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #oc cain #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #tw violence #gender neutral reader #gn reader #x gn reader

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 5 months ago

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Cain

tw: violence, blood, bodily injuries, parental neglect, a really crappy life, slowburn yandere but will eventually have yandere themes. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

This is part 1.

Click here for part 2

All his life, he was unwanted.

Unwanted by his parents, they didn't care enough to put his vulnerable self somewhere safe, or warm, at least. Those who cared a bit more found him in a dumpster one Christmas day, fingers and toes blue from the harsh frost of winter.

He was a "Baby John Doe" to his foster parents, secondary in priority to his other foster siblings. They were older, rowdier, and needier than him. He learned that his cries will never be louder than the shouts and yells of his temporary siblings, so why bother? Why should he make a fuss when he's starving or lying in his own filth long enough to develop nasty rashes? They're not going to notice, or even want to deal with him.

No one claimed him as their flesh. He was tossed around from family to family; some were decent to him, but the majority weren't. How could they be? He was dealt an extremely tough hand, which hardened him. This caused him to turn bitter at how he is legally named John Doe because no one wanted to adopt him or even wanted to give him a proper name.

He was cynical, he was rude, he was callous. He refused to respond to the name carelessly given to him; a young boy like him would rather take on the moniker of Cain. Fittingly so, as he finds himself seething in jealousy whenever his peers or foster siblings get much more love than he does. And like Cain in the bible, he would act out accordingly. Consequently, he finds himself in and out of Juvenile detention centers.

"Cain" John Doe spends the majority of his time, free or not, stealing. Most of the time, resulting in fights that he knows he couldn't walk away from without at least a black eye. Nothing and Nobody could get through the walls he built around himself; he pushed anyone who had tried to help him in earnest, hurting them the most for showing the audacity. Teachers who genuinely wished to see him out of that rut had their wallets snatched and faces punched. Classmates who pity him suffered a similar fate, except Cain would do much worse, as he resents them for having the privilege of a loving family.

He despised it there; he hated the rules, he hated the people who were soft because they grew up in softness all around. Cain would kick, hit, and scream, but nothing could stop the tears rolling down his cheeks.

So when he found the opportunity to, he ran away for good. He wasn't even remotely close to completing high school. Damn it all, he thinks. Cain blends himself into the city crowds and, predictably, falls into bad company. What's a young boy to do with no morally sound, authoritative figure to respect? Warmth means nothing to him, knowing that it will only end in frost. Neither does tough, fatherly love; Cain's loyalty lies in whoever can provide him the most money, the most luxury, the most contacts. And he isn't afraid to betray them when the well runs dry.

Surprisingly, he wasn't addicted to any of the drugs being passed around so brazenly. Yes, he may have gotten a fun kick out of it a dozen times, but he gets bored with them. It also clouds his judgement and hinders his ability to steal, beat or destroy. He would rather sell them to get extra cash or use it as a bargaining chip to receive favours.

He dyed his hair fiery red with the items he stole from the pharmacy, and pierced his ears and lips. Cain is content with how he looks; he isn't fussy about his appearance. Hence, you could clearly see his brunette roots. Cain wishes he knew if his parents had the same hair color and hair type as him, or if it was expressed amongst his biological, extended family. It seems like he would never know, and maybe he would like to keep it that way. Fuck them, he thinks. All Cain now wishes is for them to suffer a fate worse than his. Downfall after downfall, that puts a wry smile on his face.

Living as a street urchin does take a toll on his health, mentally and physically. When was the last time he had a good sleep in a soft bed? Last night, when he broke into some poor sap's home. He grumbled as he had to leave early, the owner came back from their vacation, and raised hell. When was the last time he was treated with dignity? He couldn't remember; it was hard for him to even buy food from a convenience store or a fast food joint due to his infamy. When was the last time his miscellaneous wounds were properly cleaned and treated? Never. Cain is just lucky to never have died from an infection, not lucky enough to avoid getting ill.

However, he eventually had a change of heart. Maybe the stench of death has gotten through him, maybe he grew tired of living life in constant tension and never truly owning anything for himself. Perhaps he's simply doing what he's been doing his entire messy life: rebelling. Rebelling against the system, the norm, and now, his long-standing personal beliefs. Whatever the reason was, Cain was willing to give honest living a try, to live like the "good" majority where they can sleep in their own clean beds without the fear of getting shanked.

With no background, formal education, or manners, it is no surprise that most turned him away. No one, except this agency with questionable ways of operating, but soon-to-be former street demons like him, knew that this was the first step of getting clean in the eyes of the law and the people.

His first honest job was a humble cleaner. Cain would be sent to various places to scrub the floors free from grime. It's something mundane, not so extreme as making crime scenes spotless, but it's more along the lines of cleaning public bathrooms, sweeping empty halls of a large building that he couldn't care to remember the function of. It's boring, but it's clean.

Just like many things in his life, he held contempt for this job. But he simply grits his teeth and picks up his rusted bucket filled with dirtied mop water. He wanted a better life, so he had to work for it, no matter how much he wanted to strangle someone over it. And for a time, he earned quite a bit of honest cash, all paid in his sweat, spite, and body aches. Food is a little easier to come by, but by god was it hard to stay afloat.

The man struggled, he really did. He had banged his head against the wall of his rickety hostel room numerous times to stop himself from falling back into his old patterns. Cain counted his blessings each day, and that is what kept his rage and hurt at bay. But hell, was it hard.

Cain was smart enough to save it up for his future; he has many, many things to pay for. Many, many milestones he missed, and legal documents too. However, he was not intuitive enough to look into banks. And that oversight came back to bite him in the ass.

Being worn down by life, feeling sticky with dirt, and stomach grumbling with a desire for a nice bowl of hot soup, Cain came back one day to his hostel to his door slightly ajar. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, but soon his expression contorted into that of horror. Cain dashed into his room to see that what little of his belongings had been rummaged through. Having little regard for everything else, he rushed to check the only thing he gave a damn about: the ratty envelope that contained his life savings.

Cain felt chills down his spine as he stared in disbelief that it was gone. Well, why would he not believe it? He's in a place full of people who are like him; just a single thought will make them fall back into their old ways. Looks like someone went back to their own ways before him, and he was next.

Everything after that was a blur. He knew that he had spent the night going absolutely ballistic. Cain knew he had many victims, but everything was unclear to him; it was as if he was under the influence, and that affected his memory greatly. But he was completely sober, only drunk off his fury. But once he calmed down enough to reason with himself, he knew he could not stay there anymore. There will be men from both sides of the law looking for Cain, and he's not sticking around to find out what they have in store for him.

And so he fled. He went far, far away with the cash that he didn't even know where it came from, or whose corpse it was looted from. Bus after bus, after bus. Cain doesn't know where he's going, but he just keeps running. No one dared to stop him; they knew that he would burn them if they got too close. They just avoided his stern gaze and hoped that he would pass, merely leaving a trail of relatively harmless smoke.

But like all fires, it will eventually burn out.

There was no more fuel, not cash, but fuel. Cain was tired, and that is a gross understatement. There are only embers left of his soul, and its glow is dimming steadily. The heat is dissipating, only leaving the desolate cold and debilitating exhaustion. He never believed in a god, but now he does. And he thinks that god is a cruel, cruel bastard. And he gives up trying to get back at this unholy entity; he's tired.

The last stop he got off, Cain stepped down from the bus. It was pouring, and everyone had their own lives to tend to, so the bus driver sped off. Cain stared blankly into nothingness, droplets of rain dripped down his red hair, but he paid no mind to how it stung his eyes.

He exhaled a long, heavy breath and then collapsed. Did his head or shoulder hit the ground first? Cain doesn't know. Nor did he have the capacity to give a damn anymore. If anything, he hopes that a lightning bolt strikes him down and fries him. At least he would be a tasty snack for some strays.

He felt his consciousness coming back, and there were muffled verbal exchanges that seemed to be close to him. Cain shuffled groggily, a soft grunt escaping his dry lips as he struggled to push himself off the ground. His eyes slowly peeled open, but it was difficult with droplets invading them each time he attempted to. Cain could make out two figures in the rain, bickering about something.

As his hearing returns to its fullest, it seems like the argument was about... morality? Cain blinked hard multiple times before he could perceive what was happening in front of him.

You and another person who's much larger than you are. Having a disagreement about... stripping an unconscious man of his belongings.

Cain's eyes fully shot open. The two strangers to him didn't notice that he was fully awake now. It seems like you're trying your damndest to get the other person to return his cash, and you weren't taken seriously. Of course, who would? You were trembling when standing up to them, you were stuttering a storm, but you stood tall and didn't show signs of backing down, going so far as to abandon your open umbrella on the ground nearby. Even if you looked like you're about to piss your pants, you still tried to get the stranger to return his things. That invoked an odd feeling in his chest; it's mild, but it's there.

Never mind that, he has something to do.

Slowly, he rose to his full height and moved behind the one that's going to get hurt. You were the first to notice and shut your mouth, but the other party kept going on, berating you.

"Oi." He barked.

This finally got their attention and made them turn around, which wasn't a good idea, as Cain immediately grabbed their head and slammed it against the bus stop pole. You winced upon hearing the deafening "thunk!" that resonated despite the noisy torrent.

The body just slid down, lifelessly. The two of you spared a glance at the once boisterous thief before sharing a look together. You were taken aback at how mean he looks, while Cain just looked at you up and down. As if memorizing you, or assessing how much you are a threat to him. Perhaps it was a mixture of both, or something else. Either way, his look doesn't scream warmth and kindness.

Cain tore his gaze away from you as he rummaged through the thief's body. He took his items back and a bit extra, but you didn't need to know that.

You simply watched in silence, completely drenched. And you realized that you were under the rain when Cain picked up your umbrella... and calmly walked away without giving you another look or showing any hesitation. He used your umbrella as if he were the rightful owner all along. No words could escape your mouth as you saw him disappear in the distance.

You went home with one umbrella short that day.

And also a guilty conscience, you called an ambulance for the thief, but you fled the scene before they arrived. That was such a wild encounter, and you don't think that you could ever forget that. You vowed to stop using that bus stop, as you tend to encounter many sketchy and simply weird people there. However, you couldn't help but wonder about that man. He seemed troubled, and maybe you could help in some way? You definitely cannot fix him, though. But maybe...

So against your better judgment, you took your bus at that bus stop to work every day. Hoping to maybe meet him again. You know that you're not getting that umbrella back, but maybe... if you ask him nicely enough, you would get it back? It's hard to even do that if he doesn't show up in the first place.

It was on one sunny day, too sunny, that you needed a cold drink to cool you down. You waited for the bus to come; it's late, but it was nothing out of the ordinary with how crappy the public transport is in your place.

After a wait, the damned thing finally arrived. It came to a halt in front of you, but instead of a clear path through the doors, hostile shouts and yelling filled the space. You have never seen your bus driver so red in anger before; you thought he would get a stroke if this keeps up, with all the veins popping up on his neck and head. And the source of this rage? The same man who took your umbrella.

He came stumbling out, yelling curses behind him and flipping the bird numerous times. One may think he's drunk, but his flushed face and the sweat dripping down his nose indicated that he was just... overheated. Once he stepped out of the bus, the doors behind him slammed shut, and the bus driver sped away without considering you. Well, you would too; it's probably a safe bet to leave the area where this man is present.

You watch him scream, like he's releasing pressure that's been pent up in him. His body is extremely tensed up, and he is panting like a dog. That bus should really fix its air conditioning system. He then whipped his head to you, his intense glare was enough to make you flinch, and instinctively brought your half-drunk bottle in front of you.

He snatched it and began gulping down its contents. It was gone within seconds, and he carelessly chucked the empty vessel onto the ground. You simply watch with caution and deduce that this isn't a good time to ask for your umbrella back; he doesn't have it with him anyway.

Cain glanced at you one last time as he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. He then walked away without a word.

You went to work thirsty that day.

And you didn't see him for a while. You finally let go of that umbrella. He probably needs it more than you do anyway.

You thought that was the last time that you'd see him. Why would he be around this area anyways? It's not like he could catch a bus here; you're sure that the bus driver wouldn't let him on anymore.

You thought about him as you waited for the bus to work one day. Munching on some berries you packed as breakfast, until you saw a shadow looming over you. Looking up, of course, who else would it be other than the man who took your umbrella and your drink? It looks like he was walking past and you caught his attention, that's why he stopped and stared, but not at you.

He was looking at your lunchbox. You stared back at him and thought that he looked quite gaunt- it didn't diminish his attractiveness, but it did show that he wasn't eating well lately. He's probably starving right now. And you can tell what person he is from your last two interactions, better to lose some berries over your cranium. So you somewhat shakily offered him some by bringing it closer to him. Not a word was being exchanged, but he took the whole thing without a sign of reluctance. In usual fashion, he walked away with your breakfast.

You went to work hungry that day. But you felt glad knowing that he had something to eat.

You decided to get a bicycle so you could just avoid that bus stop entirely. It takes a while to get the hang of it, but it feels freeing. You're no longer bound to the confines of the bus schedule.

Unfortunately, with the modern curse of smartphones, one day you decide to text and bike. Not seeing where you're going, you accidentally crashed into someone while moving along the pavement. You were thrown forward and crashed on the ground. Luckily, you had your helmet on to protect your head. Unfortunately, you got some scrapes, and even more unfortunate is when you heard a familiar voice yell...

"What the fuck!?" Followed by a groan of pain.

You gasp. Oh shit, it's him. You immediately started profusely apologizing as he regained his composure. He froze for a split second, and it looked like he recognized you before adopting an expression of annoyance, not of fury like how he was with the bus driver, but of annoyance. He had some cuts on his lean arms that were beading out blood.

You scrambled back onto your feet, offering to take him to a hospital, or a clinic, or to patch him up, or--

"Fuck off!" He angrily exclaimed as he stormed off, cradling his fresh wounds.

You took a moment before checking yourself if he took anything with him. Everything seems to be in place, even your phone, surprisingly. But it was cracked badly.

And so, you went home in shame. You didn't mean to hurt him.

The guilt kept you up at night. You wanted to make it up to him, but he doesn't seem the type to accept unsolicited help. You don't think you could do anything meaningful for now, so you just pray that he will be okay.

You even stopped using the bicycle for a while and returned to the bus stop. That was how much your guilt was eating you up. And by reverting to that routine, you were bound to bump into him again.

It was one cloudy day, and you saw him sleeping on the bench at the bus stop. He's homeless...?

Wrong. It never came. It's just one of those days, so you sighed. And that was a pretty loud sigh, as it woke him up. You jolted when you heard him groan. Instantly, you started stammering apologies for waking him up, for bothering him, and for the accident that happened. You said you felt guilty for that and asked if you could do anything to make it up to him. But before you could finish your long, sorry speech, he cuts you off.

You wanted to apologize to him again. But you don't think he would appreciate you waking him up just for that. So you just waited next to him, under the shelter, predicting that it might rain soon. At least your bus is coming in the next minute, right?

"Shut up." He rasped as he rubbed his eyes, squinting at what little light the cloudy skies could offer. You did just that and remained silent, and chose to stay silent unless spoken to.

You were never spoken to anymore, though.

It looks like he trusts you enough that he appeared to go back to sleep. He looked so serene with his eyes closed, you wonder who he is and what the world has done to him to be this spiky towards everyone.

The next bus eventually came, and you hopped onto it.

Unbeknownst to you, Cain had an eye open slightly to watch you get onto the bus safely.

The following weeks were not that notable, except for a few times where Cain came across you at the bus stop, eating breakfast, staring intently, and you would inevitably give it up. As usual, he would accept it with no hesitation and leave the area after getting what he wanted. You still hadn't known his name at this point.

Until one day.

It was raining cats and dogs. You missed your old umbrella, but your newer, flimsier one had to do. You retracted the umbrella when you reached the bus shelter. You sat down and waited as usual.

This time, you heard something extra. A frantic pair of footsteps splashing against the puddles. You poke your head out of the shelter to see a man running towards it, with his arms over his head, seemingly trying to protect himself from the rain. But he was already positively drenched.

Lo and Behold, it was him.

You scooted away to make some space for him. He rushed to take cover and sat down, letting his clothes dampen the wooden bench. You tried waving at him, but he seemed preoccupied with something. He was breathing heavily and... sniffling? His wet hair was covering his eyes, so you couldn't tell if he was crying or if it was from the rain. But his sudden, uncontrolled shout confirmed that he must be having a mental breakdown of sorts, as after that, he began sobbing into his hand.

Cain was coughing as he released shouts and screams that were almost primal in quality. He was digging his nails against the flesh of his arms, which were noticeably bruised and had more cuts than you remembered. You don't know if you should look at him or look away.

Eventually, he quieted down and slumped against the bench. You still couldn't see his eyes. His chest heaves up and down as he breathes.

Both of you stayed there in silence. You don't know what to say either.

Your bus finally arrived, and it opened its doors for you. However, before you even stood up, you saw that Cain was outwardly staring at you. And you had to make a choice. You glanced between the bus and him.

Ultimately, you shook your head at the bus driver. He then shuts the door before driving off.

You pursed your lips and brought your attention back to him. Cain looked away, having his hair conceal the top half of his face again.

Then it was silence.

"Cain."

What?

"Cain. That is my name." He coughed a bit.

You stuttered your own name and said something along the lines of "nice to meet you". He didn't respond to that.

He returned to the comfort of silence, you returned to the discomfort of it. Maybe you should have taken that damn bus.

You twiddled your thumbs, periodically taking note of his actions. He doesn't seem to be doing a whole lot, just sitting and resting.

"You said you would make it up to me." You turned your head to him. He still refused to meet your eyes. You didn't confirm or deny, instead, you stayed quiet and let him talk.

"Then..." You could see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed thickly.

"I need somewhere to stay." He brought his intense gaze back onto you, making you wish that he kept his eyes hidden. You just realized that his face was bruised, and the skin on his lip was broken, and his teeth were stained red. You think he must have gotten into a fight, or someone took advantage of him while he was asleep.

Your jaw dropped, and you failed to get the words out of your mouth. You don't think it's a good idea for him to stay with you, but you can't afford to pay for him to stay somewhere either. Your mouth opened and closed to try and say something, but nothing came out.

"Please..." He breathed, it was laden with desperation. You stared into his bloodshot eyes and the piercings that glistened under the faint streetlight.

How could you possibly say no?

#yandere #yandere x reader #x reader #reader insert #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #tw violence #oc Cain #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #tw blood #tw parental neglect

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 6 months ago

Text

Christine - A Yandere Short Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was waiting for you.

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

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

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

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

But things were different now.

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

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

The seats were empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. "It's fine."

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

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

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

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

"Be my guest."

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

"How long did this take?"

You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Christine?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you think?"

"She runs sweet as apple pie."

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

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

"Sorry. Just a little car sick."

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

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

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

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

"How did you know about this place?"

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

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

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

"You know this place?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure thing sugar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You say something sugar?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure. I'm in no hurry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One hell of a dream," he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So how's Christine treating you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked away from you and stayed silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted to dream about you again.

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

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

He was right. He did dream of you.

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't want a fence."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's cute. But..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Because you aren't thinking about her.'

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

Not tonight though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mine. Forever and always.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Funny. He used to hate tequila.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Colt

Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I got something to ask you, baby."

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

"Yes?"

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

"You're my girl, yeah?"

"Obviously. I love you."

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

"Never."

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

"Will you marry me?"

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

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

"I..."

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

"I...can't."

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

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

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

"Is there another man?"

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No! That's not what I-"

He cut you off with a hand around your throat.

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

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

"Please just -"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stabbed him.

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

The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You kicked the door shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guy like him had it coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why is this dude so up my ass?"

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

Almost like a...Mustang.

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

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

And still the Mustang kept coming.

The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

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

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

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

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

Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.

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

Screech.

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

"Fuck!"

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

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

The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.

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

But the car didn't have a driver.

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

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

He could almost hear the laugh.

'Do I got you scared cowboy?'

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

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

It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.

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

Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.

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

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

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

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

Where?! Where was she?!

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

The airbags came on, blinding him.

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

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

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

He landed hard, on his hands and knees.

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

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

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

She revved.

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

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

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

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

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

At least she can't follow me down here.

True. Christine couldn't follow him.

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

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

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

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

"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."

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

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

Kind of like in the cemetery.

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

He was looking at a dead man.

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

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

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

"You know why I'm here?"

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

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

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

The dead man laughed.

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

The pieces were clicking together in his head.

"Your girl."

"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colt fainted.

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

The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.

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

You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.

"Hello?"

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

"Hey beautiful. Did ya miss me?"

#yandere #reader insert #yandere x reader #x reader #Yandere Stephen King #Christine by Stephen King #this is hella good holy shet

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