#did you know my parents and were you there when my other half and I were born

[figmentera]

I was going to just tag briefly and move on but then I started thinking of all the methods I use and why and when, so —

First off, I’m protective of my books. I have never dog-eared a page in my life. That’s the only full no from the quiz options. If it’s a flexible enough paperback I’ll put a book on its face or close it around my phone for a few minutes while I walk away to do something, but if I’m done reading it is being fully closed. Similarly, I will mark with the dust jacket flap for about the first and last 10% of the pages, but outside of those ranges we’re not risking the dust jacket by stretching it that far.

Second, once a book has something to mark its pages, they’re pretty much bonded for life. I absolutely can’t remember the last time I’ve taken a bookmark out of a book and used it for another book. Either a book gets a bookmark the first time I pick it up to read it (or before!) or it doesn’t and probably never will. Books without markers are more common in my collection than those with, and for those I either read them in close to one sitting, or memorize their page number when I put them down. Page number memory won’t work very well if it’s a book I read at a slower pace, with more breaks in between, so longer classics are more likely to get a bookmark paired with them.

Also, I think I have a full collection of bookmarks that were never assigned to a book and live in storage. Should probably find a solution for that.

On to the list of types of bookmarks!

The purchase receipt. If I got a book or a set of books in person, it keeps its receipt forever. Probably usually assigned by the salesperson — I don’t think I move it from that book if there were multiple in the bag. It’s a little memory of where I got it, what others came with it, etc.

The Half-Price Books bookmark. They just pre-assign a bookmark to your book for free! And I used to shop there a lot, with my parents.

Little metal “book darts”. A relatively recent addition. Essentially, a paper clip designed to hold one page without folding it. I got a little box of a hundred of them for Christmas a few years back, so they’re still being assigned over time. Hard to spot so I don’t know how many books have them!

Sticky tabs. My go-to for college reading assignments, but I still use them on occasion. The one facing upward indicates where I am in the book, and moves as I go. The ones parallel with the text are usually transparent, and are essentially a way of highlighting particular lines.

Ribbons. Obviously most of these are the ones that came attached to the spine of fancy books or notebooks — but I think I have just used cut-out yarn or ribbon in the past.

A simple piece of paper that says “poets and writers” with a URL at the bottom, and space for notes in between. I don’t have any memory of where this came from, or when it was paired with my Night Watch book.

A large paper once used to display my name in a class, folded into the reading for the class. I honestly think this is more blending the memories than tracking pages. It’s got two versions of my name on either side, and when I opened the fold, I found a set of quotes that meant a lot to me at the time, copied out.

A little bookmark that says “Thank you!” And has a note about appreciating my contributions, but nothing I could see about what those contributions are to. I think I got the book it’s paired with at an in-person event I half remember.

A fancy metal bookmark. I think this one did move from book to book for a while, and is probably currently living in storage with other unassigned bookmarks.

A lovely green bookmark that was a gift from a friend and bears a line from a song we sang in choir together a hundred times. Paired with Johnathan Strange & Mr Norrell, which I never finished reading — the only one on this list that I remembered before seeing

I’m sure I missed several while poking through books, but this was a lovely look through memories!

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Come Home

pairing: post apocalyptic joel Miller X Wife reader

It started small.

Little things. Short answers. Long silences. Joel snapping at you over nothing leaving early for patrol without a kiss, eating dinner without a word. You told yourself he was just tired. That he had a lot on his plate. That the stress of keeping Jackson safe was pulling him thin.

But it didn’t explain why he only looked at you when he was angry. Or why he hadn’t touched your belly in weeks.

It all came to a head on a Tuesday night, when you asked him if he could pick up more prenatal vitamins while out with Tommy.

“What, I don’t do enough already?” he bit out, slamming his jacket down on the table.

You blinked. “It was just a question.”

He muttered something under his breath and you had enough.

“Do you even love me anymore?”

“What?”

“You heard me, Joel. Do you love me?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

Your voice broke. “Then show it. Because you’ve been acting like you don’t.”

He didn’t follow when you grabbed your bag. He didn’t stop you when Sarah packed Ellie’s overnight things. He didn’t say a word when you slammed the door behind you.

One and a Half Weeks Later

Joel’s world had been loud. Now it was silent.

He still made coffee for two out of habit. Still reached across the bed, forgetting it was cold and empty. The house was too quiet without Ellie’s music blaring or Sarah’s pencil scratching her sketchbook. The silence was screaming at him.

He hadn’t even kissed your belly goodbye.

Tommy tried talking to him. Maria did, too. He brushed them off. He didn’t know what to say because the truth was worse than anything they could guess:

He missed you so goddamn much it physically hurt.

On the eighth night, he sat down on the bed you made together and finally broke.

The house had never felt like a home without you in it.

Joel went one week and four days without the sound of your voice, without the girls’ laughter bouncing off the walls, without the warmth of your hand reaching for his in the dark. And in that silence, he finally heard everything he hadn’t let himself listen to.

How he’d picked fights. How he’d looked right through you when you were desperate for him to just see you. How he’d been cruel when you were carrying his child and raising two daughters who called him Daddy.

So he went to your parents’ place hat in hand, flowers in the other.

He stood at their front door like a man with nothing left, knuckles scraped from a fence he’d helped rebuild that morning just to keep busy, his voice already trembling before he even spoke.

Your mama opened the door, arms crossed, no smile. “Joel Miller,” she said flatly. “You better have something real good to say.”

“Ma’am,” he rasped. “I know I don’t deserve a damn second of her time. But I..I’m askin’. Please. Just five minutes. I need to see my girls.”

Your dad said nothing from behind her, but he opened the door and motioned silently toward the living room.

You were sitting on the couch in an oversized sweater, Ellie curled against your side, Sarah drawing at the coffee table. Your bump was more visible now, cradled by your hand protectively.

Joel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “Darlin’…” he whispered.

You didn’t get up. You didn’t say his name. But your eyes filled with tears the moment you looked at him.

He knelt.

Right there in the doorway, he dropped to one knee like he’d done years ago when he first asked you to marry him, except this time, his voice was soaked in guilt and love.

“I’ve been an ass. A stubborn, angry, blind man who didn’t see the one thing that’s ever truly mattered to me.

I pushed you away when all you were doing was lovin’ me and this family.

You asked me if I loved you. I said yes, but I didn’t show it and I hate myself for that.

I just… things get loud in my head sometimes. And instead of lettin’ you in, I shut the door and act like you’re the enemy. You’re not. You’re never the enemy.

You’re my girl. You always have been.

And Sarah and Ellie… I miss ‘em. I miss their laughter. I miss your humming in the kitchen. I miss you yellin’ at me for leavin’ my boots by the door.

I miss touchin’ your belly at night, feelin’ our baby kick. God, darlin’, I’m so sorry I let myself get so far away from all of it. From you.

This whole week I’ve been sleepin’ in a house that feels like a stranger’s place, because my home ,my home is wherever you are. Wherever our girls are.

And I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m askin’… please, sweetheart. Let me try to fix this. Let me earn my way back to you.”

He placed the flowers on the coffee table like an offering.

“I miss you. I miss Sarah rollin’ her eyes at me. I miss Ellie yellin’ when I steal her toast. I miss talkin’ to our baby even if she can’t hear me yet.

I miss my wife.”

Tears ran down his cheeks, and your girls went quiet Ellie’s jaw clenched and Sarah’s eyes were wide.

You looked at him Joel Miller, your stubborn, complicated husband. You saw the cracks in his armor, the ones you’d been begging him to let show. And for the first time in weeks, he let you in.

You didn’t rush into his arms. You didn’t melt into him like in some dream. You simply looked down and said softly, “You can stay. For dinner.”

It was a start.

You were sitting on the back porch of your parents’ house, a blanket wrapped around your belly, cradling a warm cup of tea while the morning sun lit your face. Joel sat beside you in silence, like he’d done every day that week, content just to be near.

You finally looked at him and said softly, “I think we’re ready to come home.”

Joel didn’t say a word at first. He blinked once. Twice.

Then his hand reached for yours worn and calloused and trembling and he held it against his lips.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped.

You nodded. “I miss our home. I miss our bed. I miss… you.”

Joel closed his eyes. “I’ll go get your things.”

Joel hadn’t moved that fast since his patrol days. He borrowed your parents’ wagon and hitched it to one of the horses, riding into town with a strange mix of nervous energy and reverence.

The house was still exactly how you left it.

He walked through slowly, fingers brushing over the backs of chairs, the edge of the couch, the framed photo of the five of you at the community festival last spring.

“We’re gettin’ our girls back,” he whispered to the empty room.

Upstairs, he stepped into Ellie’s room. The bed was still unmade. Her jacket was thrown over the desk chair, and her favorite book was flipped open on the nightstand.

Joel folded each item carefully her comic books, her flashlight, the patched-up hoodie you had sewn for her all packed neatly into her backpack.

Then Sarah’s room. Her sketchbook was left open on a half-finished portrait of you. He smiled, ran a thumb over the corner, and packed it gently in her bag along with her favorite sweater and the green barrettes she always lost in the couch cushions.

He paused at the door to the nursery.

Your half-decorated baby room.

He stepped inside, picked up the tiny onesie that read “Little Miller” and swallowed hard. He placed it on the dresser and whispered, “We’re waitin’ on you, little one”

The girls squealed when they saw him.

“Dad!” Ellie grinned, jumping onto the porch. “You got my comics?”

“Every single one,” Joel said, chucking her under the chin. “Even the ones you think I don’t know you stole from the market.”

“You don’t know anything,” she teased, hugging him tighter.

“I know I missed ya, baby girl .”

Sarah came next, hugging him longer, wordlessly. He cupped the back of her head.

Then you stepped out, wrapped in that same porch blanket, tears in your eyes.

Joel came to you slowly, held out his hand like it was your first dance all over again. “Ready to come home, darlin’?”

You nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Joel helped you into the wagon like you were made of glass, one hand on your lower back, the other braced for any stumble. You settled between Sarah and Ellie while he drove the horse slowly back toward town.

As you pulled up to your house, Ellie gasped. “Did you clean the place?”

“Of course I did,” Joel said. “Even scrubbed the toilets. That’s how serious I was about gettin’ my girls home.”

That week, he helped your dad fix the barn doors. He drove your mama to the market. He sat with Sarah while she read aloud and played cards with Ellie, losing every round on purpose just to hear her laugh.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just showed up.

He ran you a bath one night after your back started hurting and waited outside the door just in case you needed help. He kissed your forehead as you fell asleep on the couch a barely-there press of lips, reverent and apologetic.

And slowly, your walls softened.

You came home together.

The house was warm again. Lived in. Ellie decorated the nursery wall with sketches of dinosaurs and fireflies. Sarah played music in the kitchen while Joel slow danced with you to a song on the old record player, one hand on your waist, the other resting over your belly.

“You feel that?” you whispered one night, guiding his hand as the baby kicked.

Joel smiled, eyes glassy. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “My little fighter. Just like her mama.”

Later, when you were curled up in bed, he kissed the stretch marks on your hips, your shoulder, your hand.

Joel started rubbing your feet, you looked at him through sleepy eyes.

“You did good, Joel.”

He pressed a kiss to your ankle, then your belly.

“I’ll never make you doubt it again,” he whispered into your skin. “Not ever. You’re mine, and I’ll love you every damn day ‘til my last breath.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

[msfantasy-comics]

The one that got Away

Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: A short story in which Bruce recounts his romantic encounter with Y/n, the one who got away.

A/n: in this version, Bruce is an older teenager when he lost his parents. Also, dear lord this has been in the drafts since October 2023

When Bruce lost his parents, he had lost the spark of life.

Everyday was a battle to get out of bed in the morning. What reason was there? There was nothing to do, nothing to look forward to. What motivation does he have to even open his eyes?

As the days dragged on, Bruce grew more isolated from the world and it was painfully apparent that the world would never be the same.

The day of the funeral had came and Bruce could barely stand it. With a painful and heavy heart, Bruce was, in his own way, ready to celebrate the lives of his beloved mother and father, but instead Bruce was greeted by faux pitied glances and half hearted condolences passed on in awkward smiles from strangers he never met or never remembered meeting.

Despite all of that, every single one of these bastards in the room seem to have taken his parents funeral as a networking opportunity.

Business cards flying hand to hand as deals or meetings are struck.

Bruce wasn’t sure what to expect from this funeral, but this certainly wasn’t it.

Bruce felt nauseous at the disgrace of the state of this funeral, nobody is celebrating the life his parents had, no one is crying, no one is overwhelmed with grief. Did no one have a heart? Could they not see their son standing amongst the crowd more alone than ever?

Seemingly the world had no empathy to spare.

The worst part was when his parents coffins were loaded into the car only for all of the guests to seemingly not notice their departures, too caught up in their conversations.

“I’m sorry for your loss, they were wonderful people. I hope you know how special they were, and how much they touched the lives of other around them.” You spoke to him so gently, as if your words may shatter his soul, but instead, your kind words only warmed his cold heart.

You felt so sorry for this boy, who seemingly was all alone at the funeral. You made sure to be by his side and listen to every detail he had to share about his beloved parents.

It wasn’t long until the sky grew dark, and it was evident that your conversation will be wrapping up soon as the wake hall slowly started to dwindle in numbers.

“You probably have to get going now don’t you?” You looked into this boys face whose eyes held nothing but longing, almost begging you to wave off his words and stay a little longer.

In your pity, you did just that.

“Hm, well I am hungry… how about we go out for dinner? I’ll take you to my favourite diner.” A smile just about bursts on Bruce’s lips as you drag him by his sleeve towards to exit.

After dinner, you both retreat to the limo, waiting to pick Bruce up.

His face slowly drawing down to a stern frown. “It’s awkward to admit, but I use to love it when I had the manor all to myself, but the first night when they- well - it’s suffocating being alone, knowing no one else is there.” His hands grip tightly around the ends of his jacket.

Your sorrow filled heart now brimming with woe.

“I don’t know if I’m over stepping here, but would it help if I spent the night with you?” His eyes light up quickly waving away your self consciousness.

“No, no, please stay- I mean, your welcome to spend the night…”

It was an unusual start to a friendship.

One does not typically become friends with someone at her parents funeral. 

Your sleep over quickly became a week which quickly became a few weeks bordering onto a month.

You have both spent an awful amount of time together.

The long nights spent in each others presence as you talk and bond through experiences, understanding each other wholeheartedly. It didn’t help that you would fall asleep in the same bed as exhaustion takes you both, Bruce holding onto your frame throughout the night, scared that he would wake up alone again.

He would be woken up with his head being stroked and a mug of coffee left on his bedside for him.

The shared breakfasts, before you both take your leave that morning.

Bruce would always come and pick up you to bring you back to the manor to have dinner with him.

Your weekends spent together shopping, reading in silence, sight seeing.

His days were filled with adventure, a necessary distraction from the emptiness he was feeling inside

Someone was bound to catch feelings.

Bruce remained steadfast, scared to loose his only friend. The only person keeping him sane in this lonely world.

You were incredibly conscious on how outing your feelings may afflict Bruce negatively. He is just barely recovering from the loss of his parents, you didn’t want to burden him further considering his attention is solely focused on overcoming his hardships.

You had become adamant to admit your true feelings when Bruce was in a more comfortable position. When Bruce isnt pressured into being with you but being with you because he wants to.

But months became years, and you became skilled at keeping your hearts desires away. One day, Bruce will be ready to hear your admission

But all of these desires came to a crashing holt when Bruce said he was too sick to pick you up and he would see you tomorrow.

It was very unlike him.

Concerned for his health, you go to check on him with a large container of soup left on the kitchen counter only to hear a long groan and grunt soon to follow.

These didn’t sound pain ridden, but anxiety crippled your common sense only throwing you into panic.

Racing to the door, you throw the door open,

“Are you okay Bruce?” The scene before you was gut wrenching to say the least.

Bruce was on top of a girl, her legs spread wide.

The vile scene that played before your eyes would haunt you forever.

All you knew was your heart was ripped from your chest, a sense of betrayal from someone who never promised you anything.

“Wait, Y/n!” Covering your mouth, you make a mad dash for the exit.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t — I was just trying—” Words struggled to escape so instead of focusing on formulating a sentence you left.

It would be the last time Bruce saw you.

Sitting in the Batcave, Bruce remains slumped in his chair, his signature frown pressed upon his face as he scrutinises the old news articles discussing your disappearance.

‘Trouble in Paradise? Insiders Report Y/N’s Teary Departure from Wayne Manor!’

‘Run Away Heiress Last Seen Dashing From Wayne Manor’

‘20th Anniversary of Run-Away-Heiress Missing Persons Case. Here’s what we know.’

Bruce has read the contents repeatedly. He could recite the article off by heart.

But there’s always one quote he reads religiously.

‘Sources cite that the heiress admitted she still holds a flame for Bruce Wayne— a man she swore as a friend’

He sighs, looking off to the side where an empty soup container sat. The very item that brought you to that manor on that faithful day.

“Father, what are you doing?” Damian asks, looking up at the screen of new articles that Bruce is flicking through at rapid speed. Bruce grumbles, about to tell Damian off— to go back to his room, but nothing could prepare him for what he said next.

“Why are you looking at articles about Aunty Y/n?”

[thisiswhattheycallafinecareer]

from Chapter 19 of Educated by Tara Westover (2018):

Failing a quiz did nothing to undermine my new devotion to an old creed, but a lecture on Western art did.

The classroom was bright when I arrived, the morning sun pouring in warmly through a high wall of windows. I chose a seat next to a girl in a high-necked blouse. Her name was Vanessa. "We should stick together," she said. "I think we're the only freshmen in the whole class."

The lecture began when an old man with small eyes and a sharp nose shuttered the windows. He flipped a switch and a slide projector filled the room with white light. The image was of a painting. The professor discussed the composition, the brushstrokes, the history.

Then he moved to the next painting, and the next and the next. Then the projector showed a peculiar image, of a man in a faded hat and overcoat. Behind him loomed a concrete wall. He held a small paper near his face but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at us. I opened the picture book I'd purchased for the class so I could take a closer look. Something was written under the image in italics but I couldn't understand it. It had one of those black-hole words, right in the middle, devouring the rest.

I'd seen other students ask questions, so I raised my hand. The professor called on me, and I read the sentence aloud. When I came to the word, I paused. "I don't know this word," I said. "What does it mean?"

There was silence.

Not a hush, not a muting of the noise, but utter, almost violent silence. No papers shuffled, no pencils scratched. The professor's lips tightened. "Thanks for that," he said, then returned to his notes.

I scarcely moved for the rest of the lecture. I stared at my shoes, wondering what had happened, and why, whenever I looked up, there was always someone staring at me as if I was a freak. Of course I was a freak, and I knew it, but I didn't understand how they knew it.

When the bell rang, Vanessa shoved her notebook into her pack. Then she paused and said, "You shouldn't make fun of that. It's not a joke." She walked away before I could reply. I stayed in my seat until everyone had gone, pretending the zipper on my coat was stuck so I could avoid looking anyone in the eye.

Then I went straight to the computer lab to look up the word "Holocaust." I don't know how long I sat there reading about it, but at some point I'd read enough. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. I suppose I was in shock, but whether it was the shock of learning about something horrific, or the shock of learning about my own ignorance, I'm not sure.

I do remember imagining for a moment, not the camps, not the pits or chambers of gas, but my mother's face. A wave of emotion took me, a feeling so intense, so unfamiliar, I wasn't sure what it was. It made me want to shout at her, at my own mother, and that frightened me.

I searched my memories. In some ways the word "Holocaust" wasn't wholly unfamiliar. Perhaps Mother had taught me about it, when we were picking rosehips or tincturing hawthorn. I did seem to have a vague knowledge that Jews had been killed somewhere, long ago. But I'd thought it was a small conflict, like the Boston Massacre, which Dad talked about a lot, in which half a dozen people had been martyred by a tyrannical government. To have misunderstood it on this scale-five versus six million-seemed impossible.

I found Vanessa before the next lecture and apologized for the joke. I didn't explain, because I couldn't explain. I just said I was sorry and that I wouldn't do it again. To keep that promise, I didn't raise my hand for the rest of the semester.

Tara Westover is an American memoirist and scholar of world cultures. The youngest of seven children born in a highly controlling religious household in Idaho to Mormon survivalist parents. Educated is her narrative of overcoming abuse, fighting for her education, and self-actualizing.

Full text for free found here.

Don't let them gaslight you into believing that any controlled religion is less dangerous than it is. It is deadly.

mormons undoubtedly in the top 5 worst things the united states has ever invented which is really saying something

[weirdsht]

Change My Name, Change My Appearance, But Never My Heart - Cale & Reader

a/n: ngl i wasn't sure how i was gonna end this. Also I didn't mean to post that first fic 😭 I was piling them up so I can flood you guys huhu

tags: platonic relationships only, no specific gender mentioned for reader, implied middle aged! reader, vauge spoilers for kim rok soo's life and the latter half of the war arc, yandere cale if you squint, self-esteem issues if you squint

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Requests are open and welcome

Navigation Masterlist

@xjdjfbcuf said: My request is that the reader is Kim Rok Soo's father or a kind of father figure to him but one day before the apocalypse begins on Earth the reader disappeared (because of the god of death) and when Cale was in his battle with the white star an arrow that appeared out of nowhere appears and sticks him in the chest right in his main ring and Cale sees a man with an old hood with blood and his face is not seen and when the man takes off the hood Cale recognizes the reader but now older. I think that the reader does not recognize Cale as Kim Rok Soo at first because of the body change and because so many years have passed.

All your life has been lived in solitude. Never going out of your way to interact with others more than the needed amount. Your presence is a mere fleeting feather through other people’s eyes. Seen at the moment, but never remembered when gone.

This was why, when the God of Death took you from your world in order to give you a mission, you figured no one would remember you. You did nothing to be remembered. No blood ties remained, and you didn’t really have any friends.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Kim Rok Soo, the child you sometimes helped — “sometimes” from your perspective — was worried sick when the catalyst started, and you were nowhere to be found. The poor child did everything he could to try and find you.

But not even your body was found.

It took a bit of time for Rok Soo to accept that you were gone. But of course, such wounds never fully heal.

Even after becoming team leader, he still sometimes dedicates time and money in order to try and search for you — or your body at least. That’s the only time he spends his money and days off.

But alas, no traces of you surface despite his grandest efforts. 

Things continued like that until he eventually had to stop because he transmigrated as Cale Henituse. However, even then, he still constantly thinks of you. You may have thought that you were just a fleeting thought in his life, but for Cale, you were his everything. The only parent figure he had ever had since his parents died.

Unbeknownst to both of you, you are actually living in the same world. Didn’t know that you had the same mission.

It wasn’t until the latter war with White Star that Cale caught a glimpse of you.

He had just gotten the Annual Rings of Life and was testing it on White Star when all of a sudden, an arrow pierces through that bastard’s chest.

Right in his main ring.

It’s not enough to kill him, but it certainly was enough to do damage.

And that was your goal: to weaken the White Star. The God of Death has assured you that it is someone else's job to kill him, so you won’t bother.

You were just here to fulfill the Gods’ wishes, as you have nothing better to do with your life.

Nothing to look forward to, nothing to love.

Well, you did love Kim Rok Soo like he was your own, but that child had better opportunities waiting for him. Being with you will only hinder his potential.

But those are thoughts for another time. Right now, you have to focus on doing irreparable damage to the White Star. Set the stage for the hero who will defeat him.

That has always been your role, even before the gods asked for your assistance.

That is your role. 

So why was it that the renowned Cale Henituse is looking at you like you hung the stars and the sun?

Why did his gaze convey to you as someone very dear that he lost?

You certainly don’t know him. Have never interacted with him. If you did, you are sure to remember for he’s infamous even before becoming Young Master Silver Shield. Whether it was the lout Cale or the hero Cale, you were sure you had never seen him personally before.

In the first place, how could he recognise you when you’re all bloody and hooded up?

Ignoring the impertinent gaze, you secured your hood and turned away. Blood from your injuries trailed behind you as you disappeared in the fog.

Certainly, there’s no way you have a connection with Cale Henituse, but you can’t stop thinking about him even after a few days. Was it because he reminded you of that punk Rok Soo? Even so, this was no time to be distracted. The enemy forces are looming in all directions, and the gods have entrusted you to be the heroes’ silent guardian.

And as the silent guardian, it’s best if you don’t reveal yourself. It’s no use getting all attached to those kids. There’s no need for them to meet someone like you.

But oh, if only you knew how Cale is tearing his hair just to get a glimpse of you. How his sparing no expense to get the tiniest crumb of information regarding you.

Though, how could there be information on someone who has never interacted with anyone?

You have no records whatsoever, not even aliases, as you made sure to steer clear of humans. It usually wouldn’t have been possible, but you have the gods’ help, so you were basically nonexistent.

The same can be said of the one-sided chase Cale has been running ever since seeing you.

Of course, every chase must come to an end. 

He got lucky — though he isn’t sure if that’s the right term — after one of the battles. The you who would usually leave right after the enemy was defeated is slumped in a hidden corner, desperately trying to nurse a wound you sustained from the enemy forces. 

Cale Henituse, the opportunist, wasted no time grabbing this chance. 

He picked you up, nursed you back to health, and made sure you’ll never leave his sight.

“Tell me, child, why do you do such things for someone like me?”

You had asked after recovering, and Cale had to hold in a deep sigh from escaping.

You had always been like this, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

“[Name]-ssi, if I just tell you that I’m from Korea too, you wouldn’t just believe me, right? Of course not, that’s not the kind of person you are.”

Cale started once he made sure Raon had installed a noise-cancelling barrier in the room.

You just looked at the redhead like he grew horns on his nose.

“I’m actually Kim Rok Soo. I don’t know if you remember me, but you helped me a lot back on Earth.”

Concise and to the point as always. Others might get a whiplash, but not you.

After all, it was from you that Cale got this kind of personality from.

Knowing your personality so well. Cale gathered and showed you all the evidence he could. To the point you had no choice but to accept that Cale Henituse is, in fact, Kim Rok Soo.

And that you indeed had more impact on his life than you thought you did.

“I’ve looked everywhere for you after you disappeared. I thought you got eaten by monsters when the catalyst happened.”

Cale admitted a few days after your reunion. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he remembered nightmare-filled nights. Times when thoughts of you would swallow him whole. 

“I’m sorry… You strong kid, I figured you didn’t need me, so I accepted to aid the gods.”

Sorry. That was the only thing you could say to try and cure this child’s aching heart. You genuinely didn’t know how big of an impact you had on his life.

But fret not, as it’s not too late.

You might have gotten older, but the night is still young. The war is almost over, and the enemies are nearly defeated.

Soon you’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to this poor child. 

[slytherin-pen]

To Be Seen

pairing: Sloane x Dain

word count: 1.1k

tags: set post-OS, no spoilers though just a brief theory, slightly angsty

summary: It’s Show & Tell day at Liam’s school and he tells his class about the war his parents fought in except…he only talks about Dain.

a/n: inspired by mothers always getting the short-end of the stick in books (and real life tbh), but also slightly inspired by that Hermione moment in Manacled iykyk. written for day 7 of Slain Week by @empyreanevents

Slain Masterlist

“—and my daddy won the war while riding a big, red dragon!”

The room erupted in a chorus of wide-eyed gasps and exaggerated “oooohs” from the first graders sitting in a half-circle on the floor facing the front of the classroom. The teacher chuckled from behind her clipboard, then turned a patient smile toward Liam standing proudly in front of the class.

“And what about your mommy, sweetheart?”

Sloane stiffened in the back of the room. Her arms were folded, her jaw clenched so tight her molars ached. The chairs for visiting parents were child-sized, far too small for anyone older than prepubescent age. Some of the larger parents, like Dain, opted to stand instead of squeezing themselves into the chairs. But the chair wasn’t the only reason for Sloane’s foul mood. She watched her son flounder for an answer.

Liam blinked and scratched the back of his neck. “She…was there.”

A few of the other kids turned to look at her. A couple of parents did too, curious but not unkind. A few sympathetic looks, too. Sloane could hear the blood whooshing through her ears.

Just there?

The teacher moved on, ushering up the next child. Everyone clapped. The moment passed for them.

Not for her. When Liam had told them he was going to tell his class about the war, Sloane had assumed she’d be included. Apparently that was a mistake. She and Dain had told Liam about the war plenty of times—as much as was appropriate for a seven year old. She thought he knew about her involvement, how she had fought for their home just as much as Dain had. As anyone else on the battlefield. Just because she had been set up in Riorson House or only briefly ran onto the battlefield didn’t mean she hadn’t fought. Right?

The walk home was quiet. Dain, holding Liam’s hand, was doing his best to keep the mood light, asking about snacks and recess and whether the class hamster really did bite someone’s finger off.

Sloane walked a few paces behind. Liam had smiled so wide when he’d talked about Dain. Beamed, even. His shoulders had squared like he knew he was descended from someone legendary. And he was.

But her? She was just there, apparently. A footnote in the story. The fine print at the end of a document.

When they walked through the front door of their house, Sloane immediately spotted Imogen rising from the couch.

“Hey, guys,” she greeted quietly. “I somehow managed to get both of the little monsters down for a nap but they should be waking up soon.”

“That’s great. Thanks, Imogen,” Dain replied.

Sloane kicked off her boots and went straight to the kitchen, her motions stiff. Cabinets opened. Tea was made. She heard Imogen and Dain talk some more until the front door opened and closed again signaling that Imogen had left.

Sloane stared out the window, unmoving, cup of tea in hand until Dain’s voice drifted in from the living room.

“Go start on your drawing, bud. I’ll come help in a second.”

Soft footsteps padded upstairs. A moment later, Dain appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she replied, voice flat.

Dain studied her carefully. “Is this about what Liam said?”

She didn’t answer.

“He’s only seven Sloane, he doesn’t know any better.”

Sloane looked over her shoulder to glare at him. “I know how old our son is.”

Dain exhaled and stepped inside. “He didn’t mean it like that. He was just excited. You know how he looks up to—”

“I don’t care what he meant,” she snapped, spinning around, teacup trembling in her hand. “I don’t care if he meant it or if he didn’t. I care that even though I was there, I’ll never be included in the stories. That while I was using my signet to cure people, the only thing anyone remembers are those who were doing the killing. And I don’t mean to sound entitled or ungrateful, and it was fine when it was everyone else or random strangers, but he’s my son Dain. My own son.” Her voice cracked at the end. She set the cup down as her hands gripped the counter and hung her head.

Dain approached her slowly. “That’s not true,” he said softly. “I remember you nearly reaching burnout multiple times vivdily. I remember Violet’s cries of joy when the red veins finally disappeared from Xaden’s eyes. I remember it all.”

Sloane scoffed. “You’re my husband. I’d certainly hope you’d remember, but no one else does. I’m just the mom who forgets to sign up for the fundraising bake sale. The mom who doesn’t always have the boys’ laundry done on time and they have to wear those terrible, tacky outfits. The mom who—“

“Survived,” Dain interrupted.

She went still.

He moved closer, slowly, like he was approaching a wounded creature. His fingers caressed her arms and she felt a shiver ripple through her.

“You survived,” he repeated. “And you’re doing it better than some people if I’m being honest. But it’s not a competition, because at the end of the day, I know you. I know how hard you fought for this new life we’re living. For our friends and your home. And if you need me to remind everyone at the next potluck then I will, but I don’t think you truly want that.”

Sloane’s throat burned. She looked away.

“You’ve never been ‘just there,’ Sloane.” His voice dropped. “You are everything.”

She hated how fast tears sprang to her eyes.“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just wanted to be… seen. At least by my own kids.”

Dain pulled her into his arms, resting his chin on her head. “You are. By me. By Liam, too. Even if he doesn’t have the words for it yet.”

She shook her head. “I’m being ridiculous,” she said with a sniff.

“No you’re not,” he soothed. “I can’t imagine I’d react much better if it had happened to me. But one day he’ll grow up and he’ll know exactly who his mother was. It’s just at this age…you can’t blame him for focusing on the fighting off the back of a dragon part.”

Sloane didn’t respond, just nuzzled further into his chest as he rocked them slowly. She understood what he was saying. And she wasn’t truly upset with her son—of course not. This was probably just some old wound that ran much deeper than the war. Another difference between her and her brother. Where he had jumped in front of danger to save his friends, she was always being told to stay back. To stay within the safety of the fortress that was Riorson House.

Later that night, Sloane sat on Liam’s bed, watching him scribble on parchment with chalk sticks in various colors.

Liam turned around and presented his drawing with a proud little flourish. “Look mommy, it’s you!”

It was messy, but she could make out the red blob meant to be Thoirt and the stick-figure version of herself. Standing tall with a smile on her face and…holding a sword.

She smiled down at him, a chasm of emotions opening up inside her. “Thanks, baby. I love it.”

Liam grinned, causing the same dimple his namesake had to appear. “I’m going to show everyone how cool my mom is at school tomorrow.”

She ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. “Let’s get you ready for bed now, hm?”

After she tucked him in and told him goodnight, she grabbed the drawing off the desk. And later in bed, Dain didn’t say anything about the fact she had been staring at the drawing for an hour with tears streaming down her face. He just kissed her hair and laid his head on her shoulder as he stared at the drawing too.

Slain taglist: @abolitionistlawpluscoffee

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Love you dude❤️

5 for every fic on ur list?

I love you sm ❤️❤️❤️ You get the first 15 sentences for both new fics.

15 for 📸

---

“I think that’s probably a good parenting call,” Eddie says.

Buck shrugs. “She gets to be a kid without being worried about people watching her all the time.”

Eddie remembers being little and being paranoid that God was always watching and judging. Analyzing every little mistake as a measure of his worthiness. He can’t imagine what that would be like if it were tangible internet viewers with commenting capacity. At least God was more theoretical. 

“Enough of my shit,” Buck says. “What was the big bad fuck up that landed you in Texas?”

Eddie groans a little. He supposes it’s only fair that he elaborate. Buck’s been pretty open with him. 

“It’s a long story,” he says. 

Buck takes a sip of his beer and shrugs. As if to say, I’ve got time. 

---

15 for💔

---

Eddie grabs his towel off the hook and wraps it around his waist. He feels like there’s a neon sign pointing at his groin that says, crimes committed here! He wants to puke. Should he lift the towel higher? Wrap it around his chest? He wants to be covered up. But will Buck think that he’s, like, hiding from him? Like Buck will see his damp chest and jump him because Tommy said they’re into each other? Oh god. Buck’s totally going to think he’s homophobic. 

“Literally nothing has changed, okay? Other than the fact that I am definitely never, ever sleeping with Tommy again!” 

Sighing, towel remaining as is, Eddie opens the bathroom door and steps out into the hallway. 

Buck is standing at the other end of the hallway, looking very stressed. His eyes immediately land on Eddie’s mostly naked body. 

---

15 for 🔎

---

Five people voted Chinese food? I voted turkey, Buck hears himself ask. 

“We didn’t have the same information we do now!” Buck protests. 

Ha. You were the only one. The falafel place got more votes than turkey. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna switch my vote to Chinese. I am just not up for cooking Christmas dinner this year.

“My decision wasn’t conditional on that information, Buck,” Bobby replies. “It’s conditional on whether or not you are here.”

Ah, fatigue. Also a symptom. Come here.

---

15 for🩸

---

She looks into the saved history. They have it set to motion sensors, and it records any activity around the door, then saves it for a year. Except, today, there’s something strange. An error. 

“What’s wrong?” Elaine asks. 

“The camera is offline,” Athena says. “I’ve never seen that happen before unless there was a power outage. And even then, it usually starts up again.”

Elaine frowns. “That’s not good, Athena.”

“Well, I know that,” Athena replies sharply. 

“When did it stop recording?” Elaine asks.

Athena looks at the last available timestamp. 

---

15 for 🔭

---

Eddie is having a shit day. He knows all about having shit days. They are a frequent occurrence for him. Annoying thing after annoying thing piling up until the only thing that makes him feel any better is the kid he only gets to see half the time anyway, per his new and shiny custody agreement with his ex. 

He sort of feels like life is kicking him in the ass lately. He can’t help it if it’s making him a little miserable. 

Really, he’s not inherently a pissy person. There’s a side of him, he thinks, that’s actually pretty fun. Pretty easy going. Nice to be around, even. No one would ever accuse that side of him of showing up at work, though. At least not lately. 

Take today, for example. Today, Eddie is one screaming child, rude mom, or inappropriately wielded selfie stick away from losing his goddamn mind in front of the considerable tourist turnout at Griffith Observatory on this clear, sunny Friday. Because, as he’s mentioned, today is shit.

---

15 for ☠️

---

The first act the 118 commits under their new leadership is flagrant disobedience. Chimney had said, in clear and plain English even Evan Buckley could not misunderstand, that there was to be no celebratory gathering to mark his promotion to captain. Certainly not a party. And yet, here he is, somehow staring down the barrel of a cake and banner shaped gun, feeling more or less like he wants to disappear. 

See, he expected this sort of thing from Buck. Host of the world’s least anticipated - and least attended - bachelor party. He never follows instructions. And then there’s Eddie, who just goes along with whatever Buck wants. Can’t trust that guy either. But Hen? Ravi? His own wife, who is not a member of this team and had no reason to conspire against him? This is a true betrayal. 

“Now, I know you said you didn’t want anything,” Hen says, when Chim walks into the station to see the display. “But we couldn’t let this moment pass without showing how proud we all are of you, Captain Han.”

---

[cagenewman]

Nah, you married me because I'm really good in bed, the rest is just an added bonus. Besides, we wouldn't have this big ol' house if we didn't have each other, because I never would have left my little cabin, and you would have stayed in the suburban house. I think that this house was always meant to be ours, together, you know? I wouldn't want to live here without you. You just needed everything to align, but I always knew that you'd get there. Whether it took five years or ten years, you're you, there was no way that you weren't going to get to where you were supposed to be. I was going to make a joke about it being an awful small dog to do any herding, and then I remembered that we have two awful small donkeys, so that sort of fits, doesn't it? Start looking. You know you don't need my permission, I trust you, if you feel like it would be a good fit for the family, do it. It would be nice for Cienna and Rosalyn especially, to have a puppy that bonded with them in particular. Willie's really good with them, but he's so bonded to me and Colt, even if he does take turns sleeping outside Shawn, Colton and the girls' doors every night. Oh God, yeah, Colton won't admit to it, but he's going to be lost without having Shawn around. Even when they weren't living together, they still saw each other every single day at school, and he was always either at their house, or Shawn was here, so… that'll be different. But the girls will keep him busy, and they've still got a whole year to make some good memories and have fun together, thank God. There's this really dumb, annoying part of me that tries to give her the benefit of the doubt and say that she was young and scared and it was overwhelming, but. I was young and scared and it was overwhelming for me, too, you know? He doesn't know he has half-siblings. I think that bothers me more than her not being in his life, is the fact that he doesn't even know. And if he does know, will that change anything? If I give him that box, will he be mad that I didn't give everything to him when he was a kid? But I know with my whole hear that he doesn't go through a single day in this house not feeling like he has a mom that loves him, 'cuz you do. And I know it's not easy coming into a teenaged boy's life and stepping into that role, but baby, I'm so glad you did, and I know that he is, too. Yeah. I know. The amount of nights that I wake up with a jolt when your cold ass little toes wedge themselves between my legs is insane, how are you feet so cold even in the middle of the summer? I'll deal. If you're in the mood, great, and if not, we'll read parenting blogs and you just can't ask questions when I take extra cold showers before bed, that's all. Running slash jogging on the nice days, and rainy or cold day yoga and pilates seems like it could work out, we could set things up in the green house, even, a little meditation around all of the plants, make it … hot yoga? Is that what they call it when you sweat while you're doing it? Cordelia. You bought them little stuffed animal keychains to hang off of their backpacks, and then you tell me that I'm not allowed to make fun of them? I'm going to make fun of them. Lovingly, as their father, but it's going to happen. And I googled them, and it can go in the night stand, not on it, I do not want that thing staring at me or watching us while we -- sleep. Or whatever. Oh God. Between you and who? Who's paying that bill? I think I'm God here.

You got me, I married you for your skills to get me a big ol' house and tons of land. Which means I keep you around for the maintenance of said big ol' house. Don't think the kids would have appreciated a cardboard box, it would have gotten very cramped, very fast. Thank you but you know I always expected more out of myself, guess we'll just say I was waiting for the right time. Mean we've handled donkeys, chickens, and everything else we've brought home. Don't think we couldn't handle a puppy, and I was planning on waiting till a litter shows up to be adopted because they always manage to get litters of different puppies especially spring and summer there tends to come a lot. Even a corgi mix, they can be used as herders too, they were breed for that originally. They can be very good with kids, but like anything, they need to be trained properly because they have a lot of energy. If not, maybe I'll stumble upon the right one if I go and look, just think the boys would love a puppy and they are old enough that they could also take a puppy on walks besides just you and me, but also help the girls who would get probably over excited. It will be weird, I'm so used to buying a massive grocery list that him going will mean having to adjust a little bit, and it'll just be ... weird. It will be good for Colton to have the girls too because think he may take it harder even than Cienna. She had spent some time away from her brother, you know? Colton and even Rosalyn are now used to him being in the house that they might struggle a bit. Know it's complicated when it comes to his mom, and it infuriates me that she can go on to have more kids and not even think about her first born. Doesn't have to have a relationship with you to have one with her son, but it doesn't matter. I will happily step into that roll if he wanted me to be apart of that. Just never want him to feel like he needs to knowing that he has a mom out there. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Guess that's another talk to have at some point because maybe all the kids deserve to make their own decisions. Think the hardest part with giving him that box isn't the idea he'll want to seek her out, it's the fact that he'll be able to understand when things started getting less and less, and I don't want him to ever think that is when he became less valuable because he's not. Well you kept going for feet things and I had to set a hard stop because no toes will be tortured in the making of anything. Even though I do enjoy using you to warm up my feet when they're cold but that's very, very different. With as hot for me as you seem to be you better hope if/when I get pregnant that I am the type of women that it amps everything up and not kills the vibe totally or you are going to be a very grumpy man. If you want to alternate running or jogging with yoga and pilates, I can go with that. Would say spin classes but those I believe at some point they frown on them but we don't have to worry about that yet given nothing has happened yet. Do not go making fun of the boys, they're the big cool thing right now. Yes teenage boys are hanging them off their backpacks, girls off their purses -- even adults are into them. I won't let you shame them for enjoying something that brings them joy, life is too short. You can dress them up in football outfits, basketball outfits, little dresses, all kinds of outfits so it's not a stretch for both males and females to enjoy them. They're not universal to one gender, so I won't hear you making fun of them. Not insane, the girls were asking so I did what I had to do, and they'll have plenty of little ones to play with. They're actually kind of cute in a very weird tiny monsters taking over the home. They open a rare one I'm already calling dibs because I won those suckers fair and square. So just giving you the heads up now, so you won't freak out when you find one on our nightstand! Just don't look at the credit card bill to see the cost, that's between me and God.

[marinamar4]

I remember seeing a movie where a stolen baby remembered the voice of her biological mother singing to her in the womb. There is another fic where Leia, in the Obi-Wan series, has spent years having nightmares about what happened on Mustafar.

Well, and it occurred to me… A fic where both Luke and Leia "remember" what happened/they felt in Padmé's womb? Babies in the womb are able to recognize their mother's voice, feel when she laughs and her caresses. And if they are also sensitive to the force and can recognize presences or "auras" (force signatures, which is something so fanon that it has become canon), both Luke and Leia would remember not only their mother, but also what she told them about their father (because she surely talked to them about Anakin), their conversations (if it is a boy or a girl, names…) Mustafar, they would remember being in Obi-Wan's arms as newborns.

So this could go two or three ways, or even two or three variations of the same fic:

The first, starting from the beginning of Star Wars, episode 4, when Luke goes to rescue Leia, they have a moment of saying: "hey, I know you," which could mean that they recognize that they are twins, but it wouldn't change too much on a grand scale from the original trilogy, except that they would probably tell Han, and Luke and Leia would support each other after Bespin. It could also be that they found out earlier, about Anakin and Vader.

The second, which excites me the most, is like this Leia fic I just told you about. Imagine. Obi-Wan rescues Leia and the first thing the girl says to him is: "did you know my parents and were you there when my other half and I were born?" To which Ben understands why Luke was always looking for him, to the despair of his uncles.

But come on, if young Luke and Leia knew they had "another half" out there (I doubt they would have thought of the word "twins" from the start) they wouldn't stop until they found each other. And that's not to mention that they would have lived knowing SOMETHING about Anakin's fall.

[lemonduckisnowawake]

Dragon!Angelique AU word dump that I wrote on a whim just to see how many words I could write in 20 minutes on my phone (it was 569. 1327 total in about 40 to 50 minutes total). So don't expect anything shiny.

_

They were all supposed to be dead.

What they didn't know was that when the goblins ransacked the little village of Joie in Loire, the creatures had been drawn to a lurking power.

"He was a soldier," Angelique had told Clovicus about her father, nothing but an old grief tugging at her heart.

She hadn't said anything about her mother.

But it wasn't like it was a secret, anyway.

There wasn't much to hide when you found a child, eyes blazing a cold and unnatural silver, something hard and scaly and glowing on the sides of her face, teeth bared and sharper than a child's teeth should be.

Mama was supposed to be invincible.

But in a world where an ogre can be felled by nothing more than a youth and her cat, where a man-turned-beast can be tamed by a snarky ranger, where a demonic mirror can be contained by a mortal with her human power and love - even goblins can fell an ancient monster.

"You should practice using that power..."

And what right do you have to say that? Angelique had thought, eyeing the irritating teenager training under Clovicus. He didn't understand the pain that the lurking beast inside her had caused. He didn't understand that without it, she might have a family, not be someone taken out of pity by a man who didn't even like children.

And yet, six years later after being discovered, when Evariste had invited her to stay in his home as she tried to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, she'd accepted. When the Council protested, he simply had bared his very human teeth and claimed he'd teach her magic.

(A mage?, they'd whispered, voices horrified. Why would Lord Enchanter Evariste teach a monster to be a mage??)

Just to spite them, Angelique - planning to stay quiet, subdued, discover a way to run - decided to learn.

Even if Evariste kept insisting she use her horrible, heinous power, even if he kept insisting that it was beautiful, she stayed and thrived.

Of course, she refused his asinine insistence for her to train that other side of her.

The memory of her mother, in the process of transforming, cut down by one of those creatures, still burned in her mind. The whispers surrounding her, the people who barged into Clovicus' home to see her, make sure she was controlled, that she wasn't dangerous. And even now, people sent by the Council harassed Evariste - all these memories kept her tranquilized.

"Is your little beast tamed?" the visitors wouldn't say, but imply with all their words.

Evariste would shield her, and Angelique longed to sink her teeth into these people, show them what an untamed, wild, and free beast really looked like. But for Clovicus and now for Evariste, who was protecting her on some strange basis of loyalty from growing up together, she'd stay tame.

And now...he was gone.

He'd been gone for nearly six years, taken from under her nose, right in his own home.

Shielding her.

Just like her parents.

Everyone was always left or taken, and maybe now Angelique understood those stories where the dragons kidnapped royals or young people or entire villages. Creatures like her must have been fated by the gods or some deity to forever be alone, so they took and hoarded and kept whenever the opportunity rose. Because it would be taken anyway, in the end.

You have all the power to take back what is yours, young one, the stars had told her once.

They had called themselves Pegasus, a swirl of stars knit together into a constellation she could ride.

We had an agreement with your human mage, Pegasus told her. But the stars will only bow to those who can reach them.

So Angelique did not have to unfold her own wings, transform into something that would make children quake in terror. Instead, she became the beautiful enchantress who rode the stars, in search of a friend who had taught her the beauty of human magic and abyss-deep love. She was the one to tame men turned into beasts, who transformed a destitute duchess into a queen, who fostered a mage of creation, who destroyed only to protect and save.

That was how it was supposed to be.

Angelique, at 18 and about to leave the world behind before Evariste invited her into hers, would have been happy to withdraw into the shadows and fade as another bad memory of the world. But then she'd risen to become a hero, to become someone who was great enough that she didn't need to unleash the beast shaking in the cage of her soul.

"You can't hide it forever. You can't hide from it forever," Emerys warned her once, something gleaming - something that looked like hope and joy - in his eyes.

And now, he repeated the words to her again, cradling the form of his wounded human lover. It made Angelique's heart squeeze painfully. An elf of the forest from a land far away and a mortal woman who accepted who he was, loved it even.

"Please, Angelique?" Emerys begged her, himself bloodied and bruised.

So how had it come to this?

It had started with her father, loving Angelique for who she was, calling her and Mama his "little fire stars." And then it was Clovicus (Angelique now knew how unfair she'd been to the man, who may have not liked children all that much but had loved her and Evariste), giving her a home when the Council had called for her to be killed. And then...Evariste, who had given her a home and an alternate solution to survival in his beautiful, human magic. Then Emerys and Alastryn, Roland and Gabrielle, Elle (who had discovered it because of course the former spy would), and now....

"It always comes to this," Angelique muttered to herself, not even aware that she was speaking.

Something hot - and she didn't know if it was rage or love - burned in her chest. The fire of it all spread from her core into her veins, forcibly squeezing through her muscle onto the organ of her skin, hardening it.

"No matter how much I give, I always have to give more," she said, almost a sob and yet so full of resigned desperation. "You had all my humanity. And this, finally, is the rest of me."

Because she would have burned long ago if it could have bought her parents to life. Or if it would have saved Evariste.

Trained to hide it all her life and told by those she loved to set it free.

Fine. Here I am.

And the fire burst out in full, encasing her in a cocoon of silver flames. She felt herself rise with the fire, the unsteady floating stabilizing when scaly wings were wrenched out, the flying coming to her instinctually.

It wasn't a full transformation, no. She wouldn't give them that.

But the scales were on her face again, as they had been long ago when they'd found her. Her back had grown wings as large as the wonder from the soldiers below, and they propelled her as she raided the sky and became the wind of this windless day. There was no fire out of her mouth - her humanoid body was not made to contain it - but it didn't matter.

An ancient, deep, powerful magic danced in her blood, merging with her human spells and setting the horde of the evil beasts alight. In seconds, the encroaching armies became ash and dust, scattered in the winds of her flight path.

Inside of Angelique, there was a contended rumble, as if from a creature long-chained set free.

Welcome home, it whispered, startling her.

Home?

As she landed back to where Emerys and Quinn, both gazing at her with...with awe, of all things, staying put as Angelique willed the searing burn of her magic into a healing warmth to flow over them - as she looked into their eyes and smiles, something within her shattered and mended and sang.

It sounded like the voice of her mother, opening her arms wide to an Angelique shrieking in delight as her father tossed her up and down.

"Welcome home."

[qiu-yan]

EDIT: just realized that i should clarify something. what i meant by "feel bad for nie huaisang :(" was that jiang cheng felt bad for nie huaisang after nie mingjue died, because having to assume the burden of sect leadership while still grieving was something jiang cheng understood as well.

that poll option does NOT mean "jiang cheng thinks nie mingjue is abusing nie huaisang" or whatever. i should have made that clearer and i'm only realizing now my phrasing was in fact Dogshitte. i'm sorry.

[eggpea]

i am slow cooking the most delicious of concoctions in the kitchen rn

(my tags are so long lol whole half ass recipe down there)

[foldingfittedsheets]

Something that literally changed my life was working with a friend on a coding thing. He was helping me create an auto rig script and was trying to explain something to me but his words were just turning into static in my brain. I was tired and confused and there was so many new concepts happening.

I could feel myself working toward a crying meltdown and was getting preemptively ashamed of what was about to happen when he said, “Hey, are you someone who benefits from breaks?”

It broke me.

Did I benefit from breaks? I didn’t know. I’d never taken them.

When a problem frustrated or upset me I just gritted my teeth and plowed through the emotional distress because eventually if you batter and flail at something long enough you figure it out. So what if you get bruised on the way.

I viscerally remembered in that moment being forced to sit at the table late into the night with my dad screaming at me, trying to understand math. I remembered taking that with me into adulthood and having breakdowns every week trying to understand coding. I could have taken a break? Would it help? I didn’t know! I’d never taken one!

“Yes,” I told him. We paused our call. I ate lunch. I focused on other stuff for half an hour. I came back in a significantly better state of mind, and the thing he’d been trying to explain had been gently cooking in the back of my head and seemed easier to understand.

Now when I find myself gritting my teeth at problems I can hear his gentle voice asking if I benefit from breaks. Yes, dear god, yes why did I never get taught breaks? Why was the only way I knew to keep suffering until something worked?

I was relating to this same friend recently my roadtrip to the redwoods with my wife. “We stopped every hour or so to get out and stretch our legs and switch drivers. It was really nice. When I was a kid we’d just drive twelve hours straight and not stop for anything, just gas. We’d eat in the car and power through.”

He gave a wry smile, immediately connecting the mindset of my parents on a road trip to what they’d instilled in me about brute forcing through discomfort. “Do you benefit from breaks?” he echoed, drawing my attention to it, making me smile with the same sad acknowledgement.

Take breaks. You’re allowed. You don’t have to slam into problems over and over and over, let yourself rest. It will get easier. Take. Breaks.

[thestuffedalligator]

The thing was a mound of flesh and mottled skin, as big as a barn and the shape of a pumpkin. Four tentacles as thick as trees hung limp at its sides; teeth ringed the gaping mouth at the top of its head like a crown.

A huge, sad whale eye the colour of wine stared at the knight. She could see her reflection in the jelly surface.

“We don’t know what it is,” she heard. “Some kind of monster that makes a perfect copy of whatever it eats. They think that was how the Dark Lord made his armies, feeding his minions to it so that it would make hundreds of copies of them. Do you recognize it?”

The knight opened her mouth. She hesitated. “Yeah,” she murmured, drawing out the word. “We found it in the Dark Lord’s tower, right?”

“That’s right. That’s where it ate you.”

The knight turned around and looked at her other reflection. This one appeared to be about ten years older, and had doffed her armor for a loose blue tunic and breeches.

She was holding a cup of tea. She had pressed another cup into the knight’s hand when she woke up here. It had been a shock finding herself suddenly out the obsidian dungeons of the Dark Lord’s tower and into this tall room of stone and straw. The warmth of it in her hands steadied her a bit.

“Everyone else in the party was worried, but then it started making copies of you,” the copy went on, staring up at the tentacled thing. “And all of the copies helped fight against the Dark Lord, and we won, and peace was restored across the land, but then nobody could figure out how to kill the damn thing or just to make it stop. Dozens of copies of us in a day, hundreds in a week, and then someone decided that the only thing we could do is just bring the thing here, seal it off and hope it starved to death.”

She sipped her tea. “Anyways, that was two-hundred years ago and it’s slowed down a bit. It can only make a new copy of us every few weeks now.”

The knight looked down into her tea. The copy had also draped a blanket over her shoulders.

“I have so many questions,” she said.

“I figured.”

“How can it be two-hundred years? I can still remember breaking into the tower. That feels like it was just minutes ago.”

“It was, basically. Your brain is a perfect copy of the original you’s brain at the exact moment she was eaten.”

“But the quest is just — done?”

“Yep. You missed some of the things that needed tying up afterward. There was a war, and a dragon, and some business about a ring.” She waved a hand. “It was before my time. Things are pretty settled now.”

“My parents?”

“Passed away about a hundred-and-fifty years ago. I’ve been told that they were very proud.”

The knight nodded. “Um. I don’t know if you know — we had an elf in our party—”

“I’m aware.”

“I — right. Obviously. Um. It’s just, after everything was done, I was going to ask her—”

“One of us did. She said yes. She outlived her. A couple of us have tried to reach out since then, but she wants to be left alone for a while.”

The knight considered this. “Uh — right,” she said eventually. Her fingers tightened around the tea cup. “Um. What do I do now?”

Her older copy shrugged. She had let her hair grow out again, the knight noticed. There were a few strands of grey against the black. “That’s up to you, I’m afraid,” she said. “A lot of us are finding work as soldiers and sellswords. We’ve done it for so long that most armies know we’re reliable and don’t tend to turn one of us away. Most of us are just sort of spreading out, wandering the world. Some of us keep in touch.”

The knight frowned. “What do you do?”

Her copy paused, tea cup half raised to her lips. “Sorry?”

“You said it only makes a new copy every few weeks now. So you just stay here and wait for a new one to show up?”

She lowered the cup. “Well,” she said. “I guess I just — I know what it can be like, waking up here in the dark, and it — it can be horrible trying to figure all of this out on your own.

“So I thought that what I’d do is just stay here with a pot of tea, and whenever I see myself again, I tell her that — that she’s not alone.”

“We aren’t?”

“Of course not. We’re all in this together, you know.”

[lizardho]

When I came out, I was SO scared I was gonna get disowned. I wrote a letter to my parents, sent it to their emails, put a physical copy on the counter, and left the house for a few hours to give them time. In that time I tried coffee for the first time, which was a dreadful idea, and got all jittery. I kept waiting for a text or something but nothing happened.

After a few hours, I didn’t hear back from them so I went home. My parents were home and had stacked a bunch of groceries on top of the letter without opening it. They said “hi” and I said “hi” and went down stairs to the basement. I held my dog and panicked about what to do. My sister, who knew that I had written them a letter of great importance, told me they hadn’t read it yet. She also told me she could ask them to do so. I consented to this and stayed in the basement. A few minutes later my dad knocked on the door and poked his soft smooth little nerd head in and said “hey buddy” and I started crying so hard I almost vomited. He came over and gave me a BIG hug and said that it was gonna be OK, he was OK with this, he knew it must have been hard but he was here for me. He told me he and my mom had already talked years before they had me about how if they had to pick between their faith and their child they’d pick their child. It was a very sweet moment. I came out to my mom later that evening and we were both bawling the whole time.

The day after I came out to my parents, I came out to my brother @inbabylontheywept at a Mexican restaurant and he took it like a champ. That evening my mom took me for a walk and looked almost angry - she said she wanted to make sure that I didn’t use being a woman as an excuse to not go to grad school. I told her I wouldn’t and she instantly looked relieved and happier.

My dad, on the other hand, seemed to struggle with it. He kept asking me if I had a boyfriend, and I told him I did not. He kept asking me if I wanted to go clothes shopping with him and I did not. He kept asking me if I would let him go to some of my shows, and I had NO idea what he was talking about.

Finally, 6 months after coming out, of awkward misgendering and questions that didn’t make sense from my dad, he excitedly pokes his soft smooth little nerd head into my bedroom again and says “I found a movie about Your People.” My people. I was absolutely bewildered, but he was so excited and I knew he had been trying SO hard so I watched it with him. It was The Birdcage, and it was amazing. It also was revelatory in that I finally realized why my initially-supportive father seemed to be having such a hard time with my pronouns and stuff - he didn’t know what the difference between trans and doing drag was. After the movie he again asked if I would invite him to one of my shows, and I said, “Hey dad, you know how about half the world is women?” And he said “yeah,” and I said “Well, see, I’m on that half now. I’m not doing drag.” And it was like a switch flipped in his brain. He was like “omg that’s so easy? I was so confused about what to call you when?”

Anyway, my parents are charming and my family has been so kind and patient with me, I like sharing the stories of my little wins with them.

[yanderedrabbles]

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?"