You Know A Fic Is Good When It Has This

PESTIS

plague doctor monster x reader | 18+ | 3.7k

after the doctors in your town burn the bodies of plague victims, a mysterious cortège of black wagons begins visiting once a month. the one who leads them, great death, asks you what your deceased husband's soul is worth to you, and the result of it begins a convoluted spiral.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, sexual content, major dubcon, kinda implied size kink?, size difference, his ejaculate is not sexily described lmao, extreme body horror + grotesque details, graphic depiction of gore (at the end), kinda-sorta cannibalism?, mc is pretty shitty in this, murder, disturbing details all around, bodies are burned, frightening imagery, prose + detail heavy, this is a bit of an exploration of greed + touches on some relevant events if you can figure out the parallels, plays with the idea of humans having actual souls, roughly proofread, don't look too much into inconsistencies lmao just have fun.

muted divider by @/anlian-aishang

a/n; originally, this was supposed to be >1k as part of a personal challenge where ppl could vote on a poll for what genre i'd write a piece for. horror won.

thanks to @shouyuus for shoving this prompt from @/deepwaterwritingprompts in my face. this piece followed the prompt very loosely, but still!!

pls share your thoughts + reblog this! it really means a lot to support writers, guys 💙

All anyone knew was that he was called Great Death, and he led a cortège of black wagons with black lace across the windows into town square for one night, once a month.

The procession’s arrival was announced by clopping hooves from skinless, skeletal steeds and enormous wheels jolting across the cobblestone terrain, of which the very foundation of the town had been built on top of. Even though they moved slowly, precisely, in a single line of synchrony, their sound was one of continuous rolling thunder; the roaring fireplaces where all of the bodies were incinerated.

Your husband had been reduced to human soot in one of them, but you weren't allowed to know which one.

No one was.

The doctors had argued it was to prevent grieving families and grave robbers from clawing through the ash in search of bones, scraps of clothing, or valuables discarded with the bodies of nobles. But, none of that made any difference as there was greed and loss, far too much of it to keep people out of the fireplaces and from digging and stealing and reclaiming.

You hadn't been so driven to search for your husband’s things because you still possessed more wealth than he had been burned with. He had been blistered with black and purple pustules of infection and plague before he died, so you feared that breathing him in (breathing anyone in) would fill your lungs with them (with him) and kill you, too.

My love, this is your color!

But, that did not mean that you did not grieve, because you missed the beauty that he brought to your life. You missed his gentle wit and loving mind, how he always sent you exquisite clothing from wherever in the world he had gotten to now.

Every color was your color, in his eyes. And, every piece he had delivered to you became a part of your collection of things. An opulent display of his devotion and good status to show to your friends, anyone sitting with you for quaint tea and distantly sourced food untouched by the town.

- Samuel

Meeting Great Death had come long after the burning of plague bodies, now hushedly called The Incineration, and months since the cortège had first appeared during each waning crescent.

The wagons had filed into town with their thunder, pulled by dead horses that made the ground shiver under your feet. Many townsfolk, including yourself, had been roused by the commotion and hurriedly made themselves decent to check outside. It became a spectacle of groaning complaints, white nightdresses, and bright orange lantern light floating midair in bloodless fists.

All light was to the wagons, which had formed a tight, silent ring around the poisoned fountain spouting brown plague water, and the disoriented chatter had ebbed into anticipatory shushing.

Then, the townsfolk jumped, as the windows with their blackout lace fell forward as though forced from the other side, landing flat like a countertop. The darkness beyond the windows was as dark and dense as it was infinite, smothering pulsing glows from the lanterns as some fearless men awkwardly inched closer to the wagons.

“O’ woe! Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen your home! It has taken your friends and family. It has crushed your souls and stolen theirs. But, have no fear, for we have come to return what once was yours!” said Great Death from somewhere within the throng of wagons and wet skeleton horses.

“What are they worth to you? The souls of your dearly departed. What are they worth to you? To be reunited with those that you loved so dearly and so terribly lost. Wouldn't you do everything you could to have them back? Pay any price? Come! Come! Come all! Let us speak!”

And then, bone-white beaks and hollow eyes emerged from the darkness within the wagons. Each window filled with these spectre merchants; frightening monstrosities in black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats and long fingers pushed into leather gloves.

One townsfolk had communicated what you, what everyone else had thought seeing them, “What are the doctors doing? Haven't we suffered enough because of them? They've burned everyone we loved, and now they're trying to sell them back to us as souls? This is madness!”

“They are not our doctors! Look! Look!” wailed another; a paranoid man, “those are not masks. Those beaks are bone and skin. They are demons coming for the rest of us! Run! Run for your lives! Seal your doors! Hide!”

You were pulled along with the scattering crowd, the dispersing lantern light and slamming doors, but you did not flee inside as everyone else had. Instead, you were coaxed back towards the wagons by a leathery hand and nodding beak gesturing for you to come close.

The wagon was larger than the rest, as was the creature leaning out of the window. There was fleshiness to his long beak, waxen with green veins that throbbed in the swaying light.

Great Death looked at you with nothing eyes, and nearly bent his head sideways onto his shoulder as if his true stature were cramped inside of the wagon. When he spoke, he did so clearly, even without his beak splitting into halves like separate jaws.

“How joyous! You didn't run away. Your grief must be immeasurable. Please, come even closer to me. Come here. Yes, yes, what a lovely thing you are.” Great Death giggled in delight of your obedience, or your foolishness. “You do not wear rags. You are well groomed. You possess no healthy amount of suspicion, yet I suspect you are still mourning someone. Who might it be? You can tell me. Who? Who?”

You sensed he was mocking you with that jaunty voice of his. He asked you like someone who already knew a secret, but who'd wanted to hear the great revelation straight from the source.

“My husband.” You told him. “He was a wealthy merchant who owned many ships. He sailed for more months out of the year than he was home. He could've found someone else far more beautiful, more handsome than I, but he kept me. He always came home.”

Great Death stayed at his sickly angle with his head as he leaned out the window further, both hands grasping the edge of the window-countertop. “Ah, I see. And I assume that this wonderful, merchant husband of yours succumbed to the plague? Yes. Yes, he burned with the rest, didn't he?”

“He burned with the rest,” you said.

“A hideous shame! You do have my condolences. I must ask, have there been any other cases of plague since The Incineration?” His gloves scuffed as he fluttered his fingers outward, away from you and towards the lightless houses and barricaded doors. “I won't hear an answer from anyone else, as you know.”

You couldn't hold his empty gaze, those sockets of penetrating black and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see inside at something.

Somewhere far, somewhere deep, you noticed a faint glow. Tiny hums of light blinking in and out of existence like fireflies. Little sentient creatures with will and action of their own. But, these were colors: mostly bright white, some were yellow and orange, and a few were searing white-blue.

“No,” you said, at last, remembering the question, “there haven't been any more cases since the burnings. Since—”

“The ships stopped sailing.”

“Yes.” you said.

Great Death then withdrew into the darkness of the wagon with his crooked neck and leathery hands. You considered leaving for your home, padlocking the doors and pushing furniture up against them because it was clear that this creature—all of these creatures—harbored no good intentions.

They were not your doctors who had incinerated hundreds of bodies, claiming it as necessity; saying that there was no other way to protect the rest of the town. At the time, houses quarantining the sick had been forcibly broken into by the doctors and other men in masks and gowns. They offered no apologies, no desire for absolution, no mercy.

The plagued were dragged from their deathbeds, their salt baths, their favorite chairs and out onto the streets with no dignity, in whatever way they'd been found. They were taken to the fireplaces, thrown inside those great, lashing lion flames and died screaming as they became smoke and ash. Outrage only came after as it had all happened so quickly, no one had expected it.

The doctors had said nothing. Offered few sympathies, yet promised that this sacrifice, this purge, had saved the rest of the town. That there would be no more plague.

Sometimes, the fireplaces still wailed, but not how they'd had then.

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” asked Great Death, now back in his window with his sideways head and hands clasped on the countertop.

He'd been there for a while, it seemed. And you were still standing in front of his wagon, instead of being tucked away behind the safety of locks and walls.

“You—do you have him in there with you?”

“Oh, possibly,” he said, calm and unrevealing. His hands lightly thudded on the window-countertop, rattling the glass that it was made from. “I have a little bit of everyone in here, I suppose you could say. What is your husband's soul worth to you?”

You said nothing because how could you measure the worth of a soul? Did a soul cost as much as your vast wardrobe? Did it cost as much as your house? Was it worth the same one of your legs, or a cluster of pubic hairs cut with a razor?

“Do you think his soul is worth your fortune?” Great Death saw your stricken expression just then and let out a breathy laugh. A satisfied laugh. “Is he worth you giving up your clothes? Your house? Your comfortability? Do you love your husband enough to live in rags for the rest of your life?”

You rushed up to his countertop and grabbed his hands with yours. For once, your heart was beating something awful, foul with hot-cold dread that felt wet under your skin. “I—what else is there? What else would you be willing to take? Anything else?”

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

He was enjoying this.

“I will consider it a fair exchange. Everything material that you hold precious in exchange for the man you love. Wouldn't you say that sacrificing your wealth would be worth it if it meant reuniting with him?”

“I've earned everything that I have after a lifetime of scraping around the slums. I will not return to that,” you said, low in your throat, borderline vicious. “Anything else?”

He let out a windy sound, perhaps a breath, or hum that meant he knew too much. His thumbs, much larger than your own, caressed the peaks of your knuckles, stroked the backs of your hands and pressed down on your veins while he contemplated.

“Come inside, then. Just around the corner.” Great Death moved his slanted head slightly right, indicating a black door at the rear of the wagon, which had been camouflaged by the inky dark. “I'll open it for you. Come along. Come. Come.”

The interior became familiar to you each month thereafter. But, you would always remember how disoriented you'd been first stepping inside of the commodious space filled with all manner of things vile, fascinating, and mystifying.

Great Death was able to fix his neck when he wasn't hunkered by the window that reached only waist-height on him. He and the rest of the soul vendors were like afterimages of each other, seemingly indistinct, grayer, when you stared at one long enough and then looked to another. Great Death, however, came with a heavier beak that curved more sharply; a carrion face capable of tearing through your viscera.

He was one with the semi-darkness, his shapeless silhouette a seamless mesh with air and shadows, of which the yellow tallow candlelight did not fully reach. When he moved, it was swift, inescapable; he glided rather than walked, and you could only follow his pallid features appearing to float midair.

“Forgive me for the mess, it is so rare that I have guests come inside to visit me. Transactions are better done outside, after all,” explained Great Death, already unfastening, untying, disrobing you, and laying you out on a wooden slab of a table. “My, you are lovely, aren't you? I wonder if what I see is what your husband saw in you as well? Ah, that is unlikely.”

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

There, you watched the serpentine emptiness coil across the ceiling of the wagon, watched the formations in the wood grain come alive with writhing, yawning faces that never lasted long enough to know if they were speaking to you, because Great Death thrusted too hard, made you cry, bleed more, but you didn't tell him to stop.

This was the price you were willing to pay. So, you laid beneath him motionless, sore, regretting your own stubbornness for just a moment until he let out a shuddering breath of release, rutting you with his cock still twisted with your insides. He flooded your walls with cum that felt wrong, gluey, membranous. It oozed out slowly once he removed himself, the pain of him having been there was worse now that there was nothing left.

“Even I experience lust and crave a human’s touch, their soft flesh. Humans are an indulgence we are rarely afforded. Souls, well, as you can imagine, cannot do much,” said Great Death once cloaked in his darkness again. He redressed you, starting with the sleeves, and helped you off of the table with encouraging pats to your lower back. “I greatly enjoyed myself. Thank you for this exchange.”

“My husband's soul, I want it.” Now, as he ushered you towards the end of the wagon, towards the black door concealed in staticy shadows, you ached in countable pulses. “Give it to me.”

Great Death giggled, pressed his hands down onto your shoulders, and nuzzled his lethal beak against your neck.

“Come back to me next month.”

And, that's how it went on from there on out. Each month during the waning crescent, a persistent bright and sharp sickle in the sky, he led the cortège into town square and allowed you through the threshold into his sacred place. He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion.

“Oh, oh, oh, how joyous, my lovely.” He fucked you on the floor as he spoke, ramming you cruelly, until you whimpered and moaned. You wondered if he was trying to make you scream. “What a boon you've become to us all. They're all so happy. Your people. Mine. The souls. None are so happy as me, though.”

Before he'd penetrated you again, before he'd let you through the door, he met you at his window-countertop and asked, “What is your husband's soul worth to you? Have you considered letting go of your fortune? My lovely, you know that you cannot possibly take it with you once you perish and rot, yes?”

Always frightened by the thought and obstinate, you let him have you in whatever way he pleased. The pain eventually washed over with numbness. At times, his long strokes against your walls felt good, and occasionally you would come on his gray and purple cock. Focusing on how thick he felt inside of you, and the white streaks of lightning crackling behind your eyes.

Without fail, he flooded you and made it stay for a short while as if relishing your prolonged discomfort and disgust that he was still there. It would leak slowly, abnormally, as he redraped himself. Concealed his sallow body with protruding ribs, jagged angles, and dark slits spread throughout.

He was corpselike; he looked like rot. His rot inched out you for days after he was long gone, and then the sickness would set in. Red hot fevers and bone cold shivers kept you bedridden for weeks, tended to by cautious maids unsure what to make of your recurrent episodes.

Nothing showed, but you felt festering beneath your skin. Unexplainable in that you saw no such lesions, no lumps lurking in the layers of your anatomy. But, you soothed and scratched yourself like something was there. The maids were worried that your grief had made you spiral into hysterics, and they considered calling one of the doctors to your bedside.

“I will ruin all of you if you bring one of those—those murderers into my house!”

At these times, you could not be reasoned with. There was too much itch, too much sensation, too much boiling under flesh and bone, too much crawling, too much pain, too much hunger, too much vomiting, too much too much too much too much too much…

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” Great Death had returned during the waning crescent, said you looked unwell. “Will we continue our exchange as we usually do? I am not opposed, you know that. I am very fond of you, my lovely. Come inside.”

You were fragile and fatigued from fighting illness, so it didn't much matter how hard he fucked you into the floor. Skin slapped and moistened with fluids and sweat, and Great Death’s moans broke the stillness in the air.

“Oh, my lovely, I look forward to coming to this town because I know that you're waiting for me.” He said it dreamily, like in reminiscence of a bleary, beautiful memory. A faded photograph lost between pages of a book of someone once loved. “Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

His body was revealed to you. The dark slits which covered him twitched and opened wide into tens of dozens of pupiless black eyes, and lipless mouths with needle teeth. Purple-red tongues lashed out of the mouths at you, making you scream and struggle beneath his weight.

“This wasn't part of the exchange! I just want my husband’s soul!” you pleaded, searing with panic through every ounce of your being. “I'll give you it. I'll give you everything. My clothes. My house. My fortune! It's all yours!”

His fucking had slowed, stopped entirely as a bullous, flickering light had drifted out from some hidden places in the depths of the wagon. It was gently orange at its center, emanating a pale aura outward, which pulsed like a heartbeat and buzzed with familiar warmth.

You thought to reach for the doomed little thing destined to be smothered by the dark. All light eventually was.

“He's waited for you all along, my lovely,” said Great Death softly. He followed the floating marvel with his nothing eyes as it circled your joined bodies. Eventually, it came close enough to snatch out of the air and snuff out in his leathery fist. “Yes, such a beautiful soul he was. I no longer want it.”

Your breath snatched in your throat, mouth agape. Shock had invited in a swell of watery cold that made you unable to truly acknowledge what had just happened. That you'd lost your husband for a second time; this time forever.

There was no telling smear of blood or glittering orange residue in his open palm when he showed it to you. It was as if it had been a brilliant trick of extinguishing candlelight without a trace.

“Your soul is most foul, but it will be my prize. My lovely, for as long as I find you beautiful and repulsive, you will live on. Yes. Yes, I'll keep you here with me so that I may always be able to admire you.”

Before you could've launched yet another scream into the immense void of the wagon, he thrust his carrion beak into your chest. He wedged it deep through your muscle and blood, piercing cartilage and bone to reach your heart.

Great Death used his hand to rip out the throbbing, glistening organ from the rest of you. He observed blood filling the cavernous well he'd left inside you, saying nothing as it backed up your throat and spilled profusely from your mouth. Once you died, the bright red that had stained your teeth darkened to exquisite purplish-red.

He tore your heart apart into consumable pieces and fed them to his mouths. The piranha teeth and long, licking tongues chewed eagerly; meanwhile, the eyelids on his body closed knowing that the mouths would soon be sated by the decadent meal.

Thereafter, he waited.

He waited for a long time, because souls were oftentimes more timid than their human husks. There was nothing left to protect them from vendors on the prowl, vendors who had built collections across millennia.

But, eventually, your soul did appear before him in stuttering pink light. He caught you easily, let you rest in his hand while he decided on which jar he owned could possibly be enough to house your beauty.

You would turn sinfully red as you matured, became strong, forgot who you used to be.

All you would know is the Great Death and the inside of his vast wagon littered with strange things. He would be kind to you by letting you out of your jar sometimes, but for now, he'd keep you on the middle shelf where he could best see you.

a/n: I have this habit of killing husbands or doing awful things to them and I am very unapologetic about it.

anyway. this wasn't executed quite as well as I'd hoped. but, I wasn't writing to perfection, it was just a little personal challenge for myself. overall, I'm not unhappy with it.

I'd like to bring great death back again in another piece sometime, if y'all are interested.

this was also the first time where I think I've actually, deadass killed my reader-character and it felt so good lmao. I've implied in several of my stories without making it explicitly so.

anyway!!! I'd still love to hear your feedback and would absolutely adore you if you reblogged!!

MY SHAYLA

The Secret History Translation Masterlist

i was going to put this on a spam account but then decided to put it on a public one. who knows, maybe someone will benefit from it! if i’ve made any mistakes, do let me know

à moi. l’histoire d’une de mes folies (to me. the history of one of my follies or my turn. the tale of my madness)

quod erat demonstrandum (it can be shown)

cubitum eamus? (will you sleep with me?)

consummatum est (it is done)

hoi polloi. barbaroi [the many/majority. barbarian (person who doesn’t speak greek)]

bei nacht und nebel (at night and in fog)

deprendi miserum est (it is wretched to be found out)

khairei (hello)

bakchoi (initiates)

cuniculus molestus (annoying rabbit)

arrectis auribus (attentively/ears peeled)

dormir plutôt que vivre (sleep rather than live)

dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort (in a sleep as sweet as death)

requiescat in pace (rest in peace)

n’est-ce pas (isn’t that so)

amor vincit omnia (love conquers all)

raison d’être (reason for existence)

nihil sub sole novum (there is nothing new under the sun)

quel plaisir de vous revoir (what a great pleasure to see you again)

genis gratus, corpore glabellus, arte multiscius, et fortuna opulentus (smooth-cheeked, soft-skinned, well-educated and rich)

dénouement (outcome)

salve, amice (hello, friend)

valesne? (are you well?)

quid est rei? (what is the matter?)

benigne dicis (i thank you)

bureau de tabac (tobacco store)

Χαλεπά τά καλά (beauty is harsh)

mais, vrai, j’ai trop pleuré! (oh, truly, i have wept too much!)

les aubes sont navrantes (the dawns are heartbreaking)

hinc illae lacrimae (hence those tears)

sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat (such eyes, such hands, such looks)

Your fics are great everytime I read it I just go

the parent trap — levi ackerman x female reader — masterlist

people say that if one is fated to another, they would always reconnect no matter what lies between them. whether it be seas, a misunderstanding, parents who chose to go on different paths, or an unfortunate betrothal — they are merely obstacles that the pairing should tackle before finally having that happily ever after fairy tales depict for star-crossed soulmates. it's this belief that sparks hope for four hearts, all of which experience loneliness despite having the company of other people. thus, the conversations with the moon. years of talking to the ever-silver ruler of the night are not enough for four people who all wished for the same thing — to finally be in the arms of their other halves across the seas.

telling the moon their woes, two children thought they can solve their problem by switching places, determined to reunite their little family no matter what problems are thrown at them.

this is a story of two boys who discovered that they are connected in more ways than they expected.

contents:

part one ; two boys discovered that they are connected in more ways than they expected.

part two ; altair came home, only to find a thorn wedged in his little family.

part three ; caelum was too excited coming back home to london but found out that there was someone ruining their plan with their advances.

part four ; after assuming that everything was starting to shift further away from the plan, the people in the ackerman estate found out the identity of the boy mirroring the twin they know so well.

part five ; hours before caelum’s identity was revealed, altair was already found out by the one person he least expected would casually say his name, and the day just keeps getting worse from there.

part six ; it’s the most-awaited day of the meet-up, with levi thinking that meeting you will be just like what he imagined. when desperate times call for desperate measures, the two sides meet (minus you and hange) and added new agendas for the plan, and altair took it upon himself to save the day with another genius plot of his. here we go again.

part seven ; you four are together again.

part eight ; while levi is wooing you on your date, the twins find out that coincidences are laid out like playing cards in a game of poker when they followed lucas around california.

part nine ; it’s the camping trip but there’s a little change of plans, leaving you to stay in the house you once called your home.

part ten ; the last chapter before the epilogue. even though it’s quite unexpected but both levi and altair received quite a welcome from your family.

epilogue

bonus:

one-shots

on impulse

i wanna spend some time with you

somewhere (canonverse)

pleasant surprise (canonverse)

courtesy of the ackerman line (canonverse)

headcanons

reader and levi's past in university

altair ackerman headcanons

caelum ackerman headcanons

the twins making levi wear something of their choice

the twins giving a talk to their sister's prom date

hcs of al and cae with their little sister

tpt reader and the twins in s4

fanart:

the twins

the twins with levi

the twins with their little sister

AMBROSIA

dragon-hybrid knight x mage!reader| 18+| 15k

One day, you are approached by two informants of the Witch Queen of Noss. They come bearing gifts of wealth and opulent fruit. The fruit, you are promised, from her orchard is enchanted with her magic and she welcomes you to Noss to take it.

Guided by the loathsome Knight of Noss; a half-human, half-dragon abomination and the Witch Queen's butcher, you set out on the long journey. Along the way, you are kidnapped by the Sisterhood of Gosha, a group bent on dethroning the Witch Queen, and are given a guarantee to what you desire in exchange for helping them.

Their condition? You must seduce the Knight of Noss.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, explicit sexual content, dubcon-ish, armor is on during sex, blowjob, premature ejaculation, cumshot on thighs, size kink/can't fit, descriptions of genitalia (dragon), dark fantasy, mc is morally ambiguous, manipulation, possession, heavy implications of torture, mentions of abuse (not to mc), mentions of animal death and cruelty (infrequent, mostly metaphorical), extreme body horror + grotesque details, extremely prose + detail heavy, vague magic system, this is an exploration of morality + choice + consent.

dividers by; @/strangegraphics & @/omi-reaources

proofread by my beloved @hantaslittlearsonist

shout-out to @noctis-kingfisher for lending me a tiny hand as well.

this story is purely a work of fiction. I do not condone the attitudes and actions of the characters therein.

this concept piece has taken me two months of writing and pulling out my hair. if you've enjoyed reading, PLEASE leave me feedback and reblog!! I desperately want to hear what y'all think of this labor of love!! 🧡💛

The Witch Queen of Noss had sent two informants to your doorstep with gilded chests braced in their arms, and an enormous black carriage waited at the edge of your hermitage pulled by six lustrous, silvery-gold stallions.

“She has searched for one of your magical prowess with seemingly no end for many centuries now. She says that your magic has a different smell to it, chews differently on her teeth. There's grit to it, feels unrefined in her hands and cuts through her bloodstream. She says you've got that raw magic ability. She likes it and wants you as part of her council.”

Of the two informants—one man and one woman—the man was the only one who spoke throughout the encounter. Or, more appropriately, he was the only one capable of doing so. Since the woman’s face, previously pale, now glowed scarlet and her eyes watered. Her arms trembled as perspiration turned her hairline oily.

This was as opposed to the man, who stood with a straight, rigid back. Dry in the eyes and on the skin despite having the appearance of a malnourished beggar. One of the wretched trying to wedge his fat tongue down the slender necks of empty beer bottles for any residual taste.

He did not look like the sort to find employment in the Witch Queen’s house.

Then, you took a real good look at his eyes which were brown, bulbous, staring-back things with a faint black film spread across the exposed parts of the organ.

To those who could not see, he would have been mistaken as marked by wyrmwort spray for chasing ladies in the night, or yet another unfortunate diseased by plague. But, the appearance of it was far too thin and had spread too uniform across both eyes for it to be of natural causes.

“It's bad taste to possess your own subjects in hopes of influencing an outcome, don't you think?” You spoke in pitying tones, both for the man unlikely to have consented to the possession, and the Witch Queen who had already revealed her desperation to you. “A normal man swept off the streets wouldn't be able to describe magic as he had just now. You are old, but not wise.”

“Wisdom falters in the face of might. Those who are wise eventually wither and rot, and the world soon forgets them. But, might? Power? It creates mountains and canyons, the very stars in the sky. It leaves scars like fissures in the land, in the weak, and you are always remembered.”

The Witch Queen bobbed the man on translucent black threads of magic, which wound him in dissipating mist. She commanded his left arm to rise. It did so with the unnatural, jerky stiffness of a ball-jointed doll. He was gesturing to the woman struggling adjacent to him.

“I have searched far and wide for magic of your caliber. It is simply unfathomable to me that you have chosen to hide and squander it.”

You were no longer looking at the man, but at the woman trying to strategically balance the chest on one arm, while opening its great maw for you to see inside.

Gold and silver medallions spilled out of it, plinking on the flagstone walkway underfoot. Faceted gemstones in regal rings and dripping necklaces gleamed with pristine, polished finish. There were even chess pieces among the contents, crafted from ivory, eyes embellished with orange-pink sapphires.

This chest alone contained wealth far exceeding that which belonged to rural kings. It was enough to feed the entire ruined city of Rûregar in the northeast region for seasons. And yet, the Witch Queen wielded this bribe without shame, in the failing arms of this woman burning and sweating under the yellow beat of the midday sun.

“Why do you hide?” asked the Witch Queen in the man’s slow, imprecise rumble. “Such raw, delicious power. I will admit that had it not been for my knight, you may have stayed concealed. But, dragons are most intimate with magic. They know it so viscerally, sensually, even, that I used to find myself envious every time I looked at him.”

In your recent past before self-imposed isolation, you’d heard rumors of an abomination. The grotesque spawn from a human father and dragon mother, so the story was told. An imposing butcher arrayed in black iridescence. Armor made of dragonscale and adamantine, brandishing a massive blade made of the same stuff.

Some stories insisted upon his existence being one of restlessness and carnality. Seasons turned to decades of waiting and engaging in the most perverse acts; savage romps with both humans and beasts alike. For his bloodlust best stayed dormant that way, and he went unchecked by his Master until he stood center in the great orchestra of war, severing spines, bodies in half with a single sweep.

Other tales were whispered to you conspiratorially after some coaxing with free booze and attractive enchantments. The word was that the knight didn’t exist at all, that there was no body inside to pilot the heavy suit of armor. It was all illusory; a cunning, convincing lie perpetrated by the Witch Queen to hold her throne and residence in Noss.

But, you'd already seen through one of her tricks. You doubted that she could maintain an intricate ploy such as that for over a millennia.

“I hide because,” you paused, eyes cutting across the man’s shoulder towards the black carriage when you caught movement around it belonging neither to the stamping stallions nor to the frazzled coachman trying to wrestle them into submission by cracking the reins. “I hide because there is nothing interesting and I am bored. I spend my days enchanting the soil and watching flowers grow. I change the color of waterfalls, and I gossip with the birds in exchange for seeds. My rice is plentiful and I always have wine to pour. My bed is the most comfortable place to exist in any realm.”

The Witch Queen reciprocated such ordinary sentimentality by using the man’s arms to open the second chest, revealing to you fresh, honeyed overabundance in the shape of a toppling mound of fig fruit.

Your curiosity pushed you to take one in each hand, mentally measuring their weight and studying their magenta roundness. You relished their succulent sweet, woody aroma when you pressed them under your nose. And, when she told you to eat them, you did so by sinking your teeth into both, alternating your bites between them.

They tasted of nostalgic summertimes carried on a balmy breeze. Each bite into the figs was decadent and pulpy with pale pink nectar overflowing the impressions your teeth left behind in its soft purple flesh. It was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted.

“You should feel honored. Fruit from my orchard is forbidden. It receives all of my love that cannot be given unto others. I have grown my fig fruit from seedlings in enchanted soils, and quenched them in elixirs of life. My magic dwells within the orchard, in the air and all of the trees. It is a soft susurrus through the leaves and grass. It ripens my figs and allows me to keep my throne and my vitality. Noss shall never see another queen.”

“Where is your magic?” You did not taste it in the fig fruit in your hands, nor in others that you grabbed out of the chest and ripped with your teeth. Suddenly, you were captivated by the thought of the Witch Queen’s power being within you.

Would it chew like pork fat between your teeth, or lay across your tongue like thick oil, or snap and fizzle against your cheeks until they reddened raw and bled?

You ground another mouthful into watery mince. Let it slide down the back of your throat. “Where is it? Your magic. Where is it?”

“It waits for you.” She answered through the man, whose voice was starting to crack and unravel. The cords in his throat pulled taut, strained as though played across with the bow of a stringed instrument. His leaning house of bones had started sagging more left, and the skin under his eyes drooped like red sandbags. His eyes were slowly receding into the back of his head. “Come to Noss. Come to Noss. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me and taste my orchard. Lysander will guide you.”

You were fast to sidestep from the spilled chest of figs and the sinking body of bones and shriveling innards. Closer to the fatigued woman who'd fallen to her knees on the scorching flagstone walkway.

The chest she still clutched was so heavy that it pinned her folded legs to the stone, melting the flesh off her shins, and the polished brilliance of the gems and coins inside had burned her face and neck to stiff brown leather, and baked her eyes a blackened prune color.

“In their wickedness, they chose their own fates,” spoke a dour but potent voice from nearby. You'd been so fixated on the man rotting, deflating within his own skin-suit, and the woman dying on her knees, that you hadn't seen the Witch Queen's Knight approach. “The man was a violent thief. He had burglarized a merchant’s wagon and killed the merchant. Done far worse to the merchant’s young daughters. In the mind of the Witch Queen, there exists no death that she’d find satisfying. He did not always look so humble. She made it so.”

“And the woman?” you asked, queasily.

“Aye, that one was part of the Sisterhood of Gosha. They wish to usurp the Witch Queen by placing an imposter on the throne in her place. Skilled assassins, spies, politicians. Their sbires hide in ordinary faces. We must be wary of all: mothers with infants, beggars, and embroiderers. Even the young girls with flowers in their hair. Now that they know you have the Witch Queen’s favor, they will be coming for you.”

You moved back as he came forward, leaning down with his enormous mass to offer the armored bulk of his arm. “Come along, I will be ensuring your safe travel at the behest of the Witch Queen. I am Lysander, the Knight of Noss.”

The knight anchored himself like that for a long time as you refused to touch him.

He was an abnormal creature: immense in size, his precise silhouette concealed by his invulnerable black armor, but you could see his shape was not entirely human. The length of one of his arms was more than half of your whole body, and at his full height, you expected you'd only ever see the point of his broad chest that began to concave, narrow into a long waist wrapped in cloth and dragonscale.

You became flustered the moment you realized you would not be rewarded with a glimpse of the monster underneath, as there were no revealing gaps in his armor, which was all jarring angles and ungentleness. No war-worn chips or missing fragments, tears in the breathable fabric against the bend of his elbow, or under his helmet.

And, it was his helmet that you found most fascinating of all.

A heavy, sharp design with flattened protrusions pushed towards the back of his head like wings on a bird. The adamantine and dragonscale had been pounded smooth and pinched in the front. There was only a narrow slit across the eyes for him to see out of, and six or seven long, symmetrical vents set along a hinged jaw piece for him to breathe through unless he lifted it.

You wondered what you would see underneath the helmet and emboldened yourself to reach for it. He winced away only when the hinges made a screeching sound of unuse, not as your sticky fingers padded along the piece and raised it far enough to see a dark, textured chin.

“Do you know no fear?” Lysander hesitated to show you his arm again to help you across the thick sea of boiling red-brown flesh and entrails. “You've heard the stories, haven't you? You mustn’t be so brave in my presence.”

If you stayed focused on him, then you would think less of the possibility of human rot sticking to the soles of your boots. A very wrong, gummy sensation that you expected would feel like being suctioned down into a mud pit after a long rain.

“So, it's true you're an abomination? Hideous and monstrous? An unfathomable union between man and she-dragon?”

“Aye. I am,” he said. “That and much worse. C’mere now. Come closer to me and raise your arms.”

Any closer and your toes would touch the bubbling mass crawling over the edges of your walkway, suffocating the fertile soil and grasses you'd painstakingly grown. That would be enough to make you scream, yet you held it in your chest, locked away behind your ribs.

Intrigued still, you asked him, “And it's true that you engage in every one of your carnal whims without second thought? With all kinds? Humans and beasts?”

“Aye. All of it.” He gave you no pleasure or disgust in his response, speaking in a way that sounded manufactured. Unthinking. Detached. “I am insatiable. My carnal lust and my bloodlust. Now, do not tempt me with either. Come my way.”

“And,” you instigated further, enjoying harassing him, “It’s true that it was you who led the Witch Queen here to disturb my peace? You are the Witch Queen’s whore?”

This gave Lysander pause, his adamantine face gazing down at yours. The slits scored into his helmet perpetuated all of the malice he claimed was factual. But, within the shadows inside his helmet, you thought you heard something click and grind—not metal or scales, but his jaw.

“Aye. Truly, I am deserving of your abhorrence. It was I who infringed upon your sacred place as asked of me by the Witch Queen. My dragon half never knows rest and the pull of magic, no matter how small, is ruthless to me and my mind. Your skill is tremendous, but your magic is more so. There were cracks in your enchantment. Magic overflow that slipped free and found me, grasped me, and led me to you.”

More curious than aggravated after his confession, you were docile when he finally took you away from the human puddles and figs wrinkling in the sunlight. He had reached across it all and plucked you up with one arm around your waist before then situating you in both, cradling you in a way that was not unkind, but certainly foreign to him.

“I’m not diseased. Don't drop me.” Afraid that he would, you stayed still and shrank yourself in his arms so as to not brush his scorching armor.

He moved with surprising swiftness for his size, smooth enough that the sound of his armor did not crash through the conversation and distract you. “Have you seen the Witch Queen’s orchard? Is it as ripe with magic as she says it is?”

“It is a powerful place. Invigorating. Raw. Her magic is leached into the soil and is a part of everything. It goes unchecked,” he said, adding nothing else on the matter.

You were settled back on your feet by the edge of your flagstone walkway, right in front of the black carriage’s open door. Its interior was as wholly dark as its exterior and lightless, except for what wan sunshine could slither in through gaps beneath the heavy curtains hanging across the windows.

Lysander’s mass thwarted your view of your doorstep and the informant's amalgam of liquefied parts drying, stiffening, and cracking on the hot stone. You thought about what red-brown clay looked like when it was spread out and left to bake in the sun. It was easier to imagine that was the reality that you would be leaving behind, and what you'd sweep clean with a broom once you returned.

“Inside. We've got a long way to Noss.” He made a gesture over your head with the tip of his chin to the carriage's wide mouth leading into nothing but shining satin seats and floorboards of exquisite deep color that you feared would cut your legs off at the shins.

The air inside was cold against your back, serpentine; invisible coils that caressed your neck and huddled close to your spine through your robes as though trying to steal your warmth for itself.

“And, if I decided I don't want to go? Would you stop me?” you asked.

Lysander’s armor made an awful ruckus as he hinged forward, leveling his helmeted face with yours. You stared through the narrow slot for his eyes with intention and felt your neck hairs rise as two gleaming purple things looked out at you.

“Aye. There is no turning back now. Get inside.”

────────────────────────

Two fortnights into your travels, the Sisterhood of Gosha remained such a perpetrator of evil in Lysander's mind that it was seldom you experienced true rest. His paranoid particularities were most prevalent when it came to indoor accommodations as opposed to lying on cold, dewy grass beneath a backdrop of black-blue sky. Starless. Unending.

He was comfortable with his body open to the great expanse of the world because, in those amazing spaces, he knew he would always prevail. None other than his own kin and formidable magicians could fell him. And yet, now more frequently than ever, he was misplaced—landing in slanted wood buildings filled with small things and far too many windows.

Those things haunted him so terribly that he started encroaching on your privacy by barging into your lodging at all hours, claiming that walls and windows and doors created cramped spaces that made it easier for all the wrong sorts to hide. Imagined wretches, shapeless and malleable in shadows, molded into every little crevice that he could not maneuver.

Often, for this very reason, he would remove furniture from whichever room you chose to occupy. He abandoned them in the corridors for the staff to shove against walls so other guests could get around.

It left you with slim arrangements for sitting and eating. Fortunately, he came with enough sense about him to leave the beds alone, but windows must be locked at all times, and you were not allowed a room with doors leading to adjoining rooms.

One night, while staring out an open window at a blackbird roosting on a rooftop nearby, waiting for the maid assigned to boiling water to fill your bathtub, you thought about defying Lysander and just how strongly palatable an urge it was.

Paltry retaliation that held your stomach in unseeable hands, twisting it around into some awful mass. When the feeling started to subside, your stomach was placed center in those faced-up palms mockingly—a reminder that you could feel things beyond deep relaxation and deep boredom. You were only human.

The maid emerged from the corner after she'd emptied her bucketfuls into the tub, filling your room with pale steam. Wispy stuff that smothered your nostrils in wet heat, gave your skin a greasy shine. It moved swiftly towards the window and fogged the cool glass opaque gray as it passed straight through into the night air.

“Ah, this is no good. You could catch a cold. I will close it for you once you're in the bath,” said the maid, who then spun away with mechanical stiffness upon noticing you unfastening buttons and removing clothing. “I—pardon me. If you'd like to get comfortable—”

“The window is fine as is.”

Such a frank refusal was met by the maid lightly pacing in place, long skirts fluttering and winding her ankles. “My apologies, but the knight would disagree with you. It was difficult for the owner to convince him to let me even see the inside of this room to fill your tub. I fear what he may do if I do not…”

The longer you listened to this madness, the more desperate you were to disobey Lysander. In your hermitage, you’d gorged on absolute freedom as if it too had been in endless supply like your wine and rice, forgetting that the world beyond your barrier could not be as ungovernable as you were.

“Lie to him then, if it's something that bothers you so much,” you told her. It seemed so inconsequential to you, but the maid’s entire body jerked with emotion, the intention to turn around to look you in the face.

She did not, likely thinking of how close you were to full nudity at that point. “I—did you not hear that I'm afraid of him? We all are. We do not want to wear away his patience.”

“Then, tell him I've kicked you out before you could close the window. Surely it's easier to ask for forgiveness for something you weren't given the opportunity to do.”

This pacified her, albeit poorly, as she continued to fidget as though she'd forgotten how to do anything else. Her acquired silence were moments spent conjuring up ways to challenge you more on the matter, whereas you used it to search the endless depths of pocket space on your robes until you found what you were looking for.

A very generous nugget of gold was placed at her eyeline and at first, when she gasped, you thought it’d been more of a throaty scoff of affront. But, then, she snatched it from your hand, examined it closely, tried to magnify imperfections and falsities in it with just the twitching wet globes in her head.

She would find none because you'd been careful. It had taken you hours to transmutate it from an oddly shaped stone you'd found while urinating behind thorned brush just off the main road where the Witch Queen’s carriage traveled, into the smooth, glowing prize that it was now.

“Is—is this real?” asked the maid.

“Of course it is. I made it myself,” you said.

The maid tucked the gold into her apron, curtsied in the wrong direction, and hurried from your room. You tracked the swift patter of her feet across the floorboards until they faded, intermingling with all the rest of the sounds permeating the inn.

That calming, faraway ambiance was as fast to fracture as your respite was, however. From down the hall, metal scraped and rattled and approached your door quickly. You were fully unclothed, having gradually added each piece into a neat stack set aside, and gathered bathing soaps and balms and fragrances to take with you into the water. You dropped those on the floor and darted across the room.

You envisioned the Knight's neck slanted, pressed to his shoulder within the confines of his armor as he strided to your door, as most establishments never anticipate having to accommodate dragons or creatures larger than orcs.

You yanked the linens off your bed and wrapped yourself in them just as he opened the door.

He took in the unusually revealing sight, not moving for a long time. Some of your lasting uncertainties about him went away that night, while new ones surfaced.

How humorous was it that the Knight of Noss could be disoriented by a meager state of undress?

How concerning was it now that he truly knew you existed?

He could no longer starkly ascribe you as ‘the disgruntled magician’. No longer were you just the robes you wore. You were all asymmetry, gooseflesh, shedding hair, and tough calluses from years of wandering hard terrains in the same boots.

Your utter humanness in that moment of stillness had softened you to him, even with your dour expression and acerbic tongue.

“Some knight you are.” If you couldn't crack his armor, you wished to do so to his pride. You weren't malicious by nature, but embarrassment and unknowable things made your skin itch and bittered your mood. “Out of here, fool!”

“Allow me to intrude for a moment. I'll check now before you bathe.” He said this somewhat laboriously, as if suddenly struck through the back, winded by surprise and pain. “Step aside.”

You dragged layers of linen with you to the door and stood in his way. “No. You intrude too much. I went into isolation because people intrude too much and want too much. Begone, Knight.”

“Will you check the windows yourself tonight, then? You've got more to worry about than just thieves and cats getting inside. Open windows while you sleep thins the veil between our realm and others.”

When you pushed him out with half the weight of your body against the door, he went willingly into the hall with its low ceiling and compact walls. The sight of his armored mass in the incommodious space, tight and bent like items crammed inside a box, made you claustrophobic.

“That’s just old superstition,” you said.

“Aye. That it may be, but all superstition stems from a single truth. And visitors in the night coming through open windows is no superstition.” There was no denying he was right in saying that, but even so, you would not give him pleasure by letting him back inside. “It's a meager thing I'm askin’ of you.”

“Fine. I'll be sure to check them.”

Had Lysander been a true dragon without the innate patience and good-naturedness of his human blood, your flippant response would've been perceived much differently. An egregious act of disrespect to a superior being, of which dragons largely believed that they were. But, for all of the harsh edges of adamantine and dragonscale he wore, and his precise, guttural intonations which always made your chest quiver, he was remarkably even-tempered.

At first, when he did not immediately go away, staying hunched over in that strange wadded shape of black iridescent protrusions and looking straight at you through the slit in his helmet, you thought you'd finally agitated him inside that suit. Yet, as the moments passed without change, you grew increasingly aware of the scratchy linen against your bare skin and warmth reaching up your neck.

He could've been admiring your frame drowned in heaps of fabric, or observing the soft, swaying glow on your shoulders from nearby candlelight. If the grotesque stories about his unappeasable lust were to be believed, surely the opportune silence was his sizing you up, comparing you to his past conquests.

The most despicable part of leaving your isolation was all the wondering you did now. When before you'd been kept far too busy by vicious snapdragons in the garden and birds gossiping on a branch overhead about the baker’s wife and his cousin.

But, once you thought of the Witch Queen’s succulent figs, and the magic you’d been promised a taste of, suddenly your focus returned. Everything else was mediocre.

Lysander could think of you however he pleased.

“Goodnight,” you told him.

“Ah,” he livened at your voice, “aye. Goodnight.”

Afterwards, you discovered the bathwater to be lukewarm and beyond the possibility of enjoyment, but scrubbed yourself clean with soap and coarse sugar anyway. You let your hair halfway dry by leaning back in a chair, head tipped out the window to catch the nighttime breeze. It moved lethargically, cradling your scalp with cool fingers and flicked pearls of water dangling off strands back onto your face.

When you had tired of that, you left the window alone, enticed into doing so by lasting threads of defiance. You snuffed out candlelight and laid wide awake under the prickly linens for a short while.

Light feet shuffled down the hall. The smooth undersides of their leathery soles were an effortless glide across the floor boards. Explosive laughter pushed through cracks in the walls and the gap under your door, reaching you from across the inn where the guests inclined to nighttime wakefulness congregated in the common room. Its carefree nature, buoyant in the way of a life loved and well-worn despite hardship was contagious.

You smiled.

Outside, a beggar serenaded the moon peacefully, uncaring of just how badly he truly sounded. A bird startled from a high place close by and took flight. Meanwhile, in some distant alleyway, tomcats yowled and fought, and would likely die fighting. You closed your eyes.

The next time you opened them, you were not in your bed at the inn.

────────────────────────

Hunsiya was the name your captor gave you though you hadn’t asked for it, mere moments after rousing into some state of wakefulness. Your face and tongue were swollen from having been slouched across your thighs for an indeterminate period of time, nose heavy with pressure, hands anchored behind your back by glowing gold twine that pulsed with enchanted heat.

You could feel the magic coming off of it and rolling around the dim room where you were held hostage in. It permeated the space with smothering density, swathing you in prickly warmth and cold like a coat made of sanded down briars. The downy hairs on the back of your neck stood up; tiny spines, for magic of this magnitude could only mean there were many magicians present within the Sisterhood of Gosha, and you hungered for what they had.

“Mortal magic eaters are an impossibility, and yet, here you sit before me! Terrifying!” Hunsiya pierced a chunk of rare meat with her fork, raising it up, a toast you didn't reciprocate. “It was worth us waiting to catch you, because you did all the hard work for us, didn't you? Letting us right in and commanding a dragon. Not an easy task, my friend.”

She had removed your bonds and led you to a different room. Bursts of orange lantern light made it bright, forcing you to blink rapidly as your eyes reddened and watered in an effort to acclimate. You were situated in another chair. Lush cushioning pulled you deep into luxurious softness that molded your thighs and gripped them unrelentingly. Strongly scented wood polish lifted off the armrests as your fingertips moved across their silky luster.

Your stomach pressed lightly into the edge of a long table with a sumptuous feast stretched across it. Hunsiya only had to make a stately gesture with her arm across the table for you to fill the empty plate in front of you with as many delicacies as you could.

Tender meat dishes oozing blood and oil. Savory, herbal stews. Glazed, softened vegetables. Thick sauces in vessels with pinched spouts. Fruit desserts arranged like tiny islands in bowls surrounded by oceans of hot, caramel-colored syrups. Everything that could go into your mouth without coming back out, did.

Hunsiya watched appraisingly as you gorged. The twirling fork between her fingers told you there were things she wanted to say, thoughts important to investigate, but would doubtlessly mean less than nothing to you if she spoke of difficult things too soon.

So, she bided her time by asking trifling questions to which you only gave half-answers or simply swished your head in response. Once your consumption slowed to pretty cuts, thoughtful shapes in the fruit dessert, lapping at thin layers of syrup on the back of your sterling spoon, her verbal onslaught began.

“The Sisterhood of Gosha wants to dethrone the Witch Queen. But, we want to do this discreetly, without it being known to the city or her council. We will remove her and have one of our own replace her. All this you already know,” she proclaimed, “but, we will have you help us do this.”

Her words were forceful, stacked with ruthless confidence; fearlessness that could've only belonged to someone whom others believed was untouchable.

You knew her type: affable leaders with pitch black hearts and slippery intentions that never truly included the people they'd claimed to love. They embraced and kissed tear-stained cheeks soothingly before sending them away to their deaths. Later, these autocrats sat upon their thrones, which were erected upon a foundation of discarded loyalty and bones.

“I have no interest in that. Why not threaten to kill me instead?” you asked, now drawing lines through the cooling sauces with a blunt knife, watching the viscous stuff slowly ooze back into place.

Hunsiya smiled. “Because even I'm not foolish enough to believe that'd get me anywhere. You magic eaters are walking, living, breathing bombs.” She leaned back in her seat to observe your etching, saying after a time, “What if I told you I could guarantee you a way into the Witch Queen’s orchard?”

Your skillful motions in the sauce ceased. “She's already promised me the fig fruit from her orchard.”

“A promise is so hollow, my friend,” Hunsiya insisted with crinkling, deep-set eyes the color of aged honey. Many wrinkles appeared, creating uneven terrain above her cheekbones. The lines in her face were beautiful, disarming and alluring, but not in the least bit kind.

“A promise doesn't mean anything to a person who sees no value in it. A guarantee, though? That has tax. It has weight. A guarantee means that there is work to be done and there's a reward at the end of it. People are much more inclined towards rewards than maybes and promises.”

After such a large meal, you were growing drowsy and distracted. The only thing keeping you awake was no longer having a bed to lay in (you even craved the scratchy linens), and the thought of the Witch Queen’s magic on your tongue being oddly stimulating.

“Perhaps,” you relented begrudgingly, dragging each part of the word in a listless slur. “What does your ‘guarantee’ entail?”

“Nothing too difficult. You're almost there already. You need to claim absolute loyalty from the Witch Queen’s Knight.” Hunsiya said. “Who else better to inadvertently orchestrate the fall of a sovereign than her own servant? Who else better to help you into the orchard than someone who already knows it intimately?”

What foul and underwhelming logic.

It was a further notch in your motivation to end this expedition quickly and return home to your hermitage. You missed the roaring waterfalls with their colorful froth, the news from nearby towns carried by chirruping birds with roundabout ways of saying things, the carnivorous plants in your flower beds bristling at the sight of you nearing with shears to snip their thorns so they'd be more docile and only feed on rodents.

You'd only been away for a short time, but your mind reconstructed the snug shelter where you had lived for countless days.

Inside, you imagined a sheer layer of grime settling across all your things like ugly pale gray-brown organza: tabletops, chairs, bedsheets, and the bath towels with long, wooly naps that left behind handprints when you touched them. You'd have to vigorously scrub every surface, lovingly polish dust off of shelves of baubles and tomes, summon the wind within your walls to push the motes of dirt and time out.

But then, you always recalled the taste of the Witch Queen’s figs; their ambrosial sensations. The smooth, tender flesh splitting against your teeth as succulent nectar seeped into your mouth, spreading numbness across your tongue when the fruit’s overbearing sweetness made your cheeks tingle and pucker.

More than the fruit itself, you wished to sink your teeth into her magic and meld it into oneness with you. Absorb it. Consume.

Consume.

Consume…

“After tonight, he sees you differently. He no longer can witness you as his queen’s newest procurement. Now, you are substance. You are his longing. His painful yearning. He would lay with you if you allowed it.” Hunsiya was impatient, her voice a thunderous demand for obedience. “What I am saying is that he is more than willing to give into your every whim.”

“Dragons are unfalteringly loyal to those that they choose,” you argued. “Even if what you say is true, what he may now think of me doesn't compare to the millenia he's devoted to the Witch Queen.”

Hunsiya’s smile was vulpine; long and cunning in a way of a woman with secrets that you did not know. It sent heat to your head, behind your eyes, into the fingertips busy pounding out a rhythm on the tabletop.

“Fine, then.” You'd entertain her for a while longer. To sedate your annoyance, you reached far onto the table to pluck a handful of glistening, pinkish grapes from the bushel in a woven basket. You ate three. “You're telling me to seduce the loathsome Knight of Noss. How do you propose I go about doing such a thing?”

“Imagine a creature that's never known freedom a day in its life. It knows no existence outside of its cage of expectations and bonds it cannot see nor overcome on its own. What do you think would happen to the creature should it suddenly gain freedom?” asked Hunsiya, now leaning forward on her elbows, over a spot on the table cleaned of dishware and crumbs. “Think about it.”

“I don't need to,” you sipped water from a silver goblet which looked tarnished in the orange lantern light. “Your theory: an imprisoned creature that has never known freedom would go insane should it spontaneously gain freedom. Or, if it's a cute little dog, it’d just die in the wild. But, I suspect you're not talking about a dog.”

“Indeed.” Hunsiya stayed in her huddled shape of elbows and hands, head sideways to contemplate you. “The Knight of Noss is bound to his queen only because she makes it so. You're a magic eater. You've smelled it. You've seen it. The Witch Queen's magic that binds him. Yes, yes, I know you've seen it. And you can break it.”

Of course you'd seen it.

The magic that the Witch Queen used to bind Lysander was unlike what she had used to possess the melted man and the burned spy from the sisterhood.

Magic had a taste and what she had forced upon them was rancid and dead. A nauseating odor which spread through your nose and climbed down the back of your throat, clinging and throbbing like something alive, something infectious and vile. It was necromancy defiled by the lich and wayward magicians who'd sold their goodness in pursuit of something more.

Lysander's curse was that he was a bastard and his humanness could not eclipse the might of the Witch Queen's greed to keep him. She had wisely imprisoned the magical birthright his dragon blood gave him, thus, all he knew was colossal strength and the turmoil of a human heart.

In that way, you pitied him and his existence. You'd thought it the day he had approached you, carrying his burdensome armor and sword and the thick chains of hot white magic that had flickered in and out of existence before your eyes, descending from an empty sky. You wondered if he knew you could see them.

“It is unlikely that he is aware you're a magic eater, nor that his queen’s intentions are not so benign as simply keeping you as a trophy, and yet”—she gave you a derisive sneer— “you’re willingly walking to your doom. You know this, you just cannot resist temptation, can you?”

She found triumph in your silence and went on, “Dragons may be masters of natural magic, but he is no true dragon. He is impressionable, unsure of who he is if he is not a weapon. An enslaved butcher.”

“Free him.” Suddenly earnest, she thudded interlaced hands down onto the table, sending a ripple shuddering through silverware and plates and bowls across the table, up into your arms. “Free the Knight of Noss of the Witch Queen's hold. Do it slowly. Do it wisely. A dragon is most loyal to those who are most loyal to them.”

And, before you could speak your part, the spacious eating room swelled with ragged fluttering that you'd initially thought to be numerous coarse coats being shaken out behind you.

When you looked around, there were dozens upon dozens of blackbirds perched throughout the room, materialized from nowhere and reeking of magic. Their talons grabbed onto and into any surfaces they could find, wings twitching violently as if preparing to take flight, beady eyes aglow in orange light and focused intention.

The moment you sprung upright, knocking over your chair with the back of your legs, hands raised for invocation, the blackbirds surged at you in a hellish cacophony of shrill squawks and flapping wings. Your hands shrank against your head instead, protecting your face from their wind, their claws, as they encircled you, never making contact.

Through gaps in their wingspan, you watched Hunsiya slowly rise from her seat, smiling as though she were seeing off a cherished friend. Her fingers fluttered farewell through the small, moving apertures. Just then, the darkness of the birds and their shrieks closed in, encasing you in their strange smell of stale barnyard hay and uprooted greenery and soil.

Then, there was nothing.

Just as quickly as they had arrived to take you away from the feast and your comfortable chair, they hissed out existence just like a distant, dissipating mirage rising off of hot stone. What had remained of their magical essence was then carried off on the tails of an inky night breeze.

Although this region was in its ripest and hottest season of the year, the air billowing beneath your thin bed clothes made you shiver. You were exposed to the depths of the yawning streets of this nondescript town, lifting your bare toes off of the cobblestone road so they wouldn't freeze. Distantly, and then suddenly close by, you listened to heavy clatters charge through the nighttime veil with swift, monstrous strides.

It was like the earth shook and bent to the ruckus. These wild, fraught vibrations that made your bones ache. Only once he was standing still did that feeling subside.

“You! Where have you been?!” His wrath carried as far and as loud as his armor.

The birds had delivered you to the knight.

“I smell them on you! I smell the sisterhood’s wickedness on you! They stole you away just as I thought that they would. What have they done to you?” Lysander lowered his helmeted face to level to your own, voice dire and taut. “Speak! Your window was wide open and there was nary a thing in your bed except a single blackbird feather. I knew it, then. They came for you.”

You licked your lips. They had dried during your fast flight through the wind and cold, as brief as it was. A delicate sweetness lingered in the corner seams from the fruit desserts; the sticky syrups. “I—yes, I think they did. Maybe they did. I can't be certain.”

“Where did they take you?” he asked.

You tried to act in a way that made it seem as though your thoughts had been left askew, troubling you deeply, “Somewhere dark. Somewhere dank and foul and frightful. I was tied to a chair. I don't remember anything else. Now I'm here, with you.”

“Vile wenches!” he sympathized, perhaps so riled by the brazenness of the sisterhood that he wouldn't think of you anymore, despite remaining at eyeline with you. “There is no end to their evil, their depravity, their obsession to claim Noss for themselves. Those worshippers of a whore goddess!”

You instigated, “Gosha is disgraced.”

“Aye, a fallen goddess,” he agreed. “Mother of harlots.”

Then, he stilled like a forward-facing statue overlooking a wide garden, staring deeply into you, seeing you just as he had mere hours ago: vulnerable and nearly bear.

It was dreadful when he spoke again because his malice had detached from him like a scab. Beneath his vanished fury was an otherworldly patience, gentleness of a kind that couldn't survive in a world like this, much less what you deserved.

“Did you leave the window open?”

Your heart thudded in your chest, a sensation simultaneously unfelt, yet weakening as guilt deluged and rushed you bodywide. It hurt. It did things of its own volition: mimic the pulse in your neck, force a stone down your throat, and push all the blood in your body into your head to make it sweat and throb.

“Are you mad?” This voice was unfamiliar, but it was your own. You loathed its apologetic quietness. You hated him for luring more humanity out of you.

“Aye,” he said with his newfound softness still remaining. He added, “Verily.”

You replied, “I'm sorry,” and only meant it halfway, for what you were about to do was arguably heinous. You knew no remorse when it came to the need of magical satiety, which was something only the Witch Queen’s orchard could give you now.

Lysander was cold in your arms as you reached around the entire bulk of his head, the tips of your fingers unable to fully interlock. The protrusions on his helmet made for a precarious embrace, one which you kept as a featherlight touch in the event he grew to ire and tried to lash out by gouging you on the adamantine and dragonscale wings.

“Does nothing frighten you? What life have you lived to be so unafraid of all that I am?” He sounded stricken, winded by something unseen. Irritation led into confusion settling on the fringes of his words. “Your bravery is in a dangerous place. Have you forgotten the abomination and devil that I am? Have you so easily forgotten my bloodlust? My carnal desires? That neither human nor beast are spared of me when I choose it?”

You kissed his cool forehead, making a sound against the armor before returning to his level and pressing your lips to the hinged jaw piece. He was sure to feel the fog of your warm breath through the scored vents, swirling slow and seductive around his face, perhaps still tinged with the aftermath of your exorbitant meal.

“Is this the same mind that left the window wide open in spite of my warning? If so, I fear for what will become of you. You don't know what you're doing.” He declared, saying this only so he wouldn't be confronted with the revealing silence.

“If you're so fearsome, then push me away. I'll never touch you again,” you said. “We’ll travel the rest of the way to Noss without a word. You'll send me off to your queen, and you’ll be rid of me. Sounds convenient, right? So, push me away.”

He didn't.

Instead, Lysander enfolded you in his arms, pulling you high onto your toes, and against the less perilous points on his armor. He was aware of this threat because he held you self-consciously; close enough to feel the heat of a fire while fearful of it burning him.

For you, the proximity was exhilarating in the way of explorers who sometimes lose their minds to euphoria when they find something no one else has.

For you, this indicated that there were no obstacles barring you from the Witch Queen’s sinful fruits, as the one thing that could've stopped you was holding you flush to his chest of ice and cradling the back of your head with a leathery hand. The claws of his gauntlet were a light scratch on your scalp, but their weight was an anchor straining every muscle in your neck.

He pulled your face into him, into the deeper dark of his mass as the hinges on his helmet let out their shrill outcry of nonuse, and kissed you. It was a fervent moment where his lips roamed yours top to bottom, pressing the corners and the nooks where syrupy residue stuck before letting out quivering breaths against your mouth to diffuse his excitement.

Lysander was up against the halves of himself, both radical tormentors that craved to split him into separate parts so that they may become a whole of themselves. His humanity was devastating, as it was what felt the most and desired so hopelessly to draw you in and never let go. His dragon blood was passionate, but it was wise and used to waiting for these fleeting morsels of good fortune which willed him to live on.

You let him kiss you through his turmoil while using this to your own advantage. Your fingertips moved inside his helmet and touched the skin of his jaw. The feel of it was unusual in that it did not mold or divot with human fleshiness, rather it was perfectly solid like a rough stone, tapering down into a fine chin lightly knocking your own.

The skin was craggy and heavily scarred with rounded, uniform indentations larger than the pads of your fingers could fit. Something had existed in place of these scars at one point, leaving behind disfiguring injuries and memories equally as torturous. His lips were of lesser toughness than his face, thick and slippery smooth with moisture from your breaths and saliva.

It was you who withdrew then, satisfied with the taste you’d given him and his yearning. He had little fear of being seen by you in this lightless hour, so he didn't immediately withdraw into his enormous adamantine husk by covering himself with the slotted vents.

“Forgive me, I should have resisted. I reacted poorly to your words, but I was not dishonest in what I did,” said Lysander with somber candor. Although he no longer held you in his arms, several of his long, leather-clad fingers wrapped your wrist in warmth. “It was wise of you to stop. When you touched me, it was… unlike anything I've ever known. You would've met my carnal lust, then, and I would not have thought anything of hurting you to fulfill myself.”

“You're pitiful, Lysander.”

They were harsh words spoken kindly. Arising from a place of knowing fear and desperation and profound loneliness so hollow that it leached away the joy of fuschia sunsets, of fresh spring afternoons laying arched with the hillside and smelling honeysuckle, of comforting oneness during gatherings at end week markets where young children wove flower stems in your hair and stuck them in the pockets of your robes.

You had once been part of that world before isolation, whereas it was a world he had never known—not with his servitude to the Witch Queen of Noss.

“Aye, I suppose that I am.”

Then, your eyes cut above his head as the Witch Queen’s bonds blinked into existence: bright yellow-white, interlinked holy halos descending from nothingness. The sheer number of them was what made the sight terrible, far more troubling from the first time you witnessed them.

The chains swayed, clinking into one another against a breeze somewhere faraway before abruptly yanking taut, looking like countless lashes of white light moving in unison. They gave Lysander a start, but he made no sound. His agony was discreet, indicated only by subtle metallic scuffing between armored fingertips as they writhed and soothed with his hand not holding your wrist.

For the Witch Queen to feel compelled to expend this much of her power to demand subservience meant that the magic Lysander had been endowed with was frightful at least.

“I don't blame you for your urges. You're half of a whole dragon, after all.” As you outstretched a hand into the sky, around one of the chains which glowed and pulsated and burned deliciously in your closed palm, you tried to remember the conversation from before. “My magic must not be easy for you to withstand.”

“Nay, what I confessed had nothing to do with your magic.” Lysander surrounded you in his fortress of jagged peaks and impenetrable dragonscale, just as he had before. “Your touch was burning—scorching me, even. I've never felt anything like it. That softness. Such gentleness. You did not touch my skin like someone cursed, like the abomination that I know that I am. I fear I will never feel it again.”

You hardly heard him over the sound of brittle magic shattering into airless black. Clusters of white burst apart over yours and Lysander's heads, flickering out of existence without landing; a false image; fatigued eyes tricked in this is unordinary hour. And then, the Witch Queen’s banshee screams echoed from somewhere far, far away.

────────────────────────

Skewered and halved blackbird remains followed the Witch Queen’s glossy black carriage like a funeral cortège. Some fell out of trees, wings flapping, bodies crumpling out of existence much the same way as burning paper wasting into crisp embers before ending as specks of ash. Magic exhausted. Untraceable. Gone.

Lysander made an example out of the rest; the majority he had slain. Where they landed was where they stayed, turned into cold and unmoving parts of the landscape, making for an audacious trail leading right up to your bumper. This was a challenge he wanted, a chance to prove his malice, retaliate the embarrassment of being outwitted.

The result had been a terribly effective deterrent because in the weeks of traveling in broad daylight by way of the most worn paths, you hadn't seen another soul—human or otherwise. The chittering and scampering of animals dampened against a crescendo of silence, making a pleasant summertime breeze into a violent windstorm through the fluttering tree leaves of the forest, flanking either side of the carriage.

At some point, you had become familiar with the noisiness of the chassis underneath your feet. In particular, how the frame would quiver if one of the skinny wheels struck a craggy rock raised too far above the dirt and detritus, or one of those same wheels slipped out of the well-worn impressions left behind on the pathway by other carriages and wagons hauling special things.

You were often bored as Lysander preferred to stride alongside the carriage, door-side, superbly blocking your exit. It left you with little to do other than speak with him when he could tolerate it. Transmutate strange things you grabbed off the ground and hid within your bottomless pockets while urinating in the thicket and behind trees. The hard wear in the road made success nearly unachievable.

You'd even memorized what movements the silvery-gold stallions made to evoke wrath and whip from the coachman staring down at their backs from his high wooden perch.

Once or twice, you'd been irritated enough by the cruelty and echoing crack of the whip in the sky that you raised roots on the path ahead to catch every wheel so, when they were caught in the thick, wriggling greenery, the carriage would lurch violently and propel the coachman into the throng of horses below.

They were no ordinary horses either, as their ethereal glow and intelligent eyes indicated they'd once carried gods and goddesses on their backs and ate golden apples from orchards across the cosmos. But, they'd been defiled by the Witch Queen’s magic centuries ago and now they were here: bright as the sun and proud, helpless to defy the magic which confined them to this fate.

In return for your kindness, the horses were as watchful over you as Lysander was. They allowed you to stroke their long, lustrous faces and untangle their silvery manes with your fingers until you could let the hairs fall away like threads of tinsel. Sometimes they fell asleep like that, heads hung low, ears flattened outward.

“You've made a great ally in them,” said Lysander one evening. A fire was already going nearby with the bruised and battered coachman huddled next to it, silent and seething as always. You were sitting far away from the flames, outside of reach of the ring of orange, pulsing light when the knight approached.

He held something small and black and dripping in one of his hands before tossing it aside into the brush. Your eyes followed, spotting its landing and rustling among the briars and thick shrubbery, resembling nothing but a shuddering mass in the dark.

“The stallions, you mean?” you waited for the bush to stop shaking before looking away. Lysander had come to join you where you sat on a large boulder, armor grinding as it turned into a typical wadded shape when he crouched low and hunched between his thighs. You never thought he looked comfortable that way. “They were once steeds of the heavens and now they're enslaved by the Witch Queen's magic in much the same way as you are, you know? How could I not be moved to do something for them? Revenge is warranted by things held against their will.”

“Do you pity them as you do me?” he asked.

You leaned across your legs to be nearer to his helmeted face, hoping against futility that, perhaps, you'd discern a pair of gleaming amethysts through all of the shadows. When you did not, you settled into that arched posture, lightly touching across the hinged jaw piece with your fingertips. He no longer stirred when you did this, desensitized to the disbelief that no creature in possession of their own mind would dare to.

“Right now, I'm thinking more about how you're on the verge of wiping out local blackbird populations,” you quipped, but you were worried that it was true. “Leave them, Lysander. The birds are innocent, and even the birds made of magic are at the mercy of their conjurer.”

“Aye, that may be, but do not forget that the Sisterhood of Gosha stole you from your bed in the dead of night. It had taken a single moment of poor judgment for them to do so.” He pressed his face forward against your fingers, as though relishing the thought that your warmth could reach him that way. “Birds are inconspicuous. They are as much vermin as rats and rabbits. The sisterhood knows how to conceal their magic and when they contain it in creature's as small as birds—I cannot always distinguish a roosting blackbird from one exuding magic and malice. It troubles me.”

“That is largely in part due to the Witch Queen’s power over you. You know this.”

Whenever he would sigh, it made a muffled whistling sort of sound that no doubt ricocheted off the adamantine and dragonscale around his head. You imagined it would be a tiring thing to be hidden away inside a helmet, breathing fresh air through narrow slots, forgetting the softness of pillows and a bed partner’s bosom.

But, time passed and you realized that his helmet was as much of a boon for him as it was an obstacle to things he desired.

Inside of that blank space swelled in darkness, you had no way of knowing what expression he looked at you with right now—if he were even capable of maneuvering his tough skin into a grimace or a smile. You had no way of knowing how he’d looked at you after kissing you back then.

“The blackbirds,” he went on tersely, tearing into the quiet moment as easily as he did the poor creatures, “I can’t allow what happened then to happen again. I'll continue to ask for your forgiveness for such minor atrocities if it means you are safe.”

This was like him: roughly shifting conversation away from your prying to get him to divulge a true opinion about his enslaver. He seldom implicated the Witch Queen of evils she committed; how enmeshed she was in the entire fiber of his being. You supposed that if she was all he had ever known, even he himself could not comprehend the wickedness which still imprisoned him.

You fitted fingertips into the vents of his helmet, but your eyes were elsewhere now, up at the empty sky and the razored peaks of tall trees which seemed to grow inward, encircling you. It was as claustrophobic as when you witnessed Lysander bent sideways in manmade spaces. The Witch Queen’s halo of chains remained stubbornly, in numbers so many that it tired you to simply look at them.

Already, you'd destroyed countless but there were countless to go. Time had regained urgency only to belittle you, telling you that you would fail. Those long days from before felt squandered, lost to sultry summertime hazes with no relief and perfumed bathwater filling your head with sweltering fuzz.

You mourned what you should've done but didn't do. Considered solemnly that Lysander might have continued to live on unhappily, yet uncomplicatedly, if you had cast him away from your hermitage and never met him.

At Noss, it was expected that you would be destroyed once you were in the audience of the Witch Queen, for the humiliation you had caused her was unpardonable, no matter how prodigious her lust of you truly was.

You remembered before, when she had been so desperate as to be willing to entice you with a living organism—her forbidden orchard. It was her: breathing her magic, her essence tilled into the soil, her soul within the core of every luscious fruit on low-hanging branches. Her magic was at its apex in Noss, amplified by the orchard.

Your might would not overcome hers alone.

Was it worth it, then? To even hope for a morsel of her fragrant fruit, the magic weaving throughout toothsome meat, ripe flesh bright as jewels.

Was it worth it, still? To be weakened by insatiety because you were a magic eater; one of the most selfish entities to exist in any realm. If it meant a lick, a bite, a taste, a swallow, you were convinced that it would fulfill the savage hunger coiling inside of you like writhing parasites finding ecstasy after being without for so long. It made you fearless. It made things like suicide meaningless; inconsequential for the seconds of bliss before the endless shadow.

Yes, yes, you were exasperated and dismissive even within your own head. This will be my end, that I am certain. I will never see outside of Noss. I will never see my home again. Everything will keep gathering dust. Moths will eat my nice robes; they'll eat my tomes. My garden will rot and die. What a curse, what a shame. What a shame…

You flinched as Lysander’s cold claw, darker than the night itself, stroked the underside of your jaw. He drew your eyes back into his chasm, the hinges raised. They had been soundless this time, or you’d simply become unobservant of most things now that the world was unexciting.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, carefully pacing the words as though unsure of the sort of outcome they'd inspire. He wanted something and didn't know how to ask for it. “Speak. What's troublin’ you? Don't think I've ever seen you quite this way before.”

“It will all end soon,” you said, nebulously, without a trace of fear because your fate was ineluctable. A fish beating its fins upstream against the current only to become exhausted and be seized by the jaws of a bear. The starving rodent, obeying its very nature to seek out food and shelter, finds a house with crevices and pungent tidbits on a spring-loaded trap.

You were the fish, and you were the mouse. You threw yourself into the strong current, snuck into the drafty house with moldy daubs of food tucked away in a corner. It was innate. According to your own will.

But, you thrived in asking questions. That was all you could do. “What will happen once we arrive, Lysander? What will happen to me? To you?”

“I cannot say,” he admitted, “I do not know. My task will be complete once you are delivered to the Witch Queen's doorstep.”

He sighed in the oblivion of night, soul weary, but went on nonetheless, “You and I will be separated, and it will be the same as always for me. I will be sent away to wait until I am beckoned again. I will be dispatched to subjugate insurrections. I will waste hundreds, thousands more with my blade on the battlefield. I will see carnage and only myself still standing. I will see endless patrols in the darkness. I will see the four stone walls of my cell where I am kept. Nothing else. There will be nothing else for me.”

“And, that is what you want? To be separated? For there to be nothing else?”

To this, Lysander receded into his suit, into silence, as though confronted in a way he had never been before. You were pushing him to answer something difficult. Something foreign, selfish, disastrous.

“Nay,” was all he could bring himself to say.

You looked away again, up at the clattering chains, wondering if more of their numbers were obscured within themselves. The Witch Queen was aware of your intentions, gleaning from them that the Sisterhood of Gosha had reached you first, and she would not let you have the weapon she’d adroitly honed over a millennia so easily.

This was what magicians with power to flaunt did best: fought from hidden places with wit, tug-of-war over lesser things. There could never be a clear winner because these grudges spanned eternities; to the heavens and the underworld, along the misty galaxies dotting the cosmos.

But this was Lysander, he was not less nor was he other. The Witch Queen’s cleaver on the battlefield; the appalling Knight of Noss, and he was kissing you again.

You gave yourself to his passion; fragile, fraying restraint like time-worn threads on a garment. He pressed your lips separately, then together, a rough sort of kneading that pinched, numbed, could've swallowed you if that's what he had in his mind to do.

Unlike times before, you didn't busy your hands on his face to map out his odd anatomy. It occupied too much space in your head to visualize, stole away your enjoyment in blind snatches. Whenever you did, you still searched for softness in his cheeks, as his unyielding flesh made him more dragon than human when you felt it. The patterned scars etched into his flesh were repulsive, abnormal, and doubtlessly still made him ache on the worst of days.

Lysander would never be willing to let you see his face because of them, this you understood now.

You reached for buttons to unfasten your robes. Neatness fell apart, layers glided down the slope of your shoulders with silky lightness despite their number, what great weight they should've been. Such boldness invited a whip of black breeze to lash your skin, your bare chest and abdomen. The shiver made you feel attractive, whittled you down into a small thing enclosed by his mass.

The dark felt protective; blending you seamlessly with its opaqueness, camouflaging you from everything but his eyes. Ones which saw you exposed to him. Invited him into you.

He was motionless. A tamed beast presented with raw slabs of crude meat still red and smelling of coins. It provoked innate temptation, both exhilarating and frightening because something needed to be done since it was there, but what would be the cost?

“I'll hurt you,” said Lysander in his gentlest rumble, out of true goodness and sincerity. “If I could, I'd always keep you this pristine and lovely. Unsullied by me, or anyone else.”

His cold leather hands touched your body and stayed nowhere for very long. It gave you a start, a shock down your spine whenever he moved for a different handful of your flesh, curve, and fat. The claws overhanging his gauntlet threatened subtly, but he was aware of them with everything that he did.

“Then, walk away, Lysander. You have that choice here. Possibly one of the few you've ever had, or ever will have.”

It was an awful thing to say.

It was meant to be.

“If you want things to stay the same as they've always been, I'll say nothing else. This will be forgotten. I'll even show you one of my magic tricks; wipe this moment from both our minds. I'll wipe the others as well. All that will be left is formality. Wouldn't that be wise for us in the short time we have left? Just say the word, I'll say my own, snap my fingers, and it'll be done. Simple. Harmless.”

Lysander stroked at you lightly like you were flames spitting at his fingertips, or pin-thin briars he was pulling without gloves. His helmeted face closed in on yours once again, his breaths long and hot; a dragon exhaling from the darkness of its sauna-like cavern.

“And what of the other choice?” His interest was half-hearted, genuine in moments of clarity. “There are always two options. Opposites of each other. What is the other?”

You shifted on the boulder where you sat, rested back on outstretched arms and open palms. The real stone under your hands was unlike Lysander's terrain, lifeless and bloodless. You much preferred the feeling of him.

Your nudity was displayed, posed for him, to lure him into a decision you both wanted. With your unclothed chest and fleshy stomach and hips peeking through heaps of fabric, you suggested defiance to him; something he wasn't supposed to do, but would because he chose it for himself.

“The other option is that you choose this, you choose me. And you would be doomed, Lysander.” Indubitably, it would be an unspeakable betrayal. This reclaim of ownership of a body to do with what he pleased. “Things will be changed. We will never be able to go back to how it was before. You will never be the same. You will never be forgiven.”

“Aye, I will be reproached. I will be disgraced, and doomed as I've ever been.” Then, his armored silhouette eclipsed the forest canopy above you. “So be it.”

Gone were the treetops sprawling explosively into starless skies. Treetops as skeletal spires seeming to reach oneness with the night. His enormous husk of ungentle edges and cold was far blacker, more imposing than the ancients, yet his touch spread warmth through you.

He kissed you fast and fleeting from within his sanctuary, and then under your jaw with an open mouth. Shuddering heat and wetness slowly made a descent along your neck, his teeth a glistening concept though not felt. As he explored you, molded the softness of you with his fingers and pinching claws, he found your utter humanness to be divine. The surreality of it stifled his exhilaration.

His lips smoothed across your chest where heat now rose to the surface of your skin. There he rested, seeking to leach it from you, meld it with himself completely, unbelieving that mere centimeters of bone and viscera separated him from your thudding heart. It knocked rhythmically against your house, could've been a clockmaker’s best work with how strongly it reverberated in his head, throbbed in your ears, propelled blood through all of your incomprehensibly tiny places.

A long tongue with some thickness emerged from his helmet, came out serpentine with winding eagerness. It was split severely, nearly halved, and those halves glided across your breasts in damp, lightweight strokes. They caressed the hard peaks of your nipples, made them so sensitive to his lips, the precise flicking of his tongue, that you moaned. Pushed at his adamantine forehead feebly and clenched your thighs for friction.

Your head bloomed with heat that moved, flowing like lava from behind your ears to nestle between your eyes. Barely a touch and you were already full of perversions, haughty courage, flickering urges pulling wool over your soundness, and you wanted things you'd forgotten were possible to be wanted.

Then, you spoke like you were outside of yourself; a spectator looking in on depravity, “I want to touch you. Show yourself to me, Lysander,” and you used a leg to rustle the heavy fabric and chainmail hanging down the front of him.

By then, he had plunged his face down to your stomach, sampled your bathing fragrances and brine produced from your sweat with his tongue. The halves of his tongue were wormlike, slippery, trying to delve below the robes which kept him from smelling you, tasting your arousal.

You wouldn't let him go further. He was at the mercy of your whims, your leg pestering him to hardness. Strain building behind layers.

“Right now, I know no other tormentor as beautiful and devilish as you. I feel weakened by you and your magic. Intoxicated. You're a trickster god come down to seduce me,” said Lysander, through raspy breaths and stones tumbling in his throat. While he thrust his hips against your thighs, he reached past his coverings, loosened them, and let his cock fall.

You were startled by the weight of it as he continued to hump you, insides awash with cold guilt, wrenching in anticipation for what was to come. This was not what you deserved to receive for your crookedness, but you would take it from him, regardless.

For now, your hunger was quiet. For now, you were distracted by his adoration. How he revered your body, your temple of mortality like it was something truly enviable and memorable.

Lysander’s heavy cock wept invisibly on your skin, unseen to you in the dark. The first strokes you laid on it were featherlight, experimenting, yet all the same coquettish and making his entire body flinch with feeling. A groan started within his chest, deep and resounding pleasure rising high in his throat. It diffused into warm, bestial hums so separated from anything human that it astonished you. Aroused you more.

You couldn't fully grasp his girth, not even partway. Only the head fit in your fingers; a silky, spearhead shape which pulsated, oozed sticky heat into your palm as you kneaded it, smeared the stuff around the large slit with your thumb.

The rest of him was unordinary and textured, harsh against your hand as you stroked his length. Flared segments grew severe at his thick base, unsharp ridges grabbed your skin with each pass, creating delicious resistance that earned you his praise with more thrumming; throaty purrs.

A being this substantial was never meant to be experienced by a human, even though he was half-bastard, and despite his unbelonging to either of his bloodlines. You speculated that he'd never been given the option to know any creature so intimately, not with how he shuddered within his jaggedy husk as your mouth sucked the head of his cock, swirling saliva and substance with your tongue.

He would not go far past your teeth, so you did what you could by wetting, prodding his salty slit while both hands wrung his shaft, groped his hefty sac, felt through the coverings and chainmail he had undone for his abdomen. It was strong, clenched, yet jutted out in response to unfamiliarity roaming him. The span of flesh you could traverse without his writhing was the same as the rest of him: scarred and uniform. Something had been taken from him.

“Gods—that’s enough. Enough, now. Quickly. Off of me, you filthy thing!” He was stricken as he spoke, voice urgent and taut, guttural in the way that you liked. You were pushed off of his cock, back down onto the boulder while he rutted hard through your thighs, using all of your flesh and fat and pliability to surround him.

Your body moved like a straw doll; weightless to him, jolting to you. It was over suddenly with a potent groan, his helmeted face thrown up to the sky, and an explosion of hot cum spraying across your thighs. He twitched with more dripping out onto you, but he never went soft.

It had happened so fast that you were left disoriented once everything stopped.

“Lysander—”

“Aye,” he rasped out, winded. “I really am no better than a beast, am I? Forgive me, I didn't know that would happen. You—I hadn't expected you would do that. I never knew it was possible to feel as I just did. What pleasure. What agony. What relief.”

You opened your legs as his spend cooled on your skin, bothered by the way it tightened, dried honey-stiff and tacky.

“The stories about you are all false, then?” you asked, docile as he shucked off your robes and laid them on the ground. A summer quilt spread out over dewy grass. “The stories about your carnality. Your lust for humans and beasts and eagerness to lay with them. Was there any ounce of truth in them?”

“Far be it for me to speak on stories that have grown and aged alongside the trees in this forest. They do me no harm personally, as they remind me that I am still alive. Alive enough to still hear them,” said Lysander, recovered and breathing evenly within his panoply. “You can believe what you'd like.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Aye, looking at you, I suppose there could be some truth to it.”

You wished your vision could spear through the lightless world, into the dark entanglement of his helmet to see his expression as he looked at you now. Was he smiling? Frowning? Wincing as the threads of his identity unraveled?

“C’mere, you.” He hoisted you off of the boulder to lay you across the soiled robes he'd put down. Satisfied, he stared at you, long and thorough, at your complete nakedness arranged for him to see. “You're such a sight. I've seen much in this life of mine, enough that I would've believed it if I was told I'd seen it all. You? If part of my punishment was for my eyes being removed, I'd regret nothing. If my punishment were to be death, and my final memories were of this time with you, I'd regret nothing still.”

Shame sobered you. Wrapped your head close like a red burning wreath, singed your ears, and made your scalp itch with prickly heat. Your eyes felt sore and reddened, precariously tilting towards tears, which would've been devastating.

“You can still stop,” you blurted, wincing through a kiss, sharp teeth grazing down the column of your throat. He didn't bite you, only teased the idea with them. Soon, his mouth was on your abdomen, forked tongue probing lower still. “Lysander, you can still stop. Choose differently. Spare yourself.”

“Nay,” he replied, throatiness returned. “I've chosen you. You've bewitched me and I want for nothing else. Allow me to return your kindness.”

There then came clattering beside you, of heaviness falling from a height and vibrating the earth as it struck. It shook up through your spine, danced along the back of your neck with thousands of spindly legs. You squinted at the night and saw something darker, a helmet.

Before you could've glimpsed his face, freezing leather pressed to your eyes, fluttering your lashes. He told you not to look at him in his clearest voice. He almost pleaded for it.

“Eyes closed.” His breaths scorched down your thighs, words damp in the seams. “See nothing. Feel everything. Hear me ravish you, and let me hear you be ravished.”

It was his tongue that went first, laving decadently, thoroughly, bunching the serpent halves together; a well waiting for collection, to be filled. He swilled what arousal he could take from you with his saliva and kneaded you with a short, flat nose. You thrashed your hips against him, away from him, anchored in place by his heavy hands, adamantine gauntlet embedding ten stingers below your skin.

Lysander was unclean with you, indecorous in how he sucked and swallowed, kissed into you, ate as far as he could go with seemingly no satisfaction. It was repugnant and ferine, his most subdued self now at the surface and freed. He went on with that intensity until you trembled, body writhing across fabric and grass as you came up onto bent elbows, feeling through a suffocating void of dark and pleasure cinching around you for the top of his head.

You moaned achingly while trying to perceive what you were not allowed to see. Nothing stimulated curiosity more than what was forbidden, and you fathomed why as your fingertips worked to decipher his features, transmitted the rough etchings into bleary images with no beginning or end.

“Do you fear what you feel?” asked Lysander, without ire, but miserable in his yearning. He gave you permission to translate his darkness, make sense of the pits in his flesh, all of the stony, broken protrusions which had been filed down to stumps and never grown back. They were fused to him, bone and cartilage excruciatingly removed, emerging from the sides of his head and his temples. “Does my hideousness frighten you? Am I the abomination that you dreamed of?”

“I know no fear,” you said, and Lysander’s coarse cheeks raised, folded, and strained against your thighs as he smiled. “To me, you are merely Lysander. Not the abomination. Not that damned armor that you wear. Let that be enough.”

Pleased, he returned to you with fervor, to savor more of your push and pull. The jounce of your hips. Wanting him close as much as you wanted to shove him away.

He was mostly an amalgam of nonsense in your head; physical pieces unable to interlock into anything whole. Complicated.

It frustrated you that he would not let you set your eyes upon his true visage. It frustrated you that he was delaying your gratification because he liked licking, sucking you raw so you'd cry out sharply from your chest and not your head.

But, he had become anxious from anticipation, tormented by inevitability, so he turned you over. Maneuvered you onto your knees, splayed them over the sodden robes and damp grass. His armor grated as he came closer, crunching into that unforgiving form of sharpness and cold, startling you with the heat of his cock filling the gap between your legs.

“I'll hurt you,” was spoken differently from before when he had wanted you, looked at you questionably, tried to use his enormity to frighten you. He was unhindered now. “I do not want to hurt you, but I will. I cannot deny what either of my halves crave. I have tasted excess, the essence from your body and your magic. I am yours.”

“I knew what would come from this, Lysander. I know what can happen.” He could tear you apart, perforate your organs, be inundated by desire and biology so immense that he consumes your body. It was far too late to trade this for another course. “If you're mine, prove it to me. Show me how loyal you are. Don't stop until you've left your mark.”

“Aye, as you wish.” His cock dragged firmly along your abdomen, hot and pulsing, twitching against you like a thing searching for a way in. “You say cruel things with such sweetness. I fear that my madness, my brokenness have manifested you, and when this is over, you'll only have been a figment of fantasy.”

You swayed with him, clamped him with your thighs weakened by his tongue. Lysander’s groan resonated, harsher without the helmet, sharp like his teeth.

“If this is a fantasy, however short it is, we should both enjoy it. Fuck me. I'm yours.”

“Aye. You are mine.”

Those hard-worn leather hands and frigid claws were on you again, spread wide everywhere. He could not grab you, enclose you with his iridescent fortress without gouging you on his spikes. Skin-to-skin, burying himself within you completely, that connectedness would always elude him.

So, he devoured you how he could. Had indulged with his entire mouth, his wild hands, and now his cock. His head was gluey and smeared a sluggish trail to your core where he stroked you with it eagerly. Fluids intermingled: his, yours, sweat, salvia, and earthy condensation. More of his seeped out, warm and heady, a thick layer to cover his cock before he took you.

He nudged himself inside, listened for your brittle gasps of shock to the stretch, the great and unnatural intrusion. They came right away. You surprised him by letting him continue, strained the muscles in your legs to accommodate depth, and whimpered only a little when he started to thrust slowly.

You couldn't route your mind to other things as he did this, moved fractionally to minimize your agony, pushed deeper to gape your significantly smaller anatomy. His jaw chattered from overhead, beckoning either in patience, or stifling what sounds of bliss he really wanted to exhale.

Even when he had rearranged you again, down onto one hip with your other leg settled on his arm, he could only sheath himself halfway. He had finally decided to stop after pushing too hard and hearing you gag, fractured the silent air with a startled cry, one which was accompanied by real tears. The only ones you could ever remember spilling, and swiped away as quickly as they had come.

Lysander turned his head to your leg on him, molded a kiss to your shin, and took his time thrusting into you. Eventually, he let you rest on your back with both legs strewn over his arms. His hands cradled the globes of your ass, lifted your lower body up for his cock to reach.

His immense girth with the rough segments and grappling ridges started to feel good. Nothing went missed, nowhere went without being stroked or prodded. Your breaths were as shattered as you felt by him, eyes gazing up vacantly at the starless sky, hands creasing fabric and tearing up black fingers of grass.

At your every moan, his thrusts grew a little more honed and his armor grinded hollowly with a beat, putting some irrational fear in you that he was unscrewing and would fall apart in pieces. His vocalizations were a combination of wild thrumming and bestial panting and bellowing.

The silvery-gold stallions were probably pacing timidly, snorting defensive fog into the air, alerting the disgruntled coachmen to the sounds. He would've heard your frailer noises intertwined with Lysander's and would ask no questions tomorrow, nor be able to bring himself to look at you again.

Lysander’s strokes inside your body reached deep, left you queasy in the head as he effortlessly jostled you on his cock. The segments along his shaft pushed and pulled the fine tissue around your entrance. It throbbed sorely. You detected blood and thought of the faint tang of copper slick on your skin; imagined a pink, creamy ring around his cock.

The ridges were what finished you, built up that orgasmic well in your stomach and loins. It overflowed when you touched yourself and choked from sensitivity, but kept going. The back of your head dug into your soggy robes, joining the grass and the earth and natural indulgences you had abandoned in isolation.

You withdrew behind clenched eyelids, a world made of wrinkled skin and twitching eyelashes. It forced you to focus on Lysander; his ripe, inhuman pleasure as close to climax as you were. It forced you to truly experience his cock, the sheer size of it impaling you again and again, foul and sloppy and never fitting right. The ridges tried to find purchase along your inner walls, adhere unrelentingly like briars to your clothes.

They were evolutionary for dragons, meant to massage to numbness, house a cock cozily until it was flaccid. What you possessed was smaller and far less robust, so with every pass Lysander made, the ridges teased your velvety insides with hard tugs until you were over the edge.

Tiny threads of fire ignited under your skin, carrying you through the white static in your head, torrents of electric writhing through each limb, finger, and toe. It crashed over you so powerfully that you were soundless as if submerged underwater, or trapped in some airless place. Just as fast as it had all come on, the pleasure lifted off of you like a spirit ascending to the gods, leaving you pleasantly spent in cool, static relief.

Lysander had seen your warped grimace, your subsequent facial softening and sighing. He had felt your walls clench him, trying to wring whatever they could from his cock but he hadn't been ready until he saw you calm, intoxicated by emptiness, sprawled open and unmoving below him.

He rutted into you savagely at the end, stirring you back into discomfort, but he was done and cum surged inside of you so strongly that it caused another reaction. You gasped nasally, shivered as he fucked you through his orgasm with feral moans, hips lashing your naked ass with the chainmail he hadn't removed.

His release overflowed; globs of it pushed out, around his cock as he withdrew. It leaked from you sluggish and plentiful, and you pretended for it to be pooling hot white beneath you, under your ass and legs once Lysander let them down gently.

Even in your sedated afterglow, your body stinging, sore and chafed from overuse, you could still think of nothing but catastrophe, soul fruit, and whether Lysander was capable of producing life, or if everything about him was truly damned.

You heard his armor scrape, his helmet returned to complete him: the atrocity known as the Knight of Noss. He had once again become loathsome and impenetrable, but he stayed with you there on the ground, watching your limbs shift around as though the relaxation you felt was everywhere, all around you. An aura radiating, vibrating like a pleased animal.

“Such a sight. I will never tire of it.” He said from within his castle of magnificent thorns. “My days from before feel far away, long gone. They're memories of someone else, someone destined to walk in darkness, through rivers of blood and decay. You see me as more. I am more.”

Your night sky descended, swallowing everything around it into its peaks and mass. He was careful not to come down so far as to crush you beneath his armor, but he covered you, concealed you perfectly from the spiral of ancient trees overhead, from always prying, hidden eyes.

He kissed you. You accepted his lips and his veneration, his chest of ice.

After a moment, “This is our end set in stone, Lysander. From here on out, we will be marching to our doom.”

“Aye,” he soothed grim reality with fearlessness, devotion pressed against your mouth. “We are doomed. But, we face it together.”

Maybe, it wasn't so foolish to hope.

Maybe.

Maybe…

────────────────────────

author's note: so, first and foremost, thank you so much for reading. the concept for the knight of noss has existed in my head for almost fifteen years. until the past three or four years, however, I have never had the skill to be able to execute any of the ideas. to see an idea like this come to fruition after so long is, honestly... overwhelming. to know that there people who wanted to see my explore this idea means even more to me.

if you're interested in the actual story, you're more than free to shoot me questions about it. I did have a massive amount of lore written out, but decided against including it here so as to not drag things on and on.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story, and I hope to hear your thoughts on it! I'll see y'all in the next piece ❤️🙂‍↕️.

Be careful princess  🌸

LONG LIVE THE VILLAINESS !

amidst the tale of sweetest love and bitterest revenge, the fallen empress is cast back ten years into the past to correct her sins and avoid eternal damnation, even at the price of betraying her once husband, the very cause of her downfall.

♱ pairings. gojo satoru, fem!reader

♱ genre. enemies-to-lovers, period piece, medieval au

♱ tags. ooc, regression, crown prince!gojo, noble lady!reader, politics, classism, clan wars, religion (catholicism), misogyny, violence, war, rebellion, suggestive, smut, gore, double life, explicit language, more to be added

♱ notes. this fic draws heavy inspirations from the webnovel ‘sister, i am the queen in this life’ and manhwa of the same name. it’s basically a fanfic of that series bc i am obsessed with it :’D

♱ status. on-going (slow updates)

♱ SECOND TIMELINE TO AS YOU LIKE IT ♱

PROLOGUE.

ACT I. THE LADY

ACT II. THE CROWN PRINCE

ACT III. THE KNIGHT

ACT IV. THE STAR CROSSED LOVERS

ACT V. THE BLESSED

ACT VI. THE SIN

ACT VII. THE REVELATION

ACT VIII. THE ENEMY

ACT IX. THE LOVER

ACT X. THE EMPRESS

EPILOGUE.

PROLOGUE 

Like plunging beneath the surface of water and then, abruptly, breaking through to the air above—your body jolted as if awakening in a new world altogether. You drew in a long breath, your eyes fluttering open to reveal the ceiling, both familiar yet unfamiliar in its greeting. Swiftly, you surveyed your surroundings, noting with growing recognition the confines of your old room within the De Roma estate. The estate! 

You were not in the palace of Caelum, but in the estate of House De Roma. A surge of realization flooded through you as you dashed towards the nearest mirror, confronting your reflection with wide, startled eyes. 

No... could it be... that you have returned to your body, ten years prior?!

In the mirror, the reflection staring back at you was not that of the notorious wife of the tyrant Emperor Satoru, but of a 20-year-old maiden, the eldest daughter of Duke de Roma, with fuller cheeks and a more youthful appearance. You could not shake the feeling of disbelief, wondering if this was all just a dream, so you reached out to touch your arms and felt the flesh beneath your fingers, trying to convince yourself that this was an unexpected reality.

Oh, you were back. You found yourself returned to your former self, a decade younger, but now armed with the knowledge of your past life's actions and their consequences. Alongside this newfound understanding, the gift of clairvoyance had also been bestowed upon you.

And for what? Why had the heavens above returned you to your body? Was it for revenge, a second chance, or perhaps punishment?

Suddenly, a loud, deafening sound pierced your ears, and a blinding white light enveloped your vision. Your body became as still as a statue, and it felt as though your soul was transported to a fourth dimension where divine intervention seemed a lot more plausible to exist.

As your soul hovered in the liminal space between life and death, you found yourself standing before a figure cloaked in billowing robes, her presence commanding and her gaze piercing. This figure was Fortuna, the ancient Caelan goddess of fortune and fate, her visage austere and unforgiving.

“Are you aware of the sins that stain your soul?” 

“Have you felt the weight of your transgressions, the consequences of your actions that have wrought suffering upon your people and brought ruin to your empire?”

Her voice echoed through the realm with the divine judgment that weighed upon your conscience, while her gaze penetrated to the core of your being and demanded honesty and accountability in the face of your past misdeeds.

“Will you atone for your sins?” 

“Will you seize this opportunity for redemption, or will you squander it in self-pity and remorse?”

As you stood in the presence of the ancient goddess, grappling with the heaviness of your sins and the daunting task ahead, a brilliant light had all of a sudden illuminated the space around you. From the heart of this radiant glow emerged the figure of Archangel Raphael, his presence heralded by a chorus of angelical voices and the stirring of celestial winds.

Clad in robes that seemed to shimmer with the intensity of celestial light, Archangel Raphael's presence commanded attention, his wings unfurled behind him in a display of resolute authority. If Goddess Fortuna was intimidating, the archangel was fearsome all the more. His gaze, intense and penetrating, swept over you with a gravity that left no room for evasion or deceit.

“Empress of Caelum,” he spoke, his tone firm and unyielding, and his voice carrying a billion years of heavenly existence, “You stand accused of grievous sins, crimes that have shaken the very foundations of your empire and brought suffering upon your people.”

There was no trace of softness in Archangel Raphael's demeanor, no room for mercy in the face of wrongdoing. His presence was a testament to the uncompromising nature of divine justice, his strictness a reflection of the solemn duty entrusted to him as an Archangel of the Almighty. This, no doubt, was the face of a true and formidable executor of justice.

And you, the subject, had angered the divine beings that guarded the Caelan Empire, so much so that God himself sent the goddess of the land and one of his archangels to mitigate your rightful punishment.

“By the decree of the Almighty, you are granted a second chance to amend your sins and redeem your soul. You shall return to the mortal realm, to live your life anew and correct the sins that have stained your soul.”

“Should you fail to rectify your past transgressions, should you stray from the path of righteousness and succumb once more to the temptations of darkness, know that the consequences shall be severe and eternal.”

“For those who squander the gift of divine mercy shall be cast into the deepest depths of hell, where they shall endure a punishment of unending torment and suffering.”

In the presence of Archangel Raphael and Goddess Fortuna’s equally stern gazes, you were keenly aware of the magnitude of your transgressions and the severity of the judgment that awaited you. But even as you trembled beneath the weight of their scrutiny, you knew that their presence also offered you the opportunity for redemption, with your only task to prove yourself worthy of divine mercy.

Indeed, it was by your very hands that hundreds and thousands of Christian souls shed their blood. Innocent lives, both young and old, were cruelly taken at your command. The citizens of Caelum who fell sick from the spread of the plague. The esteemed Caelan advisors of your husband’s primogenitors, skinned alive and speared in pikes by the Tiber River. The wrongly accused maid who suffered the indignity of serving your husband, paraded unclothed through the streets and subjected to the brutality of the pear of anguish. The gallant and dignified knight, tortured mentally and physically in the atrocious dungeon. Now, you find yourself thrust back into the horrors of your former life ten years hence. A life of a noble lady who ought not to be blinded by her destructive love for the empire’s crown prince. 

Yet, could you truly navigate this life without ascending to the position as his empress?

As you tried to commune with the divine beings afore you, a haze in your vision transported you away from the heavenly space, realizing that you were already drawn back into the reality of your chamber, inhabiting the youthful frame of a twenty-year-old daughter of a duke. You found yourself too astonished to move, too shaken to speak, and too afraid to take any action in this new lease of life blessed upon you. At that very moment, your state of reverie was disrupted at the arrival of your maid, who entered your chamber in a humble servant garb.

Milena. The maid whose life was cut short by your hand in your past existence due to petty thievery. “My lady,” she spoke with a hint of respect and urgency, unaware of the ill-fate you had given her in your past life, “A visitor has arrived at the gates and requests an audience with you. Shall I show them in?” 

Too soon? Need it truly be so soon to engage with the people from your past life immediately after awakening to your old, yet younger body? Gazing upon your maid through the mirror, you asked, “Who is that intruder you speak of?” 

She bowed her head, her stance shifting into one of apologetic deference. The way she firmly stood by your door was a message to you that the intruder was not someone you could easily reject the presence of.

“The visitor is His Highness, Crown Prince Satoru.” 

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

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?" 

Me,when it comes out:

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 (part 2)

✧˚ · . three minutes past his 27th birthday, the mass serial killer known as 'dawnbreaker' finally meets the girl from his dreams

✧˚ · . part 1

✧˚ · . warnings:- dawnbreaker!zayne x fem!reader, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of food, mentions of illnesses, mentions of injuries, spoilers for zayne's lore, alternative timeline, mentions of babies, mentions of pregnancies, pet names (darling, my love, beloved), nightmares, mentions of smoking, MCD, brief mentions of su_cide, nightmares, a not so happy happy ending, minors and ageless blogs do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption

✧˚ · . dawn says: i had to split the last part into 2 because it was literally so long tumblr said nope sorry girlie this ain't making it into the tags lol

✧˚ · . playlist

“You may know me as Zayne, but I go by another name…” 

He exhales it into the suffocating silence:

“Dawnbreaker.”

Your eyes bulge wider, mouth falling open in horror. Of course, you were aware of that name; you knew who he was.

Serina Callaghan, daughter of Detective Callaghan, had told you numerous stories about the elusive serial killer. How no one could find a trace of him. 

Yet, here he was—standing in your kitchen with remorse etched onto every pore of his body.

You feel a sick sense of nausea bubbling from your stomach to your chest, threatening to spill onto the floor.

You had taken him in… made love to him… held him in your arms every night… when he had killed all those innocent people…

As if reading your mind, Zayne shakes his head. “These people—the ones who had passed on—I never killed them for fun. They wanted me to end their lives because they were overtaken by the disease… by the Abomination.”

His words shock you out of your reverie; tames your urge to grab the phone and call the police. For a split second, you wonder what Zayne would do to you if you were to lunge for the cordless phone; would he escape?

Kill you?

Forcing yourself to be far braver than you felt, you clutched your trembling hands together, taking in a deep breath.

“So, m-mercy killing,” your voice shook, but your deduction was spot on.

“Yes.” He shrugs off his coat, and you eye the wad of cash he takes out and sets on your kitchen counter. “I will never kill someone unless they pay me to do it. I do not like taking lives, but as one of the last Evolvers in this generation… it is my duty to help.”

Evolver? 

The layers of truth were starting to make your head spin. You could barely unravel your spiraling thoughts.

“I thought Evolvers were extinct.”

Zayne shakes his head. “We are rare, but we are still here.”

As if to solidify the truth, he holds out his hand. On his palm, the air condenses, and the temperature in the kitchen drops a few celsius. You watch, gobsmack in silence, as bits of snow appear, coalescing right into a singular teardrop-shaped crystal that unfurls into a shimmery flower with five petals.

“Ice,” Zayne explains, and slowly approaches you. He gently places the flower on the table, right where you were standing. 

He backs away, giving you some space to work out your emotions. You stare at the jasmine flower, in silent contemplation. 

It’s intricate and beautiful, but ice in itself was deadly. 

While it looked harmless falling from the sky, it had the power to bury people under its weight; causing hypothermia, avalanches, and skin burns. 

You glance at Zayne, wondering which category he belonged in—if he was a chilly breeze or an entire fucking snowstorm.

His weary gaze spoke volumes, though he let you reach your own conclusions. Zayne was giving you a choice: one many people in your life didn’t.

Stay or leave. 

Be with him or turn him away.

Two forks of an outcome; you had no idea what to choose. 

Your silence stretches on and Zayne hangs his head forward. He’s about to turn and leave, when you slowly reach out to touch the jasmine flower. It’s cool on your palm, tougher and durable. Not wet and cold like real ice.

“Crystals?” 

Your voice comes off low, hoarse. There’s a dazed look in your eyes, one which tugs on the sorrow lining his soul.

He hates to do this to you; hates how conflicted you look.

“This is what you use to kill people, don’t you?” 

Astute, again. Zayne would honestly be impressed by your wits if he wasn’t painfully aware of how you were holding him accountable for his horrendous mistakes.

“I know you think awfully of me—”

“Why kill them?” You’re breathing heavily now, anguish coating your every word. “What if you could save them, instead? Can’t that be done?”

Zayne shakes his head, unable to meet your eye. “I have spoken to a few scientists about this… but many of them were taken by the Abomination. It’s caused by constant exposure to Protocores and is incurable. The only thing I can do is make sure those infected have a swift end.”

Your silence strikes him heavier than a hit.

“Infected?" you murmur hoarsely. "Constant exposure? A swift end? Do you even hear yourself?” 

You simmer and bubble, cheeks flushed with anger. “Zayne—these are human beings! People with love, dreams and hopes. People with families. They’re not jobs or ledgers. They deserve a bit more dignity than that.”

Suddenly, the despair in his eyes turns ice cold. You’re hopeless to stop him from approaching you, and scramble back until you bump the kitchen counter, eyes wide and fearful. But, he stops just shy of your feet touching, an unfathomable expression on his face.

“I would never hurt anyone. Ever. You of all people should know. Didn’t you say you weren’t afraid of me the first time we were intimate together?” He fights hard to not let his tone turn accusatory, eyes shining with frustration and unshed tears. “What made you change your mind this time?” 

“You killed them… you killed them all,” you’re close to tears, trembling from head to toe. Zayne looks like he’s about to cry as well, begging you to see beyond the murderer you thought he was; to embrace him and hold him and share his burden, even though he knows it’s unfair to put all this weight on you.

He was so tired of pretending that everything was alright. And deep down, he knew you were, too.

This world wasn’t kind to anyone, and he only had you to soothe the ache—to be the light he looks forward to every morning. 

Please, don’t go, he wants to scream, hands balled into fists at his side. Don’t leave me alone… you are the only one I have left. 

A sob bubbles past your lips, and you wrap your arms around you; willing yourself to stand upright and be brave.

“Do you regret it?” your voice is thick, and he longs to staunch the tears falling from your cheeks, but the words are lost in his throat.

“All of them? Did you ever regret killing them?”

Zayne tightens his fists, clenching down hard enough for his nails to leave pale moon crescent indents on his palms. 

“There was a boy I had to kill once. Georgie. He would’ve been thirteen…” he closes his eyes, hoping to find some strength to push on. Zayne was so incredibly tired from constantly fighting.

“We celebrated his birthday at a cafe, too. He loved macarons. And chocolate. But, his mother gave him the disease. I had to be the one to put him down. I still think about him every time I hear ‘happy birthday’.”

His words are simple, but they make you bleed, staring at the floor with tears blurring your vision.

You fall into a thick disquiet, and so did he. Zayne stands upright, like a prisoner about to be read his final judgment; willing you to forgive him—god he hopes you find it in your heart to forgive him.

He wasn’t a good man—a fiend of the night people were afraid of. But, Zayne would never forgive himself if you didn’t take him back. He would dig his knees to the ground, beg for you to change your mind.

In the throes of his own self-loathing, he almost flinches when he feels your arms wrap around his torso. Your head thumps onto his chest, and he realizes you’re fully crying now. He embraces you fiercely, quickly. Holding you fast to him as if you both could fuse together and become one.

You leave tear stains across his blood speckled shirt, fingers digging into his shoulders as violent sobs rip through you. 

“Do you hate me?” He forces himself to ask through numb lips. Zayne doesn’t know what answer you would give—if you would even reply to him.

But, you shake your head, hiccuping his name. 

“Are you afraid?” 

There’s a slight pause, and you shudder, shaking your head again. 

Zayne nuzzles your hair, rocking you from side to side like he was comforting a hysterical child. 

Your sobs eventually stop and you’re both swaying in each other’s arms now. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. Zayne hums in confusion, and you continue. “I’m sorry for being so quick to misjudge you. You’re not the bad guy, Zayne. You were forced into this horror… our world is so fucked up and you were just trying to make it better any way you could.”

You peel your face from his chest, eyes red-rimmed and nose runny. He gently dabs at your tears and snot with the sleeve of his dress shirt, careful not to press down too hard.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you both let the silence scatter and fall where it may. Somehow, your fingers end up in his hair and he’s nudging you back against the hard counter.

Zayne lifts you up effortlessly, parting your legs wide to slot himself in between them, hands gently squeezing and groping your thighs and hips.

The need to reclaim you claws through him, searing his every coherent thought with nothing but the cry of your name.

He looks down the line of his nose, tilting your face up to the light so you meet his eyes. What he finds in your expression makes his heart ache in misery—your sadness and despondency hitting him right in the soul.

“Would you rather I stop killing people?”

It’s a loaded question, one that has your mind reeling. You eye the blood on his shirt, now soaked through with your tears. 

“Only if you promise me you will never find pleasure from it.”

He shakes his head, firm in his conviction. “Never. Not once, or ever. I can promise you that.”

“Do the police know?” 

A good question, indeed. Zayne nods, catching you off guard.

“Callaghan’s colleague. Detective Ivan. He was the one who scrubbed my records clean. He knows not to seek me out because… it means he’s next.”

Zayne lets the words hang in the air. He hears your mind whirring, thoughts piecing together.

“Detective Ivan found out and agrees with what you’re doing? So, the police are turning a blind eye?”

“Yes,” Zayne murmurs, trying hard not to fall into the gravity of your lips; forcing attention to this distressing topic. 

“He was with me when Georgie died. He saw the extent of how the Abomination takes over people. Dark as it is, he agrees with my ethics and now, I only focus on people who come to me through word of mouth. Rarely do I ever hunt them anymore. They choose this end because it is far less painful than the alternative.”

“Which is?” 

He steadies himself with a short breath. “Living as a rotting corpse with no control over your body.”

You suck in a sharp inhale. Your smaller fingers fist the front of his shirt, your mind a million miles away.

Zayne nudges your face towards him, fingers cold on your skin. He swallows hard, and you follow the motion—his throat moving, Adam’s apple bobbing. Impulsively, you lean forward, catching him off guard with a chaste kiss.

He musters a low groan when you begin to tug on his hair; sliding your tongue into his mouth.

Frantically, he grips your thighs, hips—fisting your hair to pull you closer. 

Hot breaths clash. Moans echo around the kitchen. You lean back, far enough for silvery strands of spit to connect your lips to his. 

Zayne devours the dark look in your eyes, and he thinks loving someone shouldn’t hurt this much, but for you, he would go through the agony all over again.

The tormented man wants to swallow you down, break his rib cage open and tuck you safely close to his heart. Your sighs and gasps fuel him to be better—change his ways so he could have you in his life forever. 

“Zayne,” you sigh, all syrupy and love-struck. You play with his shirt’s button, and before he can stop you, you start to unravel all of him.

“—No." He grabs your hands in a panic, stopping your intentions in loosening his buttons. Those scars on his skin flash behind his mind, marking him as a lost soul and unworthy of you.

You shake your head, determination lining your pretty features. “Don’t hide from me anymore, Zayne. I want to see you—all of you.”

He’s helpless to stop you from unfastening his armor, greeting those silvery scars with a soft gasp.

There was a reason he never fucked you with the lights on—those lacerations on his body caused him shame.

But, you don't recoil out of disgust like he expects. Instead, your pretty fingers topped with pink nail polish trace the milky white divots; those signs of pain and abuse he had to endure for his entire life.

Peering at you pass thick lashes, he sees you lick your lips, the desire on your face as clear as day.

“You’re so beautiful, Zayne.”

Not giving him a chance to speak, you dip your head forward, pressing your soft lips reverently to the scar just above his heart.

Zayne feels like something seismic has just happened—an internal earthquake which rocks him apart. 

Outwardly, the world doesn’t change; the flickering light he keeps on forgetting to fix over your sink still casts intermittent shadows across your face; the outside world whirs with sounds of robots and automated deliveries.

Nothing has changed and yet, everything inside of him has fundamentally been shifted.

A strangled sound emanates from his chest, and you look up quickly, afraid that you might have hurt him.

But, Zayne’s not in pain—not in the least. His green eyes shine verdantly like a forest after a storm, locked right onto your flushed face. You think that out of all the realities in this messed up world, you might find the real meaning of adoration in them.

He cups your face, smoothes your cheeks with his thumbs. 

“I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said this out loud. His breathing stutters, caught off guard. And you’re staring at him, too. All wide eyes, and parted, perfect lips. 

Slowly, you defrost, bringing your hands up to your face, pressing your palms to the back of his hands. 

The silence is deafening—a pin could roll off the counter and fall to the ground, sounding like an explosion. Zayne swears he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. 

“I love you, too.”

Your voice is soft. Fragile. It echoes with shades of fear, but never uncertainty. 

For if there was one thing you were certain in this life, it was that you were completely, sincerely and stupidly in love with Zayne.

His eyes ripple close, and so do yours. Foreheads gently touch, breaths shared as one. The two of you stay like this for a long time, savoring this quiet, beautiful connection you had both created in such a short time.

Zayne has never known love in this lifetime. 

Slowly—surely—he was starting to warm himself up to the idea; falling deeper and deeper into a head on collision with your devotion. 

None of it scares him; how could it when it’s the stuff of his dreams? Of a forever stretching into the tiniest moments: languid mornings over shitty cereal and sappy medical romcoms on your beaten up couch and nights spent warming your sheets.

He can’t fight it; this feeling of always wanting to be by your side.

And so, he openly and fervently welcomes it.

“You’re glowing.”

Serina’s offhand comment brings you up short, and you fight back the creeping flush threatening to overtake your cheeks; preferring to bite your lower lip and turn you face away so she couldn’t see your growing smile.

Her silence isn’t judgmental this time. Rather, it’s tainted with a cynical curiosity.

“I guess Zayne really does make you happy.”

You hum, going back to your supplies of flour and sheets of freshly roasted nuts.

“He’s staying with me now.”

“Oh.”

You don’t turn to face; don’t have to because you know she’s making a face behind your back. 

“Is he coming to pick you up later?”

You think about him astride his motorcycle, dark locks whipping in the wind; fitted black trench coat, pristine suit and tie clinging right onto his frame and feel your stomach twist with nerves.

“Mhm hmm.”

Serina pauses, and you could tell she was struggling with something to say. 

“I’m happy for you.” 

Whatever it was you expected to drop from her mouth, it wasn’t this.

You turn around, and the incredulity must've been transparent on your face because she bursts into laughter, doubling forward to cackle with glee.

“Your face! You look like I just came out and told you I sold children’s blood by the bag.” 

She snorts and straightens, wheezing slightly. “I am happy for you, you idiot. I’m glad you’re not fish food yet and you’re glowing and you have a stupid amount of hickeys you try to cover up every day with that shitty concealer I got for you five fucking years ago. Point is: I’m happy for you.”

Serina emphasizes the last word, and you shyly lace your fingers together, feeling both sheepish and incredibly exasperated.

“I… Thank you.” Not knowing what else to say, you flash her a small smile, one which she returns instantly.

Scoffing, she runs a hand through her platinum blonde hair and tosses the rag she was holding across her shoulder, gesturing to the door.

“Go. I can handle closing time. I know you’re dying to see Zayne tonight.”

You perk up, in disbelief. “Serina—” 

“Leave those nuts in the fridge. They should be easy to chop up and temper with our chocolate bark tomorrow.” Hustling you out of the kitchen, you squeal at the feel of her cold fingers prodding your lower back. “Now, go. Call Zayne up and let him take you home. I’m sick of your love struck puppy expression.”

Despite yourself, you laugh, and unlace your apron. “Are you sure you can handle it? I can stay with you and help.”

Serina makes a face, though you could tell she was joking. “Ugh, and have to be around you for another hour while you pine for and miss him? Yuck. Get out of here.”

She jokingly swats you with her towel and you get her message loud and clear. 

“Okay, okay. Goodnight, you ass.”

“Goodnight, simp,” she drawls, and you scoff, rolling your eyes while you pick up your phone to call Zayne. 

Serina waits together with you, smoking a cigarette and filling you in on the latest online celebrity gossip. 

When Zayne arrives, sharp on time and sharply dressed as ever, she shoots you a smirk and a wave. You wave back, and slip on the helmet he passes you, stradling behind him to speed off into the night.

They look happy together. 

The young woman chuckles tiredly, scrubbing a hand down her face. She trudges back into the cafe, cleans up the remaining plates and cups, humming under her breath. As she fills up the dishwasher for its final load of the night, she hears the front doorbell tinkling.

Frowning, Serina wonders if you had left something behind when the sound of heavy footfalls resounds in the quiet space.

Thinking nothing of it, she straightens, a scowl on her blush rose lips.

“We’re closed,” she calls out in her most polite voice.

The presence in the dining space does not remove itself. From her stance inside the kitchen, she could just make out the silhouette of a tall man partially hidden behind the pillar separating the main hall from where she stood. 

Fuelled with distaste and annoyance, she rounds the corner, fully prepared to fight off this stranger and tell them to piss off.

“I said, we’re closed—”

Her words are cut off when she notices a faint glow of purple surrounding him. His eyes which were once blue were now soulless and drained, clapping onto hers, their pupils widening slightly.

Strange bulges appear on his body, and in the limited light, they seem to move up and down his arms. 

Crawling like they were filled with life.

She takes a step back, a sharp scream piercing the air.

The man falls back, putting his hands over his ears. He yanks on his graying hair, teeth bared and spittle splattering onto the ground.

“Shut… up…” 

His moans rattle and thump, filled with pain. He looks at her, and in the briefest of moments when they make eye contact, Serina could plainly see the anguish in them—the desperation for someone to end it all.

“Please,” his hoarse voice makes her skin crawl, her hairs stand on end. “Someone… Help me… kill me…”

The stranger falls to his knees, back arching like a cat poised to throw up all over the polished, hardwood floors. 

He heaves, and spittle drips from between his clenched teeth. Serina can’t move; completely frozen to one spot, locked on the sight of his pale hands curling into claws.

Those choked sounds he made would haunt her for the rest of her life. But, nothing could prepare her for when he lifts his head and the bulge under his right eye bursts, revealing a dark, tentacle appendage dangling from his cheek.

“Please,” he begs her with what was left of his humanity.

“You have to help me… you have to save me.”

Zayne’s arms wrap around your waist as you’re stirring a pot, his hum of adoration and contentment rumbling against your back.

“What?” you tease, picking up some bay leaves and tossing them into the fresh marinara sauce. “Are you excited to make me cook even after I slaved for a whole night in the kitchen?”

He clicks his tongue, kisses you right on your pulse point.

“Feisty. And here I was, about to fully offer you my assistance.”

He drops his arms, and you turn back to him with a pout. 

“I was joking,” you backtrack, fluttering your lashes. “I could really use your help,” and add, “Please,” when the beginning of a smirk plays on the corners of his mouth. 

“Alright,” he hums, grabbing a handful of sweet basil and a knife, chopping them up finely to be added to the pasta sauce once it was done.

It was comfortable working alongside him. Zayne didn’t need endless chatter to fill in the void, and neither did you feel obliged to talk his ear off. 

You start to hum, and he tunes in, admiring the rise and fall of the melody; how clear and bright your voice is.

“Would you like to put on some music?” He suggests, pointing to the old radio sitting atop your kitchen counter, a fine layer of dust on its smeared screen. 

You take him up on the offer, nodding. 

Zayne pushes a button and the last recording you had on plays in the room. A voice from long ago vibrates with nostalgia, reminding him of days passed and a comfort only found from warm sheets on a Sunday morning.

“Why don’t you ever let me into your home?” 

He pauses, glancing at you. “Pardon?” 

You exhale a laugh, and a teasing quality takes over your smile. “Your apartment. How come I never see it? Do you have piles of bodies you’re hiding from me?” 

A slender, calloused finger materializes by your hip, poking into your side. You flinch and giggle, locking eyes with his amused expression. 

“Careful. Do not go around unnecessarily exposing me.”

“So, you do have them under your floorboards.” 

He decides to challenge you back. “Are you afraid?” 

You scoff, picking up a wooden ladle to stir the sauce. “You must be mistaken, Zayne. For it isn’t me who should be afraid of you, but you of me.”

He resists the urge to pick you up and spin you in his arms for being so damn adorable. Reigning in the cute aggression, he titters a laugh. “And why is that so?” 

“Because,” you turn to him, your teasing smile growing wider. “I know things you don’t know. I have a certain set of skills not many have knowledge of and I can and will use them to my advantage.”

“Oh, really?” He drawls, raising a brow. The expression draws his handsome face into a comical curiosity; it nearly breaks your resolve not to laugh. “Enlighten me on these skills.” 

You clear your throat, setting the ladle down. “For example, I can bet you that I am a better dancer.”

Unexpectedly, he sweeps you into his arms, grabbing your left hand with his right and encircling the other one around your waist; you had no choice but to place your other hand on his broad shoulder to keep your balance. 

He was close—much too close—and it makes your face burn hot, your mischievous quips dying in the back of your throat. 

Zayne holds you fast, sure—swaying you from side to side as you both slowly circle the room, one gliding footstep at a time. He makes sure to lead you properly, careful to keep you two in an orbit far from mishap. 

You feel safe enough to lay your head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and breathing alongside the sweet, romantic music. Eyes falling close, you lavish in this sense of serenity and comfort you had never felt in your life.

Zayne, too, takes a second to savor this moment. He gazes at the peace suffusing across your face and feels his heart growing lighter.

I want this for the rest of my life.

The thought jolts him from his reverie; scares him enough to convince himself to take it back.

But, as much as Zayne wants to delude himself, he can’t run away from the truth.

He wants this for as long he breathes on this godforsaken planet. As long as the seas ebb and flow and the sun turns on its fucking axis—he wants you. Zayne doesn’t care what others might think; how they would make a mockery of your connection to him. He would kill anyone who tries to get between you both. 

And he hopes that deep down, you feel the same way, too.

He wakes up in the early morning to his phone vibrating on the dresser.

Zayne groans, feels a sinking weight on his chest and realizes you had fallen asleep sprawled on top of him.

His instincts override his fuzzy mind to not wake you up, nimbly grabbing his phone and answering the call without looking at the screen.

“Zayne.”

The voice on the other end jerks him fully awake, and he resists the urge to jolt upright, remembering you were still fast asleep.

“One second,” he murmurs into the receiver. The other man hums.

Zayne puts the phone back down, gently scooping you up and rolling you to the side, tucking the covers under your chin.

He sits upright, turning to plant his feet to the ground and picks the phone back up. 

“Detective Ivan?” 

“We have an emergency.” 

Zayne stops scratching his bare chest, tired green eyes sharpening from the urgency in the older man’s tone. Ivan would never call him unless it was serious and usually there was only one reason why he would. 

“An Abomination has attacked a young woman in a cafe. Nightstar Cafe. One of those oldy diners that open till early morning.”

Ivan doesn’t hear Zayne’s sharp breath, nor is he there to see how terrified the younger man looks, turning his gaze to the sleeping woman next to him.

“A young woman? Was she blonde?”

He can feel Ivan frowning on the other end. “How did you know?” 

Zayne concocts a lie. “I saw the cafe in passing. Is it serious?”

“We have no visual on the Abomination and neither on the girl. We’re stuck and we need your help. Only you can track her down.”

Zayne racks his brain, thinking of his apartment that’s almost an hour away from yours. If he could get to his tracking systems quickly, maybe there was still time to solve this case…

“Alright,” he made up his mind. “Give me half an hour to find her. I’ll alert you to her whereabouts.”

Ivan breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Zayne.”

“Do not mention it.” He clicks off the call, turns to find you still fully asleep. As quietly as he could, he stands and gets ready, dressing in a nondescript black t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, bundling up with his trench coat to keep the autumn chill at bay.

Just as he’s about to grab his bike keys, he hears you stirring.

“Zayne?” 

Your voice is fringed with exhausted curiosity, bleary eyes blinking and trying to pin onto his figure in the total darkness.

He’s next to you in a heartbeat, bending down to place a kiss on your forehead. “I have an emergency. You stay here and rest, alright? Wait for me. I’ll be home for you soon.”

You could only nod obediently, watching him rush out of the room; the front door closing behind him with a loud thud. 

Wondering what could’ve spurred Zayne into such a frantic mode, you close your eyes, about to drift off when you hear a knock. 

Woozily, you get to your feet, stifling a yawn. The hem of his too big shirt brushes your thighs, and you rub your eyes, frowning when the knocks get more insistent.

“Coming,” you call out, and trudge to the front door. 

Peering through the security monitor, your heart skips a beat when you notice your best friend on the other side, her expression wild; eyes darting down the hallway and jaw strained.

“Serina? What’re you doing here at this time?” 

Your voice carries out to the front, and you hear her over the security intercom.

“Babe, please. Let me in. Something terrible has happened. I can’t explain it, but I need your help.”

She sounds afraid and terrified, and your heart squeezes in fear when she glances down the hallway again, as if she were being chased.

Without another thought, you unlatch the door for her, and she comes barreling in, sinking to the floor the second you shut the door closed.

You fall to your knees next to her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Squinting in the darkness, you faintly make out splotches of darkness on her tank top, and it’s not until you switch on the lights that you notice it’s blood. 

“Serina!” you gasp, and in the brightness, her irises have completely pin pricked, only a thin ring of blue surrounding them. 

She grabs your hands, tugs you closer to her face. Your heart is about to fly out of your chest, and you fight back, trying to break free from her grasp.

But, she’s fueled by fear and something else—something which ramps her paranoia up to concerning levels.

“Man. Wanderer. He hurt me. Tried to kill me. I ran… I ran here. I had no idea where else to go.”

Her words slur and clash in a cacophony of confusion. You can’t make heads or tails what she’s trying to say, but you attempt to piece it together for her sake.

“Hold on, hold on. Breathe.” You grab her thin shoulders in your white-knuckled grip, trying to shake the fear out of her. There was no time for confusion; you needed to know exactly what happened to her. “Start from the beginning, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand.”

Without warning, tears fill her eyes and she pitches her head forward, breaking into silent sobs. 

Your arms automatically wrap around her, pulling her into your embrace. She cries, screams and wails, breaking down in total fear.

“It’s okay,” you soothe her, like how you had soothed Zayne many, many times in the aftermath of his nightmares. “You’re fine. You’ll be safe.”

She shakes her head, hiccuping incoherently. “He hurt me. He cut me with his teeth. I—” A full body shudder goes through her. 

Alarmed, you rock back on your haunches, eyes wide and locked on her pinched expression. “Serina, are you okay—?” 

The words die on the tip of your tongue, and you instinctively stand up, backing towards the wall when you notice her eyes starting to glow a bright purple.

“Serina—!”

She curls onto the ground, crying out in pain. Her body starts to writhe, and a gruesome crunching sound cracks through the air.

Too late to escape, you watch in horror as her body convulses, the bones of her spine breaking and twisting. Her skin turns a revolting shade of purple, and spittle froths down her mouth.

Before the petrifying purple light entirely consumes her body, she manages to hoarsely cry out two words which shakes you to your core: 

“Save me.”

SOBS im sorry to have to cut it here but it was too long </3 last part coming soon !! reblogs and feedback are sincerely appreciated 🩷

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy my concept, repost my stories or translate and post them to other platforms