: ̗̀➛ One storm opened the door, and nothing inside her life, or soul, has been quiet since.
A/n: Reader has a son, F!reader, single mother reader, breeding, spit/drool, mating press (rahh), dark imagery, pathetic!remmick, not beta read, I write because it’s fun, not because I’m smart :3
“Fuck! Get in the house now!” A shout erupts from you suddenly, ringing out through the green-tinted sky.
Wind whips against the creaking house, sending your handmade wind chime clattering against the siding. The air is heavy with finality. Trees bend. Birds silent. Your son’s expression slips into childlike terror at the command, and he sprints towards the porch. Red dirt swirls behind him. A storm is coming; it rumbles in the distance, barely contained.
“Go on in, wash up, and close all the windows.” You instruct. Your dress twirls around you as the wind picks up in sharp bursts. Storms out here in the plains were dangerous.
“Okay, mama!” Your son shouts, his tiny fists curled in determination. As if this were a game, a tired smile brushes your lips as he scampers away. The sound of his tiny feet puttering against the wood floor warms you. A small comfort in the midst of chaos.
The house groans beneath the gusts, swaying like an old man in the wind. It was the dead of summer, and storms like this often dragged twisters behind them. That sunk your soul. You’d have to be a fool to think this house could withstand a twister. It could barely stand tall during the worst weather, and you shook your head. Those thoughts served no purpose now; you’d do what you could.
That meant grabbing every old blanket and nailing them over the windows, towels rolled up under doors that sat just a bit too high, and preparing lanterns. Your son tailed behind you, helping when he could. The last thing was to turn on the wooden radio you kept; static pierced the silence, slowly but surely, the weather reports came rolling in.
“Reports of large thunderstorm off the East, locals confirm it could be the storm of the season…”
“What does that mean, Mama?” Your son tilted his head, round eyes peering up at you.
“Means a big storm is on its way, probably in the next few hours…” You murmured, eyes still glued to the radio. The house was washed in flickering orange light with the candle you both had lit. He shifted on his knees, hands clutching his stuffed rabbit.
“Are we gonna die?” His voice so small and soft. You turn to him, hands cupping his chubby cheeks. The last thing you wanted to do, was frighten him.
“No, my love, not at all, we are safe, including Mr. Carrots.” You tease and rub the rabbit's head lovingly. He giggles and playfully ushers your hand away. It was times like these that you needed to realize your son was still so small. He didn’t understand the haste or dangers of the world yet.
Wind licked up against the house again, growing stronger and stronger. One advantage of living so far from town was that you had an open view for miles. If a twister were to come, you’d need to be able to spot it.
“Grab Mr. Carrots, we are gonna keep watch on the porch.” You stood and lifted him up with ease, limited visibility was a death sentence in these situations.
“Just like the fire watch!” He cheers and bolts towards the door, and you nod and unlock it. The screen door flies wildly, and you drag one of the chairs to secure it down.
“Look at the sky, mama!” He points, and your neck cranes up. Ugly clouds twisted like snakes above, and it looked as if it was dusk. No hint of the sun peaking out. Unnerving rumbling shakes the ground ever so slightly. Powerful. Destructive. Terrifying.
“Stay under the porch.” You command. He shuffles back and plops down. His attention was now fixated on discussing the storm with his toy. The sky beckons, and your boots shuffle down the steps. Unable to tear your eyes from the strange cloud formation. It’s hypnotic and ethereal. One would think God himself had come to strike you down.
In that moment, you feel something shift. Quick and subtle. As if the horizon has eyes. Your gaze snaps towards the dirt pasture, searching. Dust hides almost all visibility. Another step forward. There’s no fencing on the border of your land; it’s open and vast. Another step. Something is wrong. The storm brews in the background, but this is different. That’s when your eyes lock onto a stumbling form, the form of a person. Something deep in your gut shifts, like the wind had turned in his direction before you ever saw him.
A step back. Even from here, you can tell he’s injured; his body buckles with each step, knees knocking together as he staggers like something half-dead. You shoot a glance back towards your son on the porch, and he is still engrossed in his rabbit.
“I’ll be right back love, stay there!” You announced. You didn’t want this stranger to get too close to the house, more so your son. Brow furrowed you stride forward,
“Hello? Sorry, Sir, but this is private property!” You shout over the wind, but he doesn’t slow. His movements almost look animalistic as he attempts to shield himself from something.
“Hello?” You try again. He is getting closer, close enough to see the tattered shirt and bloodstained pants. You balk, stunned. His bloodied face now in view, his eye swollen shut. He smells burnt, charred marks blooming on his skin. The scent makes your stomach slosh.
“Oh my god! Are you alright?” You gasp, hands hovering over your mouth. Never had you seen such carnage on a person. The stranger is no more than a few feet away before he collapses. His breathing sounds like it hurts, each rasp puffs the dirt smushed against his face.
“Shit, shit, shit!” You hiss, another glance back, your son stands by the porch stairs, puzzled. You groan and bend down to haul this man against you. The stench on him makes you gag; his deadweight arms rest against your neck. The storm is building in strength, and fat raindrops start their rapid descent. You’re soaked through your dress once you reach the door, your son bouncing on his heels at the stranger. It’s not often you have someone new around after all.
“Go get the first aid kit.” You nod to him and he darts off. Grunting, you push him off you and onto the sofa. He lands with a pained groan, and you wince. Perhaps you could be a bit more gentle.
“I got it, Mama!” You shush him and crack open the metal box. Gauze and aloe would be all you could offer at the moment; pain medicine was expensive.
“You gotta stay quiet, love, the man is hurtin’.” You rip off a chunk of gauze with your teeth, setting to work on his arms and upper body. Your son nods in understanding, carefully watching as you lift the stranger up.
Another groan. He doesn’t seem conscious, which does make this next part easier. You soak a rag in alcohol and press it to the gash on his face. He jerks, fists curling tight, teeth flashing in a silent snarl.
“I’m sorry…” You murmur, as painful as this was, infection would be much more brutal. Patching him is methodical, and you fall into the easy hum of moving and shifting him. Before long, he looks alive once more, so you leave him to rest and start dinner. The storm has morphed into a heavy downpour and howling winds, and your son shifts closer to your legs.
“Don’t worry, love.” You pat his head, but even you can’t hide the nervous glances towards the windows. Night twisters were something out of a nightmare; you prayed to whoever would listen to spare your home.
Tonight was stew, comforting and warm. A stark contrast to the flood beginning at your doorstep. About two hours had passed since the man lay on your sofa, and he had yet to move. Paranoia had you checking his pulse every twenty minutes to make sure he was even still breathing. You decided on rousing him up for dinner, who knows how long it had been since he ate?
Your son sits at the table, hands clasped in grace, before he practically attacks the stew. You shook your head and headed into the living room. The stew’s steam curls into your face as you carry a bowl toward the stranger, who still hasn’t stirred. He looked so peaceful, handsome too, without all that gore on him.
“Sir?” You whispered. Shaking him might hurt him further, you frowned. Not even a twitch in his face, you checked his pulse once more. Very much alive.
“Sir, wake up. Please.” You nearly pleaded. At last, he stirred, groaning as he threw a bandaged arm over his face. Relief bled into your limbs, your shoulders sagging with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His lips moved faintly, but no sound came. For a moment, you weren’t sure if he even knew where he was.
“Oh thank God, thought we might’ve lost ya,” you breathe, stepping back as he adjusts to the stiffness in his limbs.
With a grunt of exertion, the man slowly sits upright. Silence settles between you like a weight. He blinks hard, eyes scanning the room in jerky motions, head on a swivel. You shift on your feet, nerves buzzing. You’d be confused too, waking up bandaged in a stranger’s living room.
“You collapsed on my property. Your skin was… sizzling.”
Why does your voice sound so thin? You feel like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Finally, his eyes land on you, really land on you. Like he’s just now realizing you’re there.
“W-why?” He rasps. Voice as rough as dried gravel.
“Why?” you echo, taken aback.
“I couldn’t leave you out there. You’d have died,” you say simply. It comes out matter-of-fact, though your hands are still clenched at your sides. The lack of empathy was rampant in this world, still, his confusion surprised you.
He doesn’t respond, just presses his cracked lips into a hard line, gaze dragging slowly over you. Not like a man taking you in, but like someone still deciding if you’re real.
“That aside,” you say, voice steadier now, “I made you dinner. To get your strength back and all.”
You push the bowl toward him. He doesn’t take it. He just stares.
“You’re not scared of me,” he says, more a statement than a question.
“I don’t know…” he breathes, eyes unfocused, as if the answer could be hiding somewhere inside him.
You open your mouth to respond, but the words die on your tongue.
“Mama! Did he wake up yet?”
The elated squeal cuts through the air like a crack of thunder. The man’s eyes go wide; his head snaps toward the kitchen with almost inhuman speed. Your son bursts into the room, eyes alight when he spots the man. He bounds across the floor and wraps himself around your thigh, peeking out with a sudden shyness that warms your chest.
“Yes, love,” you hum, smoothing a hand over his hair, “but he’s still quite tired.”
The man blanches. His already pale skin turns ashen.
“Y-you have a child?” he asks, voice tight.
You frown at the question, but your son answers before you can.
“Yes! And I’m five!” he beams, holding up five fingers and waving them proudly at the man.
The man nods stiffly, his gaze flickering between you and the boy. Instinctively, you curl a protective arm around your son. The man notices. His jaw flexes, and then, slowly, he gives you a subtle nod.
“It’s twister weather out there,” you say evenly, your eyes watching his every twitch. “You can leave once the storm dies down.”
Another nod. Then finally, he looks down at the cooling bowl in his lap.
“Thank you for this, ma’am,” he murmurs.
His voice is gruff, unsteady, like he’s afraid one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. His voice is gruff, unsteady—like one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace between you. You break your trance to usher your son upstairs.
“Go on and wash up. And don’t sit in the bath too long, there’s lightning,” you warn softly.
He giggles and bounds up the stairs, little feet thudding against the wood.
The moment he’s gone, it’s as if the light’s been sucked from the room entirely. Tension stretches thin between you. You shift your weight and finally speak.
“What’s your name?” Arms crossed, you lift a brow. Expecting something.
“Remmick, ma’am,” he drawls.
His voice rasps low, the syllables curling around your ears. You nod to yourself, tasting the name.
“Remmick,” you echo. You swear he stiffens just slightly at the sound of it in your mouth.
“Well, you can just keep callin’ me ma’am, since you’re so polite,” you tease, attempting to lift the heaviness with a touch of humor.
But he gives you nothing. Just stares. Blank, unreadable. You deflate a little. Maybe he’s not the humorous type.
—“Who?” You tilt your head, eyes searching his face.
As if he can’t quite understand the concept. A short airy laugh escapes you and you nod.
“Yes, he’s mine, through and through.” Amusement obvious in your response. A strange question from a strange man. It was almost as if children were foreign to him.
“And, his father…?” The question is softer now, less sure. Your gaze instantly hardens and your jaw clenches ever so slightly.
“Gone, good riddance.” You mutter quietly. Your son’s father was nothing more than some crime-obsessed lackey. Screwing over anyone and anything to get ahead. He was the reason you had to live so frugally, since it was just you providing now. Remmick watched a thousand emotions dance across your face as memories resurfaced.
“Shame, my apologies for that, honest.” His face is so open all of a sudden, raw sympathy practically painted on it. It’s jarring considering he’d been so unsure of himself moments ago.
“No need for that. We’re fine on our own,” you reply, voice firm. Not unkind, but clipped. You don’t accept pity. Not anymore. He nods briefly before leaning down to lift the shaking spoon to his lips. You take it upon yourself to head towards the kitchen.
“Place your bowl in the sink once you’re done, Remmick.” Your mouth cradles his name once again, and you don’t turn around to see his reaction.
You finish with the last dish as Remmick shuffles into the kitchen. His footfalls sound so strange against your floor. He sheepishly brings it to the counter beside you, unsure of where exactly to set it. Suds cover your arms, and you grab it from his shaking hands.
“You’ll sleep downstairs tonight, alright?” You eye him, and he only nods. You knew you wouldn’t be sleeping much anyway, not with an unknown man in the house. Once you finish up, as if on cue, your son sprints downstairs to greet you both.
Remmick practically jumps out of his skin at the sound, and you snort. Quite scared for such a built man, with that notion your eyes slide over to his defined chest. He look sturdy, hands rough with use, he was definitely capable.
“You feelin’ better sir?” The boy drawls, grin as wide as can be. Remmick nods down at him.
“Much, thanks to you mama…” His reply sends a brief liquid heat through your veins. You cough out a hoarse laugh.
“Was nothing…” You wave him off and reach around to undo your apron. The boy jumps forward, ever so eager.
“So, do you like rabbits? This is Mr. Carrots, and he is-“ You raise a hand, halting his excitement.
“Now, love, it’s well past your bedtime, you best be going upstairs now, I’ll come tuck you in.” You hum, voice now like honey. The boy nods and steps towards Remmick, his small arm reaching out to hand him his prized Mr. Carrots.
“Since you’re new in the house, you can sleep with Mr. Carrots tonight.” He smiles up at Remmick as if the man hung the stars. A pang shoots through you; the lack of a father really does leave a wound, perhaps a wound your son didn’t even understand yet. You shift, eyeing Remmick.
“Ah, well then, I’ll be sure to take good care of him.” He nods to the boy, those large hands gently gripping the stuffed rabbit.
“Goodnight, sir!” With that, he’s gone like the wind, off to his bedroom. An awkward laugh leaves you. Remmick still stares down at the soft toy in his hands. He cradles it as if it’s the most precious thing on Earth.
“He’s just very excited to see a new face.” You say softly, heart still aching. He nods in agreement and finally looks up to you. The rabbit stays in his grip like something holy. You wonder if anyone’s ever handed him anything so soft before.
“Well, I’m gonna go tuck him in, I’ll be back down to make the sofa comfortable for you.” It’s slightly awkward, so much unsaid. With that, you rush upstairs desperate for air. Air that is suffocating with unruffled tension.
By the time you enter his room, he’s fast asleep. Soft snores contrast with the rumbling thunder outside, and you smile. With a kiss on his tiny head, you softly shut the door and leave him to dream. Which leaves you with Remmick, and why does that make your chest hurt? Once you descend the stairs, you find him staring at one of the photos framed on the wall. You inhale, it’s a photo of your ex-husband and both of you, a family.
“You looked so happy.” He murmurs. You almost turn away it fight against it, some wounds never heal right.
“Yeah, he likes me to keep that photo up, waiting for the day his daddy shows back up.” The words feel bitter and heavy. Remmick finally turns back to you, the flicker of candle light dancing across his form.
“You’re a good woman.” It’s a statement, firm and unrelenting and it makes your breath hitch. Never had you ever heard that from another mouth.
“I-“ A crack of thunder interrupts you. He shifts closer, and suddenly you take notice that his various burns are nearly gone. You blink.
“Is the boy asleep?” His voice is tight, almost sharp. You nod dumbly, unable to voice everything flooding through your mind right now.
“When’s the last time you had someone care for you, the way you do for others?” Your mouth is instantly gravel dry. The change in his demeanor gives you yet another case of whiplash. He steps forward. You step back.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Your resolve is shaky, voice cracking where it shouldn’t.
“Yeah?” He taunts. Another step forward. He moves like a man, but something about it isn’t right. Too smooth. Too quiet. Like something remembering how to be human. An imitation of what once was.
“Remmick…” You don’t know why, but a whimper escapes your lips, a primal instinct overcoming you as he towers above. When did he get so close?
He hums at the sound of his name, eyes fluttering shut, as if savoring it. His breath is ragged. Loud. He leans in, and the wall behind you seals your escape. You’re trapped. Caged by his presence. Then he scents you. It’s vile, how your thighs clench. A betrayal. It’s almost as if he can smell the heat blooming there, knows what your body is doing without permission. A drop hits your cheek.
Slowly, you tilt your face upward. A thick string of drool dangles from the corner of his mouth. It glistens in the flickering light. You choke on a gasp. The whites of his eyes are nearly swallowed completely, and before you can truly peer into them, he’s on you.
His clawed hand twists in your hair, gripping your head back. A pained gasp leaves your lips, stretching your neck and exposing it. It's too much; it has you trembling. It's not human how he dips down, brushing his nose against the soft hollow of your skin. He heaves next to your ear, tingling bursts along your raised flesh.
"Remmick- please..." A plea for what, you aren't sure. Mercy. He chokes out a moan at the sound, completely hollow. Monstrous. You can't deny the fear that trembles from within you. There is so much more to this quiet man, so much bubbling beneath the surface, it's maddening.
"I-" A wet gargle rips from his throat, torn between monster and man. “I don’t just want to fuck you, I want to consume you. Mind, body, soul. I want your moans, your blood, your breath. All of it inside me.”
Heart thundering against your ribs, you say nothing. Rendered speechless. A clawed finger taps against the curve of your cheek, almost the beat of an unheard song. Your mind flashes to your son sleeping peacefully upstairs. You pray to God he doesn't wander downstairs.
“Say you’ll let me in,” he murmurs, voice shredded by desire. “Your cunt already has.”
You attempt to shake your head, anything to deny the burning truth slipping off his forked tongue. But he knew better; he could feel how you clenched around nothing, fluttering open for him.
“Perverse little thing.” He taunts, you flinch and try to twist away, but it only tightens. The tips of his claws make small punctures in your pressed cheeks.
Something must have possessed you, because before you realize you're nodding. Giving in to the sickness invading your mind, and Remmick couldn't be prouder.
It all happened so fast, one moment you were standing, then suddenly you were locked into the meanest mating press of your life. Legs flailing uselessly over his bent arms, his hand pressed tightly against your mouth. Anything to silence the raw whines humming in your throat.
"Yes-" Remmick repeats it like a mantra, just barely audible over the squelch of your cunt. Calloused hands gripping your thighs like a vice, as if he couldn't get any deeper.
Oh, he was absolutely ruined, his jaw slack as he stared down at you half-lidded. You sweat, slick back sliding on the wood flooring with each powerful thrust.
"F-fuck-" He breathes shakily.
Push after push. You're nearly choking on your release, mouth still clasped behind his palm. But he never slowed, only faltered slightly with each clench. You wanted to scream, wanted to sob, it was too much. Your brain felt melted, as if it was going to leak out of your ears. He kept you quiet, though; only the sound of rolling thunder filled the house. You hadn't even realized he had moved you deeper into the house, further away from the upstairs.
Your walls flutter, the end creeping up through your toes. Something in him twitches, he gasps- he whines. Desperation was hot on his lolling tongue. He drives into you, chasing that release. He's ravenous, starved for the feeling of touch. Without warning, you arch. Lifting off the floor and into his clothed chest. Ecstasy curling through every vein and you cunt floods, his jagged thrusts growing sloppy. His tip is digging at your cervix as you convulse.
"Tell me no." He spits out, his teeth looking sharper than before. Tears stream down your cheeks, covering his hand in salty wetness. You shake your head, still unable to make a sound. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Hah—fuck, tell me no, p-please…” he whimpers, stuttering mid-thrust, his control crumbling as he teeters on the edge. You clench your thighs, nodding dumbly. A strike of lightning illuminates the house, and almost as if on cue, he bursts within you. Warmth floods throughout your lower stomach; it's intoxicating. It's rough as he attempts to mindlessly fuck you through it. A thick rope of drool slips past his lips, trailing toward yours. You part them instinctively, letting it coat your tongue, shameful and sacred all at once.
Something outside crashes and you assume the storm has finally come. It takes a miracle for you to keep your eyes open, your head lolling side to side against the floor in exhaustion. Heaviness settles into your bones. You feel him retract himself from you, before leaning down to nudge at your face. Why can’t you stay awake? It’s almost as if he’d sucked the life from you.
“I won’t ruin what you have…” he whispers.
You catch the words, faint and far away, but they slip through your fingers as your mind begins to unravel. A pause settles, and suddenly you feel cold. Empty. The air has snapped back into whatever familiarity you are used to. You succumb to the blackness clouding your mind.
Dawn is peeking past the nailed up blankets when you wake up, you shoot up like a bullet, still naked as the day you were born. You’re on the sofa, bare, sore, and hollow.
Memories wash over you and you jerk around looking for Remmick.
The house is still, just as it is every morning. Your soul tells you he’s gone. There’s no reason to search. It’s too much to early for your son to be awake, you pull yourself from the sofa to get properly dressed. Your limbs heavy as lead.
It wasn’t like you knew that man, he was a stranger. At the same time, he made you feel so wanted it hurt. A small reprieve from the demand of your life, and it was addicting. It had been so long since a man had come and swept you up, bending you to his will.
He fucked like he loved you, and you knew to keep a small part of it tucked in your heart. You soak in the aching echo he left behind, letting it lull you as you slip on a loose nightdress. It flutters at your ankles, ghostly, like the emptiness humming in your chest.
As you step onto the porch, the boards creak beneath your bare feet, damp with the kiss of last night’s storm. The wind has softened, though it still carries the faint scent of scorched wood. Strange. A fire after a storm like this? You shake it off and turn to head back inside, but something catches your eye. Resting on one of the chairs, tucked neatly against the corner, Is Mr. Carrots. The stuffed rabbit your son had given him, the toy he had held like it was something holy. Dry and untouched by rain. You frown and pick it up with apprehension, why did he leave it outside? Your gaze turns towards the empty horizon, something tugging at your gut.
Was this a promise he’d be back? But before you a dwell on the thought, the soft pitter patter of small feet echo through the living room.
“Mama?” A sleepy voice calls out, you turn back and bring the soft toy inside.
“Good morning, my love.” You smile warmly, bringing your lips to the top of his head. The boy rubs his eyes, looking around.
“Where’d he go?” He asks, and you give a tight smile.
“He had to go back home, sweetie.” You say gently, his face falls and he huffs. It hurts you to see him disappointed, so you bend down and lift his chin with your finger.
“Hey, why don’t we go into town tomorrow, I’ll get you any candy you want.” Your words playful in an attempt to lighten his mood. He gasps, attention instantly diverted.
“Yes! Thank you, Mama!” He cheers. Standing back up, you clap your hands, almost as if to dispel the lingering heaviness.
“Now,” you say with a playful firmness, ruffling his hair, “let’s get started on breakfast.”
He squeals in delight, already dashing toward the kitchen, bare feet thumping against the floor. It’s almost as if everything is normal. But deep in your chest, something stirs, like a shadow refusing to be burned away by the sun. Even as you serve pancakes, finish cleaning up the yard, and tackle the laundry, your chest stirs. Unsettled by the longing in your chest, you feel dazed. As if some part of you had been touched from within, claimed and hollow, waiting for someone that may never return.
Night comes upon your house like a damp blanket. It drizzles from the sky wetting the Earth ad you hung laundry. To which you scowl at from the kitchen window. You’d just have to it again tomorrow morning. Dinner had already been served, porridge tonight. You turned on the radio, soft music fills the house, anything to overshadow the ringing silence. Your son had gone up to play in his room, deeming that Mr. Carrots felt lonely without his other toys. So that left you, sitting in a chair, looking lost in your own home.
A sudden knock jolts you upright.
Three slow, deliberate raps against the door.
You freeze. The music continues to hum softly behind you, but it sounds distant now — warped, like it’s underwater. You know, you know it’s him just from the heaviness of his knock. Your hands curl against the fabric of your dress, damp from dishwater and nerves alike. Slowly, you rise from your seat. Another knock — quicker this time, edged with impatience. You step towards the door, each step weighed with dread and yearning. He’s back. Just before your fingers grace the knob, you hear it. That voice. Low. Throaty. Possessive.
It sends shock waves through your core, your hand still latched onto the knob, unmoving. The sound tears through you, a shockwave that leaves your breath shallow. Your hand stays frozen on the handle, trembling. He wasn’t entirely human, you knew that much. Yet, his voice calls to you like a siren.
Pressing the knob, you open the door abruptly. There he is. Tall. Brooding. Whole. Not a single mark on him. He looks…untouched by the world, untouched by the night he left you in pieces. You make no move from the door, no space for him to slip in.
He smiles down at you, head tilted, something sly dancing in his eyes. “I’m home,” he breathes, like a joke wrapped in velvet.
And just like that, the heat blooms behind your eyes. Anger flares sharp and electric across your face. You scowl, lips tight, every muscle screaming not to let him see how much you missed him. But you know better, how he can practically taste your emotions.
“Home?” You echo. Voice hollow and tense. “You think you can just run off, tear me open, and then waltz back here like some stray mutt scratchin’ at the door?”
The confidence in his stance stumbles, like he didn’t anticipate this part. You let out a bitter, humorless laugh. You’re not finished. Not even close.
“I took you in. I stitched you back together. And don’t even get me started on how you look perfectly healed now. Not a damn scar on you.”You’re breathless by the end, rage and heartbreak boiling too close to the surface. It shakes you.
He says nothing at first. Just stands there, the rain beginning to dot his shoulders, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He looks smaller somehow, not physically, but emotionally stripped. His mouth opens once, then closes again, like words have abandoned him.
“I didn’t want to…” He swallows. “Leave.” As if speaking pained him, his voice cracks on the end. Your hands shift to your hips, you watch him struggle for air.
“I didn’t know what I’d do if I stayed.” Low and hoarse. Your anger wobbles, his words striking a chord inside you. He laughs once, a dry, broken sound.
“But somehow I found myself back at your doorstep.” His gaze drags upward, meeting yours, and for a split second, something monstrous flashes behind his eyes, not rage, but desperation.
“And as selfish as it is, I want to come inside.” He breathes.
Everything he has, is laid before you. Your hand slips off the door knob, hands limp by your side. Your resolve had crumbled like paper within his grasp, his words tightening around like a vice. He takes a single step forward. The rain has slicked his hair to his forehead, but he pays it no mind. The tips of his boots toe the threshold of the door.
“I’m not good.” He says, voice wet. “You know that, you’ve seen it.” He leans forward, pressing closer.
“You’ve undone me, wakened something inside me that’s been quiet for life times.” His lip trembles, then stills. “Let me come in. I won’t ask for forgiveness. I just… I want to belong somewhere again. Even if it’s only for tonight.”
What more could you say? His words tasted like honey on your tongue, you were both parched for something. Desperate for partnership, connection, and touch. Opening the door felt right, his heavy boots echoing in the warmth of your home. It all felt right. You didn’t know what he was, you didn’t ask. He was gentle with you, easy in the presence of your son.
Never pushing too much. He would vanish here and there, and the first time had been for three days. Once he dragged himself back home, you sobbed angrily, hitting your fists into his solid chest. Slowly but surely it became a thing of habit, he’d leave, return with gifts, and a few splatters of blood on his clothes.
Tonight was one of those nights, he had left before the sun peeked over the horizon. However, it was late into the darkness now, the bed felt emptier. He should’ve been home by now. Tossing and turning, you couldn’t relax. Outside, the rain tapers to a soft drizzle and you can’t take it anymore. You throw your legs over the side of the bed and quietly creep past your son’s bedroom. Making sure to avoid the stairs that creak the loudest.
Padding through the house, you find him sitting at the kitchen table. Shirtless. Elbows braced against his knees. Blood stains the tips of his fingers, and his eyes are distant, glowing faintly in the dim light. Another thing you don’t ask about. He doesn’t look up as he speaks. Empty and hushed.
“I tried not to be what I am tonight.” A shaky breath. “But something out there was hunting. Something worse than me. And I had to meet it.”He finally glances at you, a smear of red along his jaw.
“It won’t come near this house again.”
You believe him. Silently grabbing a wash rag and cleaning him up, no questions asked.
This, whatever this was, protected you. Cared unconditionally for both you and your son, there’s nothing more you could ask for.
jbbartram-illu
2087
origamiaround
dededos
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
