FLOWERS

Hello!

Fellow inukagger here *shakes your hand* I noticed your tags on an inuyasha video edit post where you stated inuyasha was seeing kagome during their almost first-kiss. I want to believe this soo badly, but I have actually made a post where I argue the opposite bc that’s (unfortunately) my interpretation.

I would genuinely love to hear why you think this as I’m more than happy to be convinced 🥺❤️ If you’ve posted about it before, apologies that I haven’t seen it; please kindly drop a link.

Thank you very much! (It’s all 🫶🏼 and interest in civil discussion, certainly not looking to start anything otherwise)

Sure thing! I think there's a lot of misconception firstly because Kagome herself says this. That he hates her for looking like Kikyou, but when he looked at her in that moment, it looked loving, so she herself put two and two together that he must still be seeing her as Kikyou, but therefore have been in love with Kikyou. Which is partially true in that we know he did have feelings for her back when she was alive. (I have my own InuKik-critical perception on this, but that's a whole other rant and probably not what you're asking.) But I think it's VERY important to keep in mind that Kagome is an Unreliable Narrator in her own story here, particularly where it comes to interpreting Inuyasha's feelings at times. This holds true for pretty much the entire story, but particularly early on, when she doesn't know him as well. First off, I'm going to fast-forward slightly to give examples of Inuyasha himself making it clear he does NOT see Kagome as Kikyou, to prove my point that he's not lying when he tells her so at the almost-kiss. Keep in mind a lot of these are only available in the source material and the anime DID cut them to fuel love triangle drama. The manga is the original intended canon, so that's what I'll be going with for this entire conversation.

(Let it be said that as far as Japanese subtleties are concerned, he is asking Kagome to date him, here.)

For the sake of argument, let's look back at this "very beginning" he mentions, and how long it took him to realize Kagome LOOKED a bit like Kikyou, but was not Kikyou:

Well that was quick. He does compare them a few times after this, but it's always about how different they are. (Usually to be rude, but let's face it, this is early Inuyasha.)

(I include this "comparison" just because he's RELIEVED here at Kagome NOT being Kikyou. It's the first explicit indication that he likes her for her and would be heartbroken if the girls got switched.)

(Then he proceeds to make it even more explicit, and even Kaede spells it out.)

He completely stops comparing them in any capacity after this, and the way he does it says to me that he sees and values them very differently IN SPITE of the slight physical resemblance, not BECAUSE they look alike.

"But Kit!" I hear you say, "These examples are meaningless because they are AFTER he tried to kiss her!" Well I disagree his feelings would have changed that drastically in the small amount of time given the context, but let's still look at all InuKag have been through at this point. I'll just do a montage of Inuyasha feeling pride or affection for Kagome in said arcs because I am self-indulgent like that, lol.

(My boy did not need to protect her, here. If she was gone, he'd be free of the beads and thus free to just take the Jewel. He did it purely out of valuing her life in some capacity.)

(Knowing her scent already? Lending her your only armor just so she won't get hurt? Why Inuyasha, that's not extremely intimate at all!)

(I find him saying her name significant not just because of differentiating her from Kikyou in his mind, but in that Inuyasha doesn't say ANYONE'S name unless they are important to him. Exceptions.)

("I refuse to get involved!" *Kagome's in trouble, immediately gets involved*)

(I love this arc overall SO MUCH cuz they not only have their first friendly pouty BFFs spat, but Inuyasha then immediately comes running to save her after smelling her blood THROUGH SPACE AND TIME, and is so desperate to be relied on cuz it makes him feel good to protect her and he's realizing that.)

(Lest we forget he had SOMETHING TO TELL HER right before threading their fingers extremely intimately.)

(Inu wasn't in this arc much but he WAS very worried and impressed with her.)

(I could honestly put the WHOLE spider head arc in here and gush about every detail of their character development, but we all know the highlight and I think Rumiko put it best in the Profiles Book that Inuyasha had never encountered or thought of anyone who would be saddened by his death before. I truly believe this is when he decided to open up and give his budding feelings for her a chance to bloom. And more importantly for this particular argument, decides NOT TO LIE to her again.)

And it's at this point we come to him trying to kiss her. It's true Inuyasha's emotions are slightly volatile from Kikyou being brought up. It's a definite sore spot, which even Kagome picks up on. Kagome asks point blank if he still sees her as Kikyou and hates her for it. To which he says she has it all wrong.

Considering her previous statement was if he HATES her, we can pretty easily infer that he's answering that directly, here. As in, no, he does not. Reading into context clues and what we see before and after this moment, I'd go so far as to say he's implying he LOVES her, here. Or at least is beginning to realize he likes her much more than as a friend. The last arc was huge for him, let's not forget that. He'd never ever been vulnerable like that with anyone: both in letting them know his night of weakness, and emotionally. All signs point to him having realized he's fallen for Kagome pretty hard and is ready to finally LET himself fall. (Though clearly Kagome's not quite ready herself, yet.) I'd argue that Kikyou's resurrection arc and the arcs following shortly after that I linked moments from earlier are there to just cement that he doesn't see her as Kikyou to any viewers who are still skeptical. In the manga anyway, we're never shown Inuyasha pining for Kikyou or wishing she was back to life. Quite the opposite, he only wishes her to rest in peace and reach Nirvana, which he has said to her more than once. The closest we get is this line right after the resurrection arc comes to an end and Kikyou's presumed dead from the cliff:

Which I personally interpret as him still being heartbroken, yes, but the fact he brings up the idea of falling for another woman tells me he's still mulling over how he has romantic feelings for Kagome, and his trauma regarding romance making him wonder if he should backpedal on that or give up his initial goal that was a symptom of his heartbreak in the first place. (As in, he immediately stole the Jewel after Kikyou betrayed him essentially to make the hurt go away as soon as possible. Also note this is AFTER the almost-kiss, right before Miroku makes his appearance.) So I have a pretty hard time believing that he suddenly decided to lie to Kagome right after his entire breakthrough night of vulnerability with her, and how that affected him. Also keep in mind that Kagome doesn't have concrete feelings for Inuyasha yet, so there is no jealousy or lack of confidence where Kikyou is concerned at the point of time in question. One could (shakily imo) argue that he might lie to protect her feelings later on, when he's worried about her becoming angry or jealous, but he has no such reason to lie, here. Therefore I believe he's being extremely genuine, and probably the most genuine he's been so far since he decided to abandon his previous lie about disliking her scent. I truly think he wanted to find out what kissing was like with this spitfire girl who'd run away with his heart already and made him feel and share things he'd never felt or shared with anyone. I hope this at least elaborated on why I see that scene the way I do! If you have questions or want me to discuss an aspect of it further, don't hesitate to hit up my inbox again! I'm happy to share my thoughts on the series and especially InuKag!

Watch out!!! SSS level threats are here!!! Run for your life! Arghhhh!

Can I be real. I low key think yashahime was doomed from the moment it was revealed to be about Sesshomaru's kids. Why his? Another half demon tale? I think it's far more interesting to focus on Moroha. She's only 25% demon. Like. What's THAT like? She's more human than demon but that 25% stops her from being fully accepted by humans. And she's clearly proud of her demon heritage to the point she wears her bow like dog ears (like her dad has) so she wouldn't WANT to be fully accepted by humans, anyway. But demons certainly won't have her! That's fucking interesting, bro. How does she navigate that?? She should have been the main. Not to be dramatic, but I feel like it's quite literally her birth right to be the main character in the sequel of a show that was about her mom and dad.

/ᐠ˵- ⩊ -˵マ Meow's Café Ⳋ

iicyify

love and deepspace: sylus x fem!reader (and zayne soon)

tags READ CAREFULLY: smut, semi non-con (aphrodisiac), bondage, semi-public sex, heavy enemies to lovers I don't play around with that shit, breeding, there’s sharp objects used in inappropriate ways, blood kink probably, again please mind the tags

word count: 8.5K

synopsis: Death haunts you like a vengeful lover. Sylus knows this well. You’re dispatched on a mission to capture a fugitive in Linkon City's forbidden N109 Zone, but of course old ghosts come back to haunt you, and this time you’re unable to resist the pull of your twisted connection. AKA the aphrodisiac fic.

art credit: @/Shanyi708944594

Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2, a bad omen if you’ve ever heard one. 

The low strum of the cello jumps to life as you enter the ball, each sting echoing from the marble arches to the dance floor, the gentle strum of the accompanying violins muffled by the floor-to-ceiling curtains. 

She’s a deceiving song, breaking traditional waltz rules with her three-fourth tempo, the two cellos battling for dominance as their battle song announces your unplanned arrival. 

Your heels click in time to the emerging saxophone, and you disappear into the crowd. Unfortunately, you don't have the liberty of indulging yourself in music tonight. Tonight, you have a job. 

The Hunter's Association only gave you a name- Kovi Rochelle. Who were you to ask questions? It's far from the first time you've snuck into the N109 Zone, and as you scan the crowd, you make mental notes of all you recognize. On the ballroom floor is an heiress to an illicit firearms company, and her dance companion is the right-hand man to a minor gang. Near the orchestra are a few faces you recognize from a drug syndicate, and near the disgustingly lavish food no one was foolish enough to touch was the daughter of an oil tycoon. 

No sign of a certain crow, you note, narrowing your eyes. No sign of your target either.

It takes you longer than you would have liked to find Kovi, but you find a man fitting his description well enough in a far corner of the hall, face twisted into a crooked leer as he's saying something inaudible over the orchestra to a waitress. Sixties, full beard, crooked nose and a penchant for younger girls. 

Your hand slips against your thigh, closer to where the burn of cool metal rests hidden beneath the silk of your dress.

The waltz is nearly over, and just as cellos reach their climax, you feel a hand snatch your own.

"There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you, sweetie."

Your body goes rigid, but the hand pulling you into a twirl is vicious and the fanged smile that follows even more so. 

The urge to pull your gun is tempered only by years of Hunter experience. That, and the simple fact that should you fail to retrieve this target, the Association would punish you ten-fold. 

So you meet Sylus’s blood-red gaze with a deathly sweet smile, baring your teeth. “How disappointing, so you’re immune to poisons too. I’ll keep it in mind for next time.” You try to keep the irritation out of your voice, but his lips curl, showing off his misaligned fangs with all the kindness of a hungry dog. 

“I certainly hope you do. Despite not being able to die, it’s certainly no fun to writhe around in pain for several hours.” Sylus grabs your jaw, causing you to stumble forward as he forces your chin up, hot tongue raking up the side of your neck as you hiss. “Tetrodotoxin? Addictive.”

“Disgusting bastard.” He saw through you yet again. 

Sylus laughs, a deep, loud chuckle that catches other guests’ attention before you nearly claw his face to shut him up. Your hand only makes it halfway, impact broken when he grabs your wrist instead, tightening to the point of pain. 

But you're now too close to the dance floor to refuse without drawing any more unwanted attention, so you place your hand against his shoulder before digging your nails in through the expensive silk of his blazer. You hope he bleeds. 

Nothing good would come from it, but gods, would it taste sweet.

Something flashes in the depths of his unnaturally red eye, and Sylus chuckles to himself before sliding his fingers from your wrist into your palm, taking your hand to lead you in a slow, calculated turn. You watch his eyes dilate in predatory satisfaction at the bruises left against your wrist. 

"If you’re truly humoring me with a dance, then I take it you haven't taken out your target either."

So he knows your objective. You stare up at Sylus directly, nearly crushing his foot with your heel when the tempo jumps again, speeding up with the shrill of the violins. "Tonight are you my ally or enemy?”

“I’m whatever you want me to be.”

Your eyes narrow, but his words are far too cryptic to give away the truth. Instead, you focus on the rhythm of the song, the sound of your heels, and the steady heartbeat of Sylus' chest as it beats against your own.

"I must say though, I wish you applied this distraction tactic on me when we first met." His hand strays from its spot on your waist, palm searing into your back as he traces up and down your exposed spine, giving a possessive squeeze to your ass. "After all, how could any man stay weary with utter temptation walking around?"

You grit your teeth, purposefully stepping forward out of tune to press the bulge of your gun against Sylus's thigh. "I swear I’ll kill you."

For Caleb. For your grandmother. For your own god-damn sanity.

His fanged smile widens, and he leans in close, whispering against the shell of your ear, “Oh yes, how I love to watch you try. Got closer last time, didn’t you?” And he spins you away, violently turning you again and again until you have no choice but to rely on his arm lest you fall. 

As your mind spins all your prior attempts get flung back at you, from poisoning him through wine to stabbing him in his sleep, Sylus’ body was damn near immortal. More infuriating still, he only goads you further after every attempted assassination, fighting you unconscious and leaving you in Linkon City with only a crow feather and letter detailing all the points of failure from your latest attempt.

A final spin, and the world blurs. Sylus pulls you back with a force that makes you stumble, and he dips you with a chuckle. "I must say, I've never had such a passionate lover." 

By the time the chorus ends, Sylus pulls you back into his arms, dipping you as you gasp against his chest, head spinning and blood rushing furiously to your head. But the song is far from over, and you intend to get more information out of the man before he disappears once more. If he comes between you and your target…

Sylus' gaze is unreadable as you look up, and his hand tightens on your waist, guiding you into a steady tempo once again. A blur of other dancers swing by, but the only thing you can focus on now is the man before you, staring right past your rotted soul with those blood-red eyes. Eyes of a sinner. Of a mistake. Just like you.

"A little birdie told me that someone here is in possession of an Aether Core." He taunts, spinning you so your back is to his chest. "Admit to yourself what it is you’re really after, and I'll give it to you, sweetie. All you have to do is say the word."

Your lips part in surprise, and Sylus grins, pulling you closer so he can whisper in your ear. "I don’t mind being used by you. After all, I want to use you too. All you have to do is say yes."

You’re surrounded by him, a mixture of spice and cologne, and can see the way his ashen hair falls over his forehead, and the way his lips are pared just slightly as you pull him in closer by the nape of his neck. He led you to the protocore last time. He killed your family. He saved you. He's the reason everything you loved is gone.

Your lips skim up his neck, and you smile as you feel Sylus tense in the midst of the waltz as you give him your answer. "Fuck you."

He’s frozen for a beat before breaking into another laugh. "Only if you wish. I doubt your doctor friend would be too keen on the idea though."

Your breath hitches, eyes wide, but Sylus' laughter only grows. The waltz is coming to a close, and in one smooth motion, Sylus releases his hold on your waist, only to grab your hand and bring it to his lips.

"Until next time, sweetie." He places a kiss to the back of your hand and disappears as the cellos strum their final chord. “As much as I’d love to stay and listen to my little kitten hiss some more, I’m unfortunately running late for my appointment. And I believe you are too.”

And as quickly as he had stolen you away, he's gone, and you're left with the sound of your heart hammering in your ears and the coldness of his absence.

"Tch, damn it." You curse, glancing around the room for any sign of the waitress and your target.

Kovi and the potential Aether Core Sylus told you about might still be in the ballroom. But you don't have time to find both. Not when Sylus knows who you're after. Not if he realizes why the Association needs you to bring back Kovi alive. 

Your gaze flickers across the crowd, but the man is nowhere in sight. The orchestra has already begun their next song, and a few waiters have already begun moving in with the next round of food and drink, and while most people are caught up in the music, your gaze is locked on a familiar waitress struggling with a tray of drinks and a woman dressed in black, dragging her back into the server's hall.

You don't have time to decide. You rush after them, slipping past another waiter and ducking around a group of gossiping socialites. The door leading to the back of the mansion slams behind the women, and you push it open, stepping inside the dark corridor.

"Come on, the boss said to leave him there!"

"But that bitch-!"

"It's a lost cause."

"Let's just go. He'll be dead soon anyways."

You wait until the footsteps have faded and the doors close behind them before slowly standing, taking off your heels, and slipping your gun out from its holster, metal cold against smooth silk.

There are four doors along the corridor, three to the left, one at the very end, and all are locked. You check each one, but only the last has any signs of movement. It's a small door, the size of an office closet, and when you press your ear to the wood, you can hear the sound of voices.

"We're in the last round of betting. I assume you're ready to finally make a decision, Mr. Sylus?" Fuck. That’s Kovi’s voice.

"What if I want to raise the stakes?"

A bang. "The key to these games, boy, is knowing when to quit."

"I always like to put everything on the line. Besides, it's hard to gamble with something that isn't yours."

"Oh no, she's mine alright. Paid quite a hefty price for her, you of all people should know that." A muffled set of insults, punctuated by a deep set of laughter that has your blood running cold. "White wolf of Onychinus, figured you'd be more impressive."

There’s a distinct click of a trigger and the scramble of chairs being kicked over. "All in." And then, the sound of a gunshot.

Your instincts kick in and you slam into the door, shoulder burning in protest. It's hollow, thank god, and you have enough sense to duck as a set of bullets fire, ripping the door into a thousand splinters. 

Sylus' face is twisted in a snarl, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, and a woman in a waiter's uniform lying at his feet. Her body is still convulsing, a set of bullet wounds in her chest, and you realize it's the woman from before, the one who was with the other waitress. 

And your target.

Kovi was slumped against a plush leather chair, bleeding out onto an unfinished poker game, soaking through cards and chips from the gushing set of bullet wounds buried in his brain.

"You killed him," you hiss, and Sylus only raises a brow, watching as you step over the woman and walk over to the other body slumped in the corner. "He was alive, you bastard. And you shot him."

"He was a traitor."

"Not to me." You hiss, and the click of your pistol echoes, pointing it straight at Sylus. "I needed him alive, and you knew it."

He looks unperturbed, and you can only glare when he smiles, shrugs, and steps closer to your gun, metal kissing bare flesh. You don’t so much as flinch, not even as his smile turns wolfish, scanning you up and down before settling on your weapon once again. "And I'm supposed to care?"

You pull the trigger.

The bullet shoots through where his heart would have been, but Sylus is already mid-lunge, twisting your wrist sideways. The shot goes wide. His jabs are precise, punching against the tender inside of your wrist and elbow before shoving you against the wall, the entire room rattling on impact, a mirror falling as it shatters.

"If the Association wanted him alive, then perhaps they should have sent someone else," He taunts.

Death haunts you like a vengeful lover. Sylus knows this well.

You twist, still holding onto your gun, but Sylus only presses his body closer, using his monstrous height to his advantage, tightening until your arms are going numb. 

The look in his eyes is knowing, and Sylus scoffs down at you. “But he’s not why you came here, is it?”

You stop struggling.

His right eye glows that sickly red once more, and you straighten against his hold, jabbing your chin up as you meet his gaze. You know he’s digging around your mind again, and so you spit out the truth. “Where’s the core?”

“So she admits it. Here, it’s all yours." Sylus says and reaches into his coat. He pulls out a small, blood-soaked stone and drops it at your feet, and you can't help but stare, noticing a moment too late as your gaze snaps back up to meet his.

“What? You want it, don't you?" Sylus whispers, and his fingers trailing up your sides, pushing your dress up. You thrash against him, and his other hand wraps around your throat. "Then take it."

You kick and scratch and hiss, a vicious distraction all while tightening the grip on your gun.

"Come on, sweetheart. I know you can do better than that."

A gunshot cuts off his sentence. 

Sylus falls to his knee with a groan, bullet traveling clean through his thigh. It's not enough to kill him, you know it, but he'll heal in a matter of seconds, so you take your aim against his heart instead, pressing the muzzle of the gun into his chest. The heat from the metal sears into Sylus' flesh, and as you force the gun closer as you yank his head up by the hair, rewarded with a loud moan as Sylus rolls his eyes back at the pain.

"You can't kill me."

"No," you whisper, pulling him close, "but I can hurt you."

His grin only widens, a bloody gash curling across his face as he stares up at you. “Such arrogance.”

Sylus leans into your touch, and then a hand covers your own on the gun, fingers laced around the trigger.

"What are you waiting for? Do it, I want to feel it, I want you to finish it." His words are low and you feel a rush of adrenaline at finally having him at your mercy, of having him at the brink of death. 

He yanks the gun closer, and thus you as well, looking up into your eyes with a sick devotion only a sinner could have. 

But you’ve learned from last time. So you curl your finger, and pull the trigger. 

The bullet never reaches. 

A web of dark energy stops it mere centimeters from Sylus' chest, and he sends it ricocheting back so it speeds by your collarbone and neck with a furious red trail.

You don't have enough time to scream.

Sylus pulls you down alongside him and slams your body against the ground, skull rattling against the marble. You scramble to your hands before he shoves you back to the floor with his palm, pinning you beneath him and pressing his lips to the fresh wound on your neck.

"You taste divine." Sylus hisses, and he sucks against the wound as your blood runs down his chin, grabbing your wrists until something snaps and you drop the gun with a scream. It skirts across the floor, out of reach.

You buck under his weight, kicking your legs out until one digs into the bullet wound still closing on his thigh, fresh blood streaming down the both of you as he licks and sucks and bites against your neck, leaving a trail of raw marks and bruises. 

With your free wrist, you unsheathe your dagger, driving it into Sylus’ neck. Dark tendrils of energy catch the blade, but your fury burns hotter, and you grant him a twin scar, slicing from the hollow of his collarbone up his neck.

Sylus moans, a strangled, guttural sound that goes straight between your thighs. You can see the muscle and skin knitting back together, the tendrils of shadows seeping out from his flesh and sealing the wound shut. But his grip on you remains.

You're both panting, blood dripping down your neck and Sylus' chest, but his eyes are dark and full of promise that makes your stomach twist.

"Do it again," he hisses, and he presses his hips into yours, letting you feel how hard he is through the fabric of his pants. "Cut me. Stab me. Kill me. All you have to do is try, sweetheart. Make it good this time, will you?"

You are not a fool. You know this is a challenge, a taunt, but you also know you can't back down.

So you push yourself up, knife glinting under the dim lights as you sink the blade into Sylus' throat, dragging a ragged line from one side to the other. Blood pours over his chest, drenching his shirt, and you can't help but watch in morbid fascination as the skin begins to knit itself back together, muscle and flesh growing and closing up, tendrils of dark energy wrapping and sealing the wound.

You almost want to lean in to taste it yourself.

Sylus makes a strangled sound from against your neck, still licking up your blood as you dig your nails into his fresh wound, pressing closer and closer still. Closer than flesh and blood would allow, bloody and raw and angry. 

His tendrils of energy wrap around your throat just as your knife presses up against his, both of you panting heavily. “When will you admit it? From your past to your future, to even all the crimes you'll inevitably commit. You and I… we're made of the same sin.”

You twist to the side, unable to meet his glowing eye, and Sylus smiles, blood-stained and fanged.

“Look at me.” He growls, and his fingers wrap around your jaw, forcing you to look up, nose brushing his. The glow of his right eye is nearly blinding, a mixture of gold and red and orange that swirl together like fire.

Fire, corruption, and the same damned soul.

They flash before you. The faces of every soul you’ve taken, every mission you’ve accepted from the Association, every trophy you’ve never cried over that has granted you nothing but pride and misery. 

And then flashes of your family, burning alive in the explosion that the demon before you set off. Burning flesh, screaming, the smell of sulfur. 

You see the face of a man too good for you. Practical and cold, but so unfairly kind and selfless it makes your chest ache. Zayne.

Not that Zayne is yours, not in any measurable way. But he’s the man that is so perfectly beyond your reach that it gives you a semblance of hope for change, for atonement. He’s the man that you’ve decided to foolishly love until your last breath.

Worst of all, you know Sylus can see him now too.

Another flash of red. Sylus, staring down at you, his smile a cruel imitation of Zayne's.

"What do you want, little dove?"

"My revenge."

He smiles, and leans in, lips pressed against the shell of your ear, hot breath tickling the sensitive flesh there. "I could give it to you. Everything you’ve ever wanted."

His touch burns, and you shudder, a mix of emotions twisting your gut. Fear, anger, desperation.

“I no longer want.” You hiss. “So stay out-” you gasp, reality and memory flickering together. “of-” you thrust the knife upwards, stabbing wildly until something connects. “-my fucking head!”

It's only when you hear the sickening crunch of flesh and the feel of blood pouring down your arm that you realize where you are. The memory of Zayne is gone, replaced by the present.

Sylus.

His eyes are wide, mouth agape and blood dripping down his chin. Your knife is buried deep in his palm, blade caught in his hand mere inches from his skull. Your vision blurs and the world spins, and the last thing you see is the sight of Sylus smiling, blood running down his cheek and his eye burning a brilliant, golden red.

And then the world bursts into smoke.

You feel it before you understand what has happened.

Throwing your hands above your head, you brace for an explosion or flash that never comes, the room blanketed by a cloud of thick smog that has your head spinning. A weight crushes you, and for a moment you think the ceiling caved until you realize it was Sylus who must have flung himself atop you at the moment of impact.

You think there’s an earthquake or aftershocks of another attack when you see your hand trembling, realizing it’s just your entire body convulsing against the floor as you inhale mouthfuls of the thick, cloying smoke. It tastes sticky and sweet at the back of your throat, cloying against your tongue and crawling under your skin. You think you might be dying. 

Sylus is faring no better, chest heaving as he nearly falls atop you, barely holding himself up on his forearms. His mouth is a bloody mess, there's a gash on his forehead that refused to heal. The energy of his Evol leaks from him in a thick mist of dark matter that seeps in and out of his sweat-slicked flesh. He’s losing control of his power.

“What the fuck—“ a violent heat rips surges down your spine, a choked gasp seizing your lungs as you feel bursts of energy heat under your skin- your Evol’s power fluctuating wildly. The once familiar power now feels like a toxin, your very core vibrating, practically a bomb seconds away from detonating.

It wasn’t a shock grenade. Not smoke. Poison? Your vision is swimming, but Sylus is still holding you, and when you freeze his entire body convulses in laughter as you seem to finally piece together what has happened.

"An aphrodisiac. They're... those fucking bastards." You can’t even see where your gun is, the entire room lurching sideways as you try and crawl out from under Sylus.

But as soon as you knee him in the side trying to topple him over, you both freeze at the contact, the brush of bare skin enough to have you keening.

Sylus groans, his head falling into the crook of your neck. You can feel him shaking, every bulging muscle tensed beneath his torn clothes, and his lips press against your pulse, teeth sinking into the delicate skin there. Shadowy tendrils grow from his back, a spiderweb of raw power that he seems to have no control over as they piece into the ground with enough force to crack through marble. You flinch at the sight.

“Are you scared, little dove?” Like a spider’s legs, they support him as he staggers to his knees, caging you in against the floor. A moth in a web. “Perhaps you finally should be.”

He grabs you by the hair, tilting your head back so you have to look him in the eyes. You struggle to move, to push him off, but the mere touch only seems to rile the man above you. He groans, the sound low and guttural, and when you finally meet his gaze, his eye is a wild, glowing red, and he's looking at you like he wants to devour you.

A demon. You’re laying before a demon. 

"What's wrong, sweetie? Too proud to give in?" He taunts.

"Not to you," you hiss, and you grab him by the collar, pulling him closer. "You're not even worth it."

Sylus' smile widens. "Still lying to yourself, aren’t you?"

Your skin burns, his touch leaving a trail of fire and desire. You can feel the aphrodisiac pulsing through your veins, a violent, angry heat that consumes everything it touches.

"Allow me to offer you a deal, then." Sylus' mouth twists in a snarl, and you feel his hands grip your waist. His nails dig into the exposed skin of your lower back, and Sylus pulls you closer, pressing his erection against your ass. "Run," he whispers, and his lips brush the shell of your ear. "Run as fast as you fucking can, because if I catch you I fuck you."

He pulls away, eye still glowing, turning into little more than a shadowed silhouette that towers over you. "And I won't be as gentle as your little boyfriend."

You don't remember when you start running.

 One moment, Sylus is in front of you, a wicked, predatory smile curling across his face. And the next, he's gone, the sound of footsteps fading behind you and the smell of gunpowder and blood hanging heavy in the air.

He's close.

You can feel his power, feel the way the aphrodisiac has corrupted him. Every tendril of energy from his body feels like a physical thing, a thread of pure energy and darkness. You hear his breathing, the sound of his body slamming against the walls and the doors as he gives chase.

Somehow the aphrodisiac did more than just make his Evol stronger, Sylus himself seemed fundamentally changed. Stalking you in a half-limp like a predator enjoying the hunt, every muscle tensed underneath his fitted suit as though waiting for you to make a run for it. Waiting to finally pounce. 

In the end it never mattered how strong you were. What stood before you was no man, but a monster.

“Don’t tell me that’s all you got, kitten? Come on, run faster, make it fun for me.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. Every inch of your body is alert, hyperaware of his echoing footsteps, following you no matter how many turns you take, no matter which stairs you climb, utterly unsure if you’re running closer or further from the exit.

But you force yourself to breathe, and you push off the walls and into a sprint. You have no weapons, no gun, but the only thing you can think of is running, running and getting as far away from Sylus as possible. Zayne. Zayne will know how to fix this, surely he knows a cure for the aphrodisiac.

Your steps are growing clumsy, and every breath you take now has you gasping, a burning need growing within. Every muscle in your body begins to tremble, and the heat is almost unbearable. You're not sure how much longer you can hold out.

You need to get to Zayne.

Turning yet another corner, you expect to see the main hallway of the mansion, nearly crying in relief at the sight of the door when the world lurches sideways.

A shadowed claw reaches up from the ground, yanking your ankle backward with a painful tug. You scream, throwing a burst of energy behind you as your Evol flares up, snarling at the shadow that follows you.

But the aphrodisiac has you weak. Your power is sporadic and unfocused, and another set of shadows wrap around your thighs and arms, rendering you immobile as they squeeze and pull at your over-sensitive flesh.

The sound that comes from your throat is one of pain and need.

Sylus laughs, a deep and rumbling chuckle that echoes through the empty hallway. He emerges from the shadows, a beast walking upright. He towers over you, his massive frame blocking the light, casting a long shadow across the floor.

"Are you afraid, little one?"

You can barely answer.

"Good."

Sylus moves fast. Before you can blink, his hand is on your throat and he's lifting you up off the ground, his fingers digging into your skin right over your racing pulse as he holds you at eye level. "Perhaps I'll keep you around even after I'm done with you. After all, I truly enjoy watching my little prey struggle."

The memory sends a thrill of fear through your body.

You gasp, clawing at his arm, and Sylus tightens his grip on your throat with a click of his tongue. "Ah ah ah. No more of that, kitten. Not unless you want more punishment."

You force yourself to meet his gaze, refusing to look away even as he squeezes your throat and makes it hard to breathe. The lack of oxygen has you lightheaded, but the heat from his palm makes you even dizzier, a sick twisting against your core at the show of brute strength. You glare up at him, and you know he can see the fear and hatred and desire in your eyes, because he grins, a wicked smile full of fangs and blood and the promise of something far worse.

"But knowing you, perhaps that's what you're after?" 

The shadows tighten and you cry out again, snarling as you try and use your Evol to free yourself. Burning through his arm, Sylus releases you with a hiss. You run for it, barely making it three steps backward before you’re tackled to the floor. 

"There, there. No need to run from it, I know my nasty little brat enjoys this as much as I do. After all, you let me catch you, didn’t you?” He taunts, pressing his thigh between your legs. You're unable to stop yourself from grinding against him, whimpering as the friction sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins. “And I intend to keep my side of the deal.”

Pinning you on your stomach, Sylus drags blades of energy down your dress, ripping the fabric to shreds as the silk flutters to the floor. The cold air stings against your sensitive flesh, and you whimper at the near painful difference between the cold and the heat of his touch.

"I'll kill you," you hiss, and Sylus laughs. He could kill you now, before you made good on your promise. And oh it would make everything so much easier, simpler - but he didn’t. Can’t. Instead he forces your jaw to the side before crashing his lips onto yours, fangs catching against the plush flesh. The angle has your neck screaming in protest, yet you swear it’s the dichotomy between the painful bruising of his grasp and the devotion of his lips that has you addicted. 

So you kiss him back, more teeth and tongue and thoroughly fucking addicting. "You're mine to kill, I won’t let anyone else take that victory from me.”

“That’s it,” Sylus practically growls into your ear, his face flushed and a vein protruding in his neck. Then your ass is lifted up, effortlessly manhandled like a ragdoll as you hear the click of Sylus’ belt. ”Keep fighting it, kitten, make it fun. But just know your body is so, so honest with me.”

And then you can’t breathe - not because his large hand tightens around your neck, forcing your body to arch into the floor, but because Sylus was suddenly rutting his weeping, fat tip between your thighs. It catches your swollen clit, and you grind against empty air, gasping. Sylus' laugh is cruel, sliding the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing the sensitive skin. You shudder, the sensation of his cock dragging against your entrance enough to have you trembling. You're so close, and he's not even inside you yet.

"Aww, sweetheart. Are you scared? You're soaking." His words are mocking, and you try to bite back a moan as his hand leaves your waist, delivering a harsh slap against your ass instead. "Tell me, did that boy back in Linkon ever make you feel this good?"

"Fuck. You."

"Oh dear, did I hit a nerve?" He purrs, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass.

"Shut up, shut the fuck up-" Your words are cut short, a strangled sound tearing from your throat when the head of his cock catches your folds, the sheer girth of him unable to push in, sliding against your cunt as she practically drools over him. 

Sylus curses against your neck, sitting back on his heels as he grabs his throbbing length, messily fucking your slick up and down, the heat and smell and feel of you enough to steal the rest of his sanity as he surrenders completely to the aphrodisiac. He’s bigger than usual, thicker and sensitive, and right when he thinks he might cum, Sylus forces his hand away. He can’t, not with you before him, it would be a waste.

A loud, broken moan escapes him as he tortures himself with a rough squeeze to his base, the sheer need overwhelming him as though he’d die should he not be inside you this very second. 

In you. He needs to be in you, cum in you, fill you up and claim you in every way possible. 

He’s about to try again when something warm squeezes around his base, nearly bringing him to his knees. Even though your shoulders were still pinned to the marble, you snuck one hand back to wrap around Sylus’ poor throbbing dick, your mere touch, barely able to circle around the girth of him, was enough to have him seeing white. 

“You’re- ah- taking too long.” You whine at the sight of Sylus at your mercy, and squeeze tighter. His cock twitches, pre-cum leaking from his tip and dripping down your knuckles, and his eyes roll back into his head, drawing out a low, deep moan that practically vibrates through his chest. 

“You’re right,” Sylus yanks your hips back, grinding against your ass as his free hand weaves between the two of you, rolling against your clit. “She’s getting too impatient, isn’t she?” 

You can’t even hear your own screams, not over the obscene squelches your cunt makes over his dick and fingers. Sylus was using every ounce of remaining sanity to prove his point, unconsciously already bucking against you as he continued bullying your swollen nub until you gave in. All to make your ultimate surrender even sweeter. “I don’t mind spending the whole night fucking you into your place.”

He nearly roars in frustration as your cunt still refuses to take him, resisting each press of his hips. A pair of shadowy hands seize your ankles, yanking you backward and spreading your legs so wide that your hips nearly split. Your jaw falls open in a silent scream, thighs trembling as they’re practically pinned to your side, ass forced higher into the air as another set of tendrils come around to play with your swollen clit. 

He’s cruel. 

The longer it took, the thinner his restraint waned, and Sylus’ Evol surrounds the two of you in a web of darkness, cracking through the marble when your cunt finally yields to the pressure of his large, overbearing cock. As soon as he feels the flutter of your core against his tip, he knows he’s lost, the head of Sylus’ cock sliding into you with a lewd pop as you both gasp.

The stretch burns, your walls forced to part around the head of his cock as the swollen tip sinks inside, stretching you past what was natural. His fingers leave bloody trails on your waist, but the thought of the permanent marks only adds to the heat coursing through your veins. You're panting now, a broken mantra of fuck me and please and more spilling from your lips as the aphrodisiac takes complete control.

The feeling of your cunt suffocating his swollen head as Sylus’ control waning, and you use the moment of weakness to push your hips backward, forcing him in further. With each slow grind the underside of Sylus’ cock unintentionally bullies itself against your sweet spot again and again and again, that one fat vein pulsing against it in time to his erratic heartbeat.

Head lolling to the side, you catch a glimpse of where the two of you meet and nearly sob. He’s not even halfway in yet. The pressure has your mind spinning, and god you don’t think you can take any more. 

But as you clench around him and Sylus makes up his mind, refusing to leave you a moment longer without being filled to the brink with his cum. And he forces you completely onto his cock. 

A scream of his name is all you manage before your eyes roll back, arching off the ground as your entire body goes rigid. Forcing past any remaining resistance, Sylus thrusts his entire length deep inside of you, your lower stomach bulging ever so slightly, followed by a burst of pleasure so intense it hurts as you come undone, squirting over his cock and the floor.

Fucking you through your orgasm, he wraps one arm around your body, pulling you against him as your knees give in, refusing to give even an inch of space as the two of you buckle into the floor. 

"You're going to regret not running faster." Sylus hisses. "I'm never letting you go. Never- ah fuck- again."

He pulls out slowly, until only the swollen head remains inside, and then slams forward again. 

You try and claw your way out, unsure if you’re pushing closer or further, but the tendrils of energy around your legs only tighten their hold, forcing you back. The shadows seep into your flesh and leave trails of raw fire. You swear you feel him in your throat, and you know Sylus can feel it too. It's burning beneath your skin, a wild and desperate heat that feels like an inferno, a feeling so addicting it replaces the pain. 

You're resonating with him. You’re finally resonating and Sylus only growing stronger- rougher- because of it.

“Sylus, fuck, just—” you scramble for something, anything, to grab onto, screaming out different curses and moans until Sylus folds you further into the ground, pressing his full weight atop of you.

“You’re too loud, sweetie, it’s almost like you want someone to find us.” He rests his forearm before you, allowing you to claw into it as you cry. “Here.” And with that you bite, digging your teeth into his arm hard enough to draw blood as your screams are muffled with the tinge of copper. 

He laughs into your shoulder, leaning down as the new angle allows his tip to kiss your cervix. You sob, biting down again. “I want to mark you too,” and the way your skin breaks so, so easily under his fangs, marred with a permanent bloody print of him, has Sylus addicted.

So he bites again, lower this time, stands of bloody saliva connecting his lips to the dip of your spine. Fuck, he wants to mark you until there’s no question you’re taken, ruined, again and again and again. 

You don’t think he realizes he’s saying it out loud, a desperate mantra broken only by the wet sucking and biting of his lips. 

Sylus moans, hips stuttering as he comes with a shout, his sudden orgasm ripping through every muscle as he feels that corrupting heat relent with every thick rope of cum he paints inside your weeping cunt. He doesn't pull out, can't bear the thought of parting from your tight heat.

You whimper into his arm, biting again, feeling the warmth of his cum overflowing into you, squirting out as it drips down your thighs, still going and going as Sylus fucks himself through it, not stopping even as a creamy ring began forming at the base of his cock. 

Sylus expected the aphrodisiac to be absolved, waiting for the furious need, the soreness in his balls and the primal drive at the base of his brain to lessen, only to realize he felt no better. 

More. More, he still needs more. 

But so do you. And hell, you're so close, enough that you abandon your pride, crying for him over the gag that was his forearm, and beg. 

“Again,” Sylus growls. The sound rumbles deep within his chest, low and dangerous, and he can feel your pulse quicken, can hear the rush of blood through your veins. He can feel your Evol burning beneath your skin, the power seeping from your body in waves, and he can feel his own power responding.

The shadows grow. They writhe and pulse and spread, wrapping around the both of you and covering the room, turning the world pitch black. Caging you in. 

“Go on, no need to hold back now, sweetie.” Another ruthless thrust, and your jaw goes slack as he hits your cervix, deep enough that if he pushed any further you’re certain he’d breach your womb, heartbeat pulsing through your body like you were made for him. “Beg for it.”

You want to fight it. You want to say no, to struggle and bite and scratch. But the aphrodisiac has taken full control, and gods knew how long you’ve been losing the fight against Sylus even before this.

“Syl—“ His hips still. A warning. You fight to make any coherent thought amidst your unraveling, correcting yourself as you slur his title in sheer desperation, “Sir. Sir, please, let me come. You got to come, so help me!” your voice is hardly more than a broken gasp now, ”Please.”

Another tendril wraps around your front, pressing on the bulge through your stomach in time to every rough, wet, thrust, the double pressure enough to have you coming with a sob, wrecked from pleasure and pain as you tighten around his cock, almost begging to be filled more.

“Sir? I could get used to that.” Sylus barely even slows, continuing to use your trembling body as he drags himself in and out, the warm mixture of your cum forming a puddle beneath you as he watches in fascination, still consumed by the primal urge to get you full of him.

But now the aphrodisiac has loosened its grip on you, fulfilled desire replaced with sharp overstimulation as you sob into the marble, feeling every ram of Sylus’ hips smack into your swollen clit with a wet kiss. Not that he particularly cares. He knows your limit, and you’re not there yet.

“Relax. You can handle it.” Sylus laughs, grinding himself in deeper as he licks a stripe of blood and sweat up your neck. He pats your cheek condescendingly, forcing your face to the side as he scans your fucked-out expression with a wolfish smile. ”But should you have the audacity to die on me, I’ll simply bring you back just to use you again.”

Flipping you around with just an arm so you finally face him, Sylus brings your knee to your chest, the other hand forcing your jaw up so he could hear your unintelligible pleas properly.

“What? Can’t talk anymore?” He coos, relishing in the way your nails rake furiously down his back in reply- in warning. “Aw, is my baby drunk on my cock already? Should I stop?”

Not that Sylus could even fathom stopping now, not as he feels his cock bully the cum out of your poor overfilled pussy with each thrust. It drips down your legs and onto his tense balls as he fucks you like an animal, over and over and- And shit it wasn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. 

You shake your head, sobbing.

 “No–” you cry, breath coming in gasps as Sylus pulls himself up onto his knees, forcing you upright as you splay out so easily on his lap, gravity now doing most of the work as you swear you feel him hit deeper than before. “Ah, too much!”

“One moment it’s too little, and the next too much. You should try and make up your mind, sweetheart.” One hand squishes your cheeks together and forces you to look down at the way your poor pussy was bulging around Sylus’ cock. Your bodies are both drenched in a sinful mixture of blood and sweat and cum, sheer exhaustion slowing the both of you down as every slow, deep thrust is now accentuated with a filthy wet slap. “Mmmh I was foolish to let you run from me f’so long, not when you look so perfect like this.”

Sylus’ fangs graze your ear, abs tensing underneath your nails as he fucks up into you without any sort of rythm. Sharp, slow jabs of his hips, meeting each one as he palms at your swollen belly. “Can’t wait till you’re fucked full, right sweetie?”

He doesn’t wait for a response - not that he could hear one anyways, eyes blown out as they focus on your gorgeous body utterly surrendered to him, limp against his chest as he splays his fingers over your womb. “You wanna be filled? Wanna give me an heir for Onychinus?”

God, the very thought makes your head spin. “Please,” you whine, beginning to resonate with him once more as you arch violently into his chest. “More, I need more, please- fuck- don’t you dare s-stop.”

“Linkon’s righteous guardian and the White Wolf.” You don’t even realize it, but you’ve begun to match his thrusts, grinding down in his lap to meet his ruthless cadence. “We’d be unstoppable. You want that? Tell me-” his pleas break into a low moan, words slurred together as he pulls you closer, ramming you up and down as you can do nothing more than dig bloody lines down his enormous shoulders and chest. “Tell me you want it, need it- hah- tell me you’ll choose me.”

His cockhead rams against your bruised g-spot with each word, even when his voice breaks into senseless groans as he falls prey to your pretty little cunt trying to suck him in further and further still. And right as you feel yourself slipping, you pull him into a messy kiss - if it can even be called that, just a frenzied, messy drag of his lips against your open mouth, licking and sucking at your teeth. 

“I can never escape you.”

You don’t know who cums first- you only feel the heat surge in the base of your throat, heartbeat thumping erratically against your ears and cunt, falling into Sylus’ chest as the warmth takes you. Warm, everything is warm, burning up even without the aphrodisiac as you feel rope after rope of his seed paint the inside of your walls white, excess drooling out of your sensitive folds. 

Every ragged breath comes out in a mist against your ears, Sylus’ hair damp and stuck to his forehead and your own as he fights to control his breathing. His eyes are still locked where the two of you connect, fingers releasing your waist to try and shove his cum back inside. 

You hiss at the contact, trying to squirm away as you fall backwards, taking Sylus with you as your back hits the drenched marble. “Let go of me.”

Sylus raises a brow, lips curling over his teeth. “I’m not the one who's trapping us together.” He taps your legs still wrapped around his waist, and immediately you relax, shivering as you feel Sylus’ cock finally slide out of you. 

Even after all that you feel the lingering effects of the toxin bubble under your skin. Sated, for now, but far from gone. Hell, you think you might die if you have to go through that again. 

“We need to get to a hospital,” you say, refusing to meet Sylus’ eyes as you try to stand. Only for your knees to immediately buckle. 

Luckily, Sylus is there to catch you, pulling you into his arms before scooping you up to his chest. “Firstly, there is no hospital in the N109 Zone nor Linkon City that would admit me.” He stands with frustrating ease as the misty tendrils of his Evol cover your bare body like a second skin. “Secondly, we’re not exactly in a state where they wouldn’t begin asking questions, don’t you agree, kitten?”

You all but hiss at him, only making the man laugh harder until he winces, staggering slightly as you feel his skin grow hot again. It’s clear Sylus isn’t completely freed from the aphrodisiac either, the sheer volume the two of you must have breathed in during the initial attack far past the mortal limit. 

Not a hospital, fine. A doctor then. 

“I know a place.” You whisper, and Sylus narrows his eyes. “He won’t ask questions, and we’re already running out of time. Who knows how long the effects will last, and if anyone will know how to actually cure this it’ll be him.” 

“And I’m supposed to trust you, sweetie?”

You laugh, curt and humorless. “You don’t have a choice.”

Sylus goes quiet, but you can hear the argument raging in his head, brows furrowed as he scowls at open air. Another shiver rakes through your body, and you unconsciously press yourself closer, already dreading what will happen when the aphrodisiac comes back full force. 

But the sight of you, trembling and utterly vulnerable in his arms tugs at something forgotten, and Sylus relents. 

“Very well, tell me where to go.”

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 (part 1)

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

✧˚ · . part 2

✧˚ · . warnings:- dawnbreaker!zayne x fem!reader, reader is coded to be smaller and shorter than zayne, reader is coded to be feminine, canon typical violence, mentions of blood, HEAVY ANGST, mentions of food, reader is a baker, soft sex, cuddling, unprotected sex, size kink, brief mention of oral sex, petnames (darling, little one, my love), mentions of illnesses, talks of murders, zayne murders someone, suicide, spoilers for zayne's lore, alternative timeline, mentions of babies, mentions of pregnancies, nightmares, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IN THE NEXT PART

✧˚ · . dawn says: NO STANDARD HAPPY ENDINGS HERE !!

minors and ageless blogs do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption

✧˚ · . playlist

꒰ tagging @adelheidvonschicksal ꒱

Dreams.

Dreams are all he has of her.

That strange girl with a smile like the sun. Her bright cheeks, radiating warmth that touch his scarred hands which were unworthy to hold her.

He remembers kissing her; caressing her face. Tasting strawberries off her lips. 

She haunts the crevices of his memories; toes the line between reality and part of his maladaptive dreams.

Sometimes, he swears he can hear her voice in the winds, smell her perfume when he stalks past a bed of wildflowers.

And to his dreams he seeks her out. 

This time, she’s sitting on a park bench, handing him an apple.

Can you peel it for me? Her bright eyes quicken the pathetic beating in his chest. You need to give me an apple peeling lesson—no one does it like you, Zayne.

It’s been so long since anyone has uttered his name. She made it sound like the sweetest overture; vowels and consonants clashing together, tapping past palette, teeth and rolling off her tongue with a languid ease. 

Zayne.

Zayne, you’re impossible, she scoffs, setting her cards down on the table with a scowl. 

I thought you sent me those snowballs to make fun of me, Dr. Zayne.

Zayne… can I hold your hand?

I love you, Zayne. 

The shape of her warps, and twists. Different hairstyles, seasons. Different shades of smiles she reserves only for him. 

Sometimes, the pathways of his subconscious take a turn which leaves him reeling—her face, closer to him this time. 

Curtains of her hair fall right into his warm cheeks, her mouth parted to exhale breathy whines.

Glancing down the length of his body, he sees the flushed folds of her tiny pussy wrapped around his cock; dribbling excitement down his pelvis and the bed they were fucking on.

“Zayne, I can feel you so deep in me,” she sounds breathier here and it notches up his insanity. “Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.”

She pulls him into her embrace, his cheek right on her chest. Thud, thud, thud. 

Don’t ever let me go, Zayne. Her heartbeat calms him, soothes him deeper. But, it’s much too loud this time. 

Thud, thud, thud.

Zayne stirs in his threadbare sheets, wincing. Awake from his dream.

Piercing sunlight dances in his eyes, and he blindly gropes for the curtains, knocking over a few pill bottles in his wake. They rattle, and roll under his bed, causing a ruckus which joins the cacophony of boots stomping overhead. His neighbours were fighting again, the husband throwing his usual tantrum.

He grimaces, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Despite the rays leaking into his room past the drapes, the sight before him is drab. Gray walls, a plastic chair and spindly table, his old monitor beeping joylessly in the background. Nothing stood out except for the bright orange wrappers of his current favorite chocolate brand.

It was tangier than the ones he tried—filled with an orange caramel which melted over his tongue the second he popped it into his mouth.

Once the sugar rush spiked his bloodstream, Zayne headed into the bathroom to shave and freshen up. His standard garb of black on black was completed with a black trench coat, and an additional pair of gloves.

They were a necessary accessory for today’s look. 

After all, he didn’t want to leave any fingerprints behind once he was done with the job.

Casting a glance to his monitor, he narrows down the street he wants to explore, and the house whose entire circumference was covered in a glowing red.

A young man who had once served the army had been reporting massive migraines and hallucinations for the past few days. Doctors had tried to save him, but nothing they gave could make the ache in his head subside. 

All signs point to a classic case of degeneration. 

Initially, Zayne paid little attention to his case; there were so many of them, it was hard to keep track of. But, the young man was insistent. He had reached out to Zayne with a huge deposit and a will to pass along to his family. 

Who am I to refuse him? He stares at the blinking red dot, committing the house number to memory. After all, they’re just checks to me at the end of the day. 

Zayne straps a blade inside the hidden compartment of his worn down leather boots, patting his coat pockets for a spare gun just in case.

Check, check and check.

He was ready to start the day; ready to start another kill.

It was time for work.

Walking past the streets of this old town, something tickles his memories and gets him frowning.

Zayne racks his brain as he removes his gloves. After one furtive look around, he discards the blood-soaked covers into the closest bin, glad that he had the foresight to wear them in the morning.

The sky above is turning, a chill nipping on the tail end of a breeze. He tugs his coat tighter across his body, walking closer to the walls with his collar turned up. 

Across the road, a pair of headlights cut through the foggy darkness, and he freezes, hiding himself in the shadows until the truck rolls by.

Exhaling quietly, he takes a corner, down an abandoned promenade. Signs tacked to boarded up windows flap in the passing breeze. He keeps his head down, hands tucked neatly in his coat pockets.

The air is still, only the sounds of his boots crunching under gravel.

Somewhere to the front, a neon sign flickers, catching his attention.

Special 4th of September sale: Chocolate cake! 

Below, in a smaller font, it read: Open from 9PM-1AM. 

His stomach rumbles, and he grabs at it with a scowl. Though it was much too late for a cafe to stay open, Zayne wonders what harm could he get into if he decided to make a pitstop. Considering it was only 15 minutes till midnight, he still had plenty of time to spare.

Thinking about the sleeping pills he was running low on and how he was going to get them restocked, Zayne ambles towards the glass door, pushing it open. The sound of a tinkling bell shatters the hushed peace. 

Instantly, the scent of chocolate, vanilla and coffee hits him, fragrancing the air with a faint recollection of comfort he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Welcome to the Nightstar Diner!” A preppy blonde waitress gives him a smile and ushers him to a corner booth, where she saddles him with a menu and a whole stack of cheap napkins. 

“Today’s Wednesday—Wellington Wednesday. We have a huge array of mains and sides for you to choose from, and you shouldn’t skimp out on dessert! The city’s best pastry chef has just returned from an excursion to Floris, so we can absolutely guarantee the best treats to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

Zayne hasn’t really frequented this place in town, so he actively listens. 

As she prattles on, she flips the menu open, gesturing to the bestsellers.

Beef mushroom ragu, he decides. And for dessert—a chocolate cake.

That should be enough food to pass as a birthday celebration meal. 

He points to the items he wants, lifting one finger up. 

She pauses, blinks. “Oh. Give me a second,” she fishes a notepad and pen from her apron, writing down his order. “One Ragu Wonderland and BonBon delight, right?”

Zayne grunts in assent. She giggles, grabbing the menu from him with an enthusiastic nod.

“You got it, sir. Coming right up!”

Thankfully, she has enough sense to leave him alone. Most of them do, anyway. 

Like a prey able to sniff out a predator, the normal ones would put a wide berth of space between them and him; sensing the implicit strangeness he carried around like a second skin.

Zayne casts his gaze towards the outside world, watching trees sway in the wind, a broken street light flickering in the distance.

It’s a nice neighborhood. He should make an effort to explore out of his comfort zone once in a while. 

The waitress returns a few minutes later, carrying his main dish.

Here you go, she enthuses and Zayne wonders how her cheeks don’t split from all the smiling she does. 

He nods his thanks and digs in, chewing slowly—trying to savor a rare flavor other than cloying sweetness. 

The food is good.

Zayne doesn’t really have much of a fancy palette to brag about, but he can be picky with his food when he wants. That’s the main reason why a few carrots strips are hidden underneath his plate. Other than that, he supposes it was a solid dish.

He signals to the waitress for dessert. She cleans up after him, noting the neglected carrots with a laugh.

“Not a fan of your veggies, huh?” 

Zayne blinks, and shakes his head lightly. 

“... right.”

Evidently spooked by his lack of words, she picks up the heavy plate and swiftly cleans up the carrots with a cloth. 

The next time she drops by with his cake, she doesn’t say another word, setting it down with a polite nod.

He remains mute, picking up the gilded silver spoon (a nice touch to make this place more upscale than what it actually is) and scoops up the soft chocolate mousse. 

Before he can take a bite, his phone chimes, and he puts down the spoonful of cake; picks up his phone to check the spam message and the time.

Midnight right on the dot.

Happy birthday to me.

The world doesn’t change; doesn’t celebrate with him.

All it does is continue to bustle, deafen and destroy. Spinning on an axis while he stays still for a single second, absorbing the tranquility of this moment.

Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t last long.

The bell chimes again, breaking apart his concentration. Zayne notices a woman entering the shop, her entire face hidden by her hoodie. 

“... sorry, I’m late.”

Chatty waitress breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She drops her voice to a whisper, but Zayne still catches every word crystal clear; her voice floating right over to him.

“I was getting scared for my life. That guy there—” He feels both their eyes on him; Zayne pretends not to notice and spoons more cake into his mouth. “—gives me major serial killer vibes. Like Dawnbreaker vibes, y'know? I was about to call the police. But, since you’re here, I can fucking relax.”

The dark-haired man freezes at the unexpected call out of his alias, anticipating the other woman to agree with her; tell her to stay put while she dials for the police. 

Maybe the waitress recognises me from somewhere?

Zayne was a millisecond away from standing up and leaving, when he hears the other woman’s scoff and giggle.

“Don’t be silly. Him? He’s just a man eating alone. Not every guy who doesn’t flirt back with you is a stone cold killer, Serina.”

Stunned, he raises his eyes, curious about this poor judge of character when he completely freezes.

Her hoodie is down; hair falling right in her face.

Lightning strikes him, staking to the spot.

Oh, Zayne… you were made for me.

A lifetime of memories flash in his mind, all of them condensing right down to the sight of your pretty eyes locked right onto his.

Those eyes he had only seen in his dreams soften at the sight of him; the exact same color and shape he had memorized since she started haunting him fifteen years ago. 

No… it can’t be.

She parts her mouth, and his mind flashes to her leaning on top of him. Her warm breath on his cheek, her lips slotted perfectly with his own.

“... are you alright, sir?” 

Her voice echoes; rings faintly like someone had hit him over the head with a chair. Zayne snaps out of his stupor, realizing the bite of cake poised halfway into his mouth had freefallen off his spoon and splattered onto the table.

Those eyes were looking right through him. In his periphery, the waitress frowns.

But, he doesn’t bother noticing her.

His entire attention was locked onto you.

Before you could ask him again, he stands, chair scraping loudly in the resounding silence. Blonde waitress gasps, backing up when he approaches them, but he swerves straight for the glass door, setting a large bill on the counter; paying twice over for his meal. 

Zayne’s lungs feel like bursting, white-hot flames engulfing his every breath. He stalks towards the shadows, swiveling around to hide in the darkness while he keeps his gaze trained on the tiny cafe in the distance. He sees you picking up the cash, a faint smile on your lips while chatty waitress scowls with her arms crossed.

Watchful green eyes follow your path to his table, the kitchen. Then, you disappear and Zayne feels the fever dream break.

He stands, as if in a stupor. 

While his mind was playing catch up with what had happened, his hand was already reaching for his burner phone, snapping a picture of this idyllic cafe for future reference.

Zayne has half a mind to storm back in there and demand who you were; why you had been residing in his dreams for the better part of his life.

But, even someone like him is aware how crazy that sounds. 

Plus, if he scares you, there is no telling what you would do—the thought of you walking away and being frightened of him leaves a strange lump in his throat.

Zayne swallows it down, peels his gaze to the tiny lit cafe for another glimpse of you. 

You were missing, presumably back in the kitchen.

He waits, and waits, rooted to the spot. Time slips by without warning and soon, the waitress starts to clean up, dustpan and broom in hand. You appear, closing the shutters and switching off the lights. Zayne thaws from his frozen voyeurism, watching you walk to a parked bike, unlock it and straddle the seat.

You cycle away, and he fights back the urge to follow after you. To track you down and note your address.

It would be absurd.

His cover would be blown immediately.

Zayne couldn’t risk his entire identity hinging on a chance to speak to you; to ask you who you were and what you wanted from him. 

So, he did the next best thing: note down the name of the cafe, the exact time he met you and the color of your bike. 

Just in case he needed to find you again. 

(He wanted to find you again).

The sleeping pills he normally ingests at this time remains on the floor, away from his restless gaze.

For the first time in a long while, he tries to drift off without those white, round-shaped crutches—unable to sleep a wink for the entire night.

Zayne wakes up and forgets about the beeping monitor and red lights. He debates between traveling back to the cafe or extending his research to find you. In the end, after a full day of staring at the water-stained wall, he snaps out of his funk, finding the clock flashing 9:05PM.

He dresses down in a black turtleneck and charcoal gray pants. Ditching his pristine coat, he chooses a black windbreaker instead, nervously running a hand through his dark locks.

The trip back to the cafe takes him more than an hour, but it was all worth it when those warmly lit windows came into view; he finally felt like he could breathe again. 

Your bike was parked outside, locked with a standard clamp. He could see the top of your head from behind the counter. Despite his reservations, Zayne takes one step forward. And then another. He approaches the cafe, pushes the door open.

You immediately notice him, and a smile spreads across your lips. “Hello, sir. Welcome. What can I get for you?”

He tries to ignore how you basically push aside the blonde waitress to serve him, menu in hand. She huffs, but doesn’t say a word, going back to wiping down the counter methodically.

Zayne returns to what was quickly becoming his favorite booth, randomly pointing at a bowl of basil pasta. You smile, jotting it down. “A good choice, sir. Anything to drink?”

“Water.” 

His voice is hoarse and low from long stretches of silence and he fights back a wince when you blink, taken aback. 

“Oh. Of course. Long day, huh? I’ll make sure it’s extra chilled so you can quench your thirst, sir.”

You reach for the menu, and in the split second when he passes it to you, both your fingertips brush. A spark goes off, shooting into his skin like a mini lightning bolt. He grunts at the same time you gasp. You immediately follow up with a profuse apology: I’m sorry about that, sir.

He shakes his head, telling you without words that it was fine.

You shoot him another apologetic look and walk back to the kitchen. Your scent lingers around him—vanilla and strawberries—and despite himself, Zayne can’t help but lean forward, eyes closed and inhaling your wonderful fragrance.

His ruminations are cut off by a crisp click landing on his table; the blonde waitress giving him a tight smile as she sets down his glass of ice cold water.

Zayne drinks from it, unable to stop his eyes from darting to where you had disappeared to. He feels antsy; on edge. Like he had to know exactly where you were or else he would never feel at ease.

To take his mind off the unbearable distance, he drags a napkin towards him and fishes in his jacket pocket for a pen. Zayne doodles the first thing that comes to his mind; a cross section of a heart. 

It’s intricate and uses up enough of his time for you to arrive back with his food.

“That’s pretty,” you muse, standing next to him with your head craned forward to catch more details. “Is that a human heart? It’s very detailed. You must be a surgeon.”

He blanches and shakes his head. 

No, that will never be me. It’s him. That job will never be my reality.

Zayne clears his throat. “I… have a lot of interest in hearts.”

It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken in days. He hopes it doesn’t make him sound weird and off-putting. But, you smile, and then laugh.

“You know what, maybe Serina was right. You could most definitely pass as a serial killer.”

“I’m not charming enough.” 

He never expects to make a joke, and judging from the surprised look on your face, neither did you.

“Well, that’s a reassurance, though I can vouch for it differently.” He blinks at your words, sharp mind coming to a hard pause. You continue on like you hadn’t just made him malfunction. “May I sit and watch you draw?”

Zayne hesitates, not for the reasons you’re thinking; he’s worried he would scare you away. However, your dilemma was different.

“I-It’s just we don’t get many customers at night… as you can see,” your cheeks surge with warmth and you point to the starkly empty cafe. “I won’t get in trouble and I promise I won’t distract you. I just like to watch people immersing themselves in art.”

You sit opposite of him while you speak, and he has to duck his head to hide the growing smile tugging on his thin lips.

“I see. And aren’t you worried in the slightest how your friend might perceive you?”

You feel Serina’s judgment burning into your back. Ignoring her, you shake your head.

“I don’t care.”

Whatever curiosity you ignited in him wasn’t as one-sided as he expected. Calming his racing heart, he picked the pen up and continued to draw.

"May I know your name, sir?"

He pauses, wondering if it would be perfectly fine to reveal this bit of himself to you.

It's just your name... no harm can come from it.

"Zayne."

"Zayne," you repeat.

His name passing through your lips is the sweetest sound he has ever heard in this life; it sends shivers up his spine, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.

"Yes."

You smile, bright and inviting. "My name is Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He nods, and returns back to his sketch.

Feeling your eyes on him wasn’t the most nerve-wracking; it was how close you were that he could breathe you in. 

The smell of strawberries and vanilla seemed to coat your every pore, diffusing across the table where Zayne could no longer ignore it.

“What perfume are you wearing?”

His question took you aback.

“I’m sorry,” you immediately apologized. “It’s a little too strong. I went heavy-handed with it.”

He shades in a pulmonary artery, humming. “It isn’t bad. Do not misunderstand me. I find it quite delightful.”

You exhale a laugh. “Strawberries and cream. A local perfumer. I can share with you his details if you would like.”

Zayne flits his eyes back to you, nodding. 

You try (and fail) not to be mesmerized by the shade of green in his gaze; it reminds you of verdant trees swaying in the spring breeze. 

A comfortable silence lapses around the both of you. Zayne eats while he puts the finishing touches to his masterpiece. You watch every stroke of his deft hand, notice the scars on his wrists. 

Once he was done, he wordlessly hands you the decorated napkin, much to your surprise.

“I couldn’t—” you start hastily. 

“Take it,” he interjects, standing up. Fishing in his pocket for a large bill, he hands it to you without another word. 

You take care not to crumple his drawing in your hand, money in the other; watching the broad of his back grow smaller as he ambles towards the door.

“Will you come back?”

Your voice carries right over to him; Serina glances up from her phone, caught off guard by your eager question.

Zayne looks over his shoulder, an unfathomable emotion in his dark green eyes.

You hesitate, wanting to retract your sudden question. But, he stops your thoughts right in their tracks when he nods.

It warms you up instantly, and you break into a big smile.

Zayne doesn’t say anything else, turning on his heel and leaving the cafe. 

The overhead bell tinkles, and the doors snap close. Serina pushes herself off the counter to give you an inscrutable look.

You don’t have to ask what’s on her mind; her sneer says it all.

“He’s bad news. I don’t trust him.”

Quietly, you pocket his drawing, standing up with resolution locked right on your shoulders.

“Too bad I do, then.” You walk back towards the kitchen, wondering how you were going to repay Zayne for his kindness.

Staring at your ingredient list, you get to work—pulling out an assortment of bowls and icings as your mind whirs from one recipe to another.

Apparently, Serina wasn’t done lecturing you. She tails you into the kitchen, arms stubbornly crossed over her chest.

“I have a bad feeling about him. I don’t think you should get closer.”

Something in her tone catches your attention. You take in those sour, pursed lips; the petulant look in her eyes. It all becomes clear when her envy starts to stink up the room.

Choosing your words carefully, you mumble, “You don’t have to worry about me.” With more confidence, you chuckle. 

“If anything happens, I’ll run straight to you. I’m sure Detective Callaghan can help me.”

Her scowl deepens. “My dad would tell you to listen to me.”

You can’t help but smile at the childish lilt in her mumbled words.

Knowing how unwarranted your friend’s worry could be, you try to ease her concern as best as you could; softening your stance and voice.

“You’re right,” you say, plunging your hand in your pocket and feeling for the napkin; crumpling the edge between your forefinger and thumb. 

“But, I can protect myself, Serina. You know I can.” You turn to face the counter, ignoring her gaping shock.

“Trust me when I say: I know in the very depths of my heart that he would never hurt me.”

Every night, like clockwork, Zayne would drop by the cafe at 9:05 PM on the dot.

You would greet him with a smile, and a nod, directing him to his favorite booth where he would order one main, one dessert, and you would both spend the night chatting in low tones about anything and everything under the sky.

Some days, it was drawing. Then, baking. Once, you brought up books, and that conversation had managed to span past closing time until Serina, fed up with waiting for you, had handed you the keys and stalked away with a flippant, “don’t forget to switch off the lights.” 

Since it was almost two in the morning, Zayne offered to walk back with you to your apartment which was nearby, though you hastily told him it was fine and you could manage. 

After that, you had assumed he was silently sending you off from the sensation of his eyes boring into your back, but when you turned around, he was already gone. 

Today, the cafe is set up a little differently; blue balloons adorning walls, kids running around squealing. Adults were chattering and ordering dessert, and you had your hands full.

You could only speak in snatches to Zayne—running between the kitchen and tables with a notepad in hand and flour streaked on your cheek. However, your friend didn’t seem to mind; lost in his own thoughts while sipping a hazelnut latte.

Once the commotion settled down, you sidled into his booth, a tired smile on your face.

“Sorry about that,” you hummed. Wordlessly, he passed you a napkin, pointing right at your cheek.

You blink, swiping at the same spot he indicated, finding flour streaking the paper. “Oh. Thank you.”

He exhaled a humorless chuckle. 

“Busy night?” 

You hum, smiling at the family of four who were busy devouring some cake. “I love watching families celebrate special days. Makes me think of my own.”

There was a hint of sadness in your tone, one he couldn’t miss. 

“Is your family… here?” 

You shake your head, turning your gaze to the outside world. Zayne tightened his hands into fists, fighting back the urge to reach out and touch your face.

“They all died when I was a young girl. Wanderer attack.”

You force a smile, even when he could plainly see how much the memory still scarred you till this day.

“I’m… sorry. For your loss,” Zayne clears his throat and tries again. “Grief is strange. It doesn't become easy, but we grow a better capacity to withstand it. I would rather feel grief in its totality and learn to manage its burden than to never feel it at all.”

“You must have felt a lot of grief in your life.” He finds you smiling sadly at those words. “How about your family, then, Zayne?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a family, either.” 

The conversation suspends on a note of shared vulnerability and sadness. You twist your fingers, eyes glassy like you were a million miles away.

“I know this isn’t the best of times, but I made something for you.”

Before he can speak, you stand up and walk back to the kitchen. The family of four were already at the counter, paying for their meals. He sees a chubby boy nodding off to sleep against his father’s shoulder, while a cherubic baby babbles in his mother’s arms.

It must’ve been that little boy’s birthday.

He suddenly thinks of Georgie; how he would be thirteen if the Abomination hadn’t claimed him.

Those grave thoughts threatening to pull him under disappear when you return, a cake box in hand.

Opening it, you surprise him with a perfectly iced chocolate cake, made with a glaze that reflects back the cafe’s warm yellow lights.

“Hmm.” He tilts head to the side, studying the perfect icing technique. “This is nice. Did you make it?”

“Mhm hmm.” Your eyes twinkle when you say, “I saw your membership card information. We met on your birthday, right? And I thought—strange… you never had a cake. So, I made you one. And you seem to love chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, too.”

Shyly, you pass him a candle. “Do you want to light it up?”

Zayne stares at the cake. And stares at it some more.

“Zayne?” 

He raises his eyes to find uncertainty flashing across your features. The lump in his throat thickens and he shakes his head, trying to stop your thoughts from jumping to hurtful conclusions.

“It is beautiful, it’s just…” the quiet man trails off, unsure of what else to say but the absolute truth. “... No one has ever celebrated my birthday before.”

Your eyes widen and they flash with something tender and pitiful. “Oh.” He expects for you to coo at his misfortune, like so many were prone to do. But, you giggle and stick a candle into the perfectly glazed dome, lighting it up with a flourish—like you had done this a million times before.

“Well, I’m happy to be the first one to celebrate it with you… even if it’s a week too late.”

He has to breathe a soundless laugh at your satisifed expression.

“A week later is better than none at all.”

You put your hands together, and quietly sing him a ‘Happy birthday’. Zayne finds it alluring and haunting how the flame dances over your face, throwing shadows across your pretty features.

You finish the song, and he awkwardly ducks his head, hoping you wouldn’t notice his bright red ears.

“Come on,” you cajole, gesturing at the candle. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”

He does as you say, although he knows it’s futile to wish on candles; why would he when his dream had already come true?

But, he goes along with the charade, eyes closed and hands clasped together under his chin. Once he pretends to make a wish, he blows out the candle, and tries not to laugh when you clap excitedly.

Moments later, you pass him two spoons, and the both of you dig into the cake.

He finds the cream a perfect balance between light and sweet; not too overpowering or cloying.

“Good?”

He nods. “Very.” Taking a generous bite of the chocolate, he fights back a smile. The perfect ratio of bitterness and indulgence. “You have a great talent for sweets.”

It was rare for Zayne to compliment you, and even rarer for you to be so affected by such simple words.

Your face burns, and you cough to hide your flustered expression. Zayne notices the dusting of warmth on your cheeks and fights the urge to reach out and pinch them.

“It’s getting late. Do you want me to walk you back home?”

This time, you take him aback by your enthusiastic nod. 

“I would love some company.”

He waits for you to clean up, bears Serina’s eye roll and scoffs when she tosses the cafe keys at him with a curt, “goodnight”. 

Feeling antsy, he tries to help you clean up his spot, to which you screech from the end of the kitchen: “Zayne, don’t you dare do my work for me!”

He pointedly ignores you, picking up stray plates and cups. Walking into the kitchen, it’s amusing how easily he weaves his way through the mess of boxes on the floor and piles of dishes. He puts them all in the sink, switches on the dishwasher when your back is turned.

“Zayne, please. This is my cafe and you’re my guest. You don’t have to help me!”

Petulance coats your every word, and again, he finds it hard not to chuckle.

What is she doing to me?

In a span of a few days, he had gone from stoic and stone-cold to laidback and languid. Those sleeping pills he used to rely on were stowed away in his medicine cabinet; his nights restful and calm. 

No longer does he dream of her—of you—because you’re right here within reach.

Zayne doesn’t take such an occurrence lightly.

He treasures every moment with you; the boring mundane and the stretches of comfortable silence. If there was one thing he could live with in this bleak life, it was waking up with the thought of your smile.

“Thank you for walking me home,” you utter softly, bike wheels tinkling as you push the handles, walking in tandem with him. He slows down his pace to match yours, hands behind his back.

“Happy to be of service.”

You cast him a sly look, one which ignited his curiosity. “Is there something particularly on your mind?”

“Oh, nothing,” you mumble breezily. “Just that you remind me of a guard dog.”

A dip appears in between his brows. “Do I scare you?” 

Snorting, you shake your head. “Of course, not, silly. It’s your demeanor.”

You pretend to puff out your chest, back ramrod straight to mimic his perfect posture. “You walk like this all the time. You could almost pass as a soldier.”

The corner of his lips twitch at your antics. “Fine. I will be a bit less guarded around you.”

“Why don’t you show me another side of you, then?” Your sudden quip makes you stop dead in your tracks, and he does, too. Zayne sees you struggling to put your thoughts into words. He wonders what exactly you mean by that question.

“Hmm?” 

“It’s just,” there’s that flush on your cheeks he finds adorable again. You take a deep breath, and look him right in the eye. “It’s just—I really think you should ask me out on a date.”

Doubt flits in those gorgeous green eyes, and you nearly blanche, wishing you had a time machine to go back and smack yourself across the mouth for even uttering those words.

Without much preamble, Zayne lifts his hand, and you hold your breath. You expect him to caress your cheek, not tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch feels peculiar, if a little comfortable—like an abandoned house left behind years ago only to still feel like home the second you pass through the door. 

“I can’t,” he sounds pained, as if the thought alone was forbidden. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You take a step back, perplexed. “What do you mean? Hurt me? I never thought you would.”

His hand withers to his side, expression unreadable. “I’m not…” It's his turn to struggle with his words. “... not who you think I am.”

Who I think he is… 

You swallow hard, trying to hide the disappointment dragging your smile down. 

His rejection stung harder than the time you sliced your index finger while handling a lemon meringue filling. It burns through you, drying up your hopes. Making you question the real intention of his presence in your life.

“Oh. I’m… sorry.” You duck your head, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremble in your lower lip. Zayne remains stock still, and like a statue, you couldn’t unearth what was going on behind his stony facade. “I was too bold. It w-won’t happen again.”

Regaining your composure again, you plaster on a smile, though he could plainly see it was fraying at the edges.

Zayne doesn’t know what else to say; how to patch up your hurt.

His silence is mistaken for indifference; fuelling more of your doubt and despair.

“Zayne… are you angry at me?” 

He looks up, confusion written clearly in his gaze. “No. Why would I be?” 

You’re floundering, unsure how else to remedy this situation. “It’s just… I gave you the green light to ask me out on a date and you’re telling me you can’t because I don’t know the real you—whatever that means. Come on. Give me something to work with. Isn’t it obvious? I really like you.”

Despite his hesitation, Zayne has to admit one thing: you had more courage than most people he knew. 

Who else could stand there, shaking with their heart on their sleeve and still hope for the best? 

Something in him snaps at the thought, and he’s sweeping you into his arms, much to your surprise. Your arms flail at your side, breath caught in your throat. You feel his lips in your hair, those shockingly warm palms flat on your back. 

“You’re much too good for me,” he mumbles, sounding strained and breathless. “I don’t think I deserve such goodness.” 

The scent of him lingers on your skin after he releases you, the look on his face dissolving the last of your resolve. 

You reach for him, taking both of his hands, squeezing them tightly. 

“I don’t care,” you rush the words, wanting them to hit and stick. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re a sweet person, Zayne. And I want you to know that. You do deserve goodness—every single drop of it. I hope you will allow yourself that for once.”

Your words, though innocent and pure, hit him right where it hurts. He clenches his fist, scared that he might accidentally crush your fingers with how tightly he was holding your hands.

“I’m not a good man,” he rasps, those green eyes gouging through your soul. “I’ve done a lot of things—”

“And I will be the judge of that.” You peer up at him, willing him to look away.

He doesn’t, keeping his gaze steadily on you. 

Pursing your lips, you shake your head. “You give me so little faith, Zayne. I know a good person when I see one. If you let us take that step forward, I’ll make up my mind once I know the real you.”

Were you… challenging him? 

You might be more insane than him; crazier than what he gave you credit for.

But, the ache inside of him doesn’t want to subside, and he’s reaching out to touch your cheeks, cupping your face fiercely in his grip. Softly, so he doesn’t scare you away, Zayne caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, feeling your skin divot and dip under his touch. 

So fragile… so easy to ruin.

He would never ever hurt you; Zayne makes himself promise that over and over again when he leans close—close enough for his lips to brush yours with a chaste kiss.

Your breathing catches, lashes fluttering and tangling with his own. You don’t push into the kiss, letting him gauge the distance and test his self-control. 

The pressure of his mouth feels nice; lips slightly chapped but warm and full. 

He pulls back slightly, and you can taste the chocolate he had earlier; his cool breath stirring the loose locks of your hair.

“You have no idea how much I’ve longed to do that.”

To you, it may sound like the musings of a mad man, but to him, it was fifteen years of longing condensed into one moment.

Hungrily, you ache for more of him, and Zayne couldn’t say no. 

Your shaky hands sink into the lapels of his jacket as you tug him closer into your orbit. He relents, falling into you like a new star about to shatter from a nebula—an explosion of want painting each hot breath as your lips meet over and over again.

Your bike tumbles to the ground, and you almost fall along with it, if it weren't for his strong grip on your arms.

Zayne steadies you, breathing hard. 

“This is going too fast.”

His warning doesn’t phase you, not when he’s looking at you like you were a piece of forbidden fruit served to him on a silver platter

Since this world had been ravaged by the passage of time and destruction, the two of you were the only ones on the street. There would be no eyes witnessing this shocking indiscretion; no one to stop you from taking his hand and gesturing to your apartment complex in the distance. 

“Would you like to come over to my place?” you exhale. The look in your eyes is breathtaking; rooting him to the spot. 

Forgetting his fears and hesitation, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your cool knuckles. 

“Lead the way, little one."

Zayne corners you against the wall the second your door falls close behind both your backs.

He’s in your space, breathing in your air, touch more possessive than you could ever imagine. 

Those strong fingers grip your hips tightly, almost as if you might disintegrate if he loses his hold. You gasp when he pulls you flush to him, pressing his straining hardness right onto your clothed clit.

“I cannot be gentle with you, little one,” he murmurs, bucking his hips. Your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head at the spark of pleasure painfully zinging down your spine. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

He devours the question on the tip of your tongue: What do you mean a long time? 

Zayne doesn’t give you time to think. He’s kissing you like you were a glass of water in the middle of a desert that he had been denied gratification from; the fervor drives you dizzy. 

Fuck, he groans, and it sounds tormented—coming from the depths of his chest. I need you, my little one.

You grapple at his shirt, his jacket, his hair; anything to pull him closer.

It’s borderline insane—sleeping with a man you had only known for a week. But, you couldn’t explain it. 

Zayne feels safe. The moments in which you see him everyday softens you to the idea of him in your life; invites a warm feeling settling right in the hollow of your chest, just above your heart.

You might think you recognize him from somewhere—perhaps, your soul knew him even before your eyes did. 

Whatever that strange feeling was, it culminated into you shakily gripping his face, looking deep into those green eyes that held a lifetime of secrets in them.

“Zayne… I’m not afraid.”

You take his scarred hand, guiding it to your chest where your heartbeat stuttered and throbbed under his splayed palm. 

“I told you—you would never hurt me. I know you won’t.”

How ironic—a man with more blood stained on his hands, touching and caressing a precious bloom who had not yet lost her innocence.

If it wasn’t such poetic justice, he would’ve thought his life was made up to be one big fucking joke.

Even if you were his due punishment, Zayne wants to be trapped, like a moth to your flame; drowsily sinking deeper and deeper into your light.

His lips touch yours, cool from the autumn chill. You respond back, lips parting so he could slot his tongue past those plush barriers, going right into the heart of your mouth.

He’s never kissed anyone like this; where his soul was screaming to be poured right down your throat.

Everything about you was sin incarnate; close was never close enough when it came to consuming your passion. 

Tightening your hold on his hand, you pull back with a soft gasp. The glow of the street lights outline your puffy lips in a hazy orange, and Zayne has to physically hold himself back from crashing his lips onto yours again. 

You tug his hand, ripping his mind off the thought of taking you right against the wall, as you lead him down the hallway and straight into your room.

It’s cozier than he imagines; fluffy pillows and a soft teal bedspread. 

You sit on the edge, and he eyes the empty spot beside you.

“Hey,” your hushed voice snaps him out of his reverie. “Come here.”

You stretch your hand towards him, a soft smile in place. Zayne thinks he’s never seen such significance in a single motion; the only woman he’s ever loved, reaching out beyond his fervent dreams and subconsciousness to show him that she was here.

That she was real.

He takes your hand carefully, allowing you to bring him back into your orbit. His back meets the bed, and you cautiously straddle his hips, getting used to the feel of him underneath you.

It’s nice—his edges fitting right with yours.

Closing the distance, you lean in, planting your lips on his once more.

The feral desire he feels at the doorway kicks up a notch, and the hunger he tries to tame can’t be controlled.

He grips your hips, turning on his side to push you down to the bed. Your hair splays out on the sheets, cheeks warm and lips swollen.

Zayne’s hands tremble when he reaches for your jumper, fisting the soft material and tugging it up slowly. He watches—waits for your reaction.

You keep on looking at him with those half-lidded eyes, begging him to take the leap.

Tugging the jumper up, he’s rewarded with stretches of soft skin as far as his eye could see; further up and the lacy cups of your bra reveal themselves. 

You’re much too ripe. Much too alluring.

He can’t keep his eyes off your plush mounds, feeling like a complete idiot when he gapes at them for a second too long.

“You can touch them,” your soft quip makes him blink. Slowly, a hot flush creeps up his neck, and his ears grow warm.

Zayne figures it would be best to undress you; all these pesky layers were getting in the way of the true gift he wants.

Your jumper slides off your frame and onto the floor, and your pants follow suit. Left in a mismatched pair of lacy underwear, Zayne feels the heat going straight to his pelvis; pooling south and he’s painfully hard behind his restrictive slacks. You’re a dirty painting coming to life, wide doe-eyes watching his every move, plush lips parted and wet with a mixture of both your spit.

Zayne can’t take it any longer; he needs to taste you or else he would go insane.

“Ask me to undress you,” his voice comes out gravelly, low and urgent.

You lick your lips, darting your eyes from his mouth to his chest and back again. “Please,” it’s soft, and so, so sweet when those words roll off your tongue. 

“Make me yours tonight, Zayne.”

Fuck. He feels a spike of lust going straight to his cock and heartstrings. His nostrils flare, and he grapples for your bra straps and band of your panties with those large, veiny hands.

“That’s not what I said, little one,” he says, and in the heat of the moment, it almost comes off as a growl.

You lift your hips high enough for him to slide off your skimpy lingerie; sit up for him to get rid of your bra. 

The air is starting to shimmer with undeniable heat, and if you were a cold glass of water, condensation would be beading on your surface; trickling and seeping right into the mattress. 

You’re much too exposed—naked for his scrutiny. There’s barely any light in the room, all brightness sucked in by those glorious green eyes darting up and down your body, stoking the fire in them that’s burning to frightening heights. 

Without a second thought, you cross your arms in front of your chest, growing shyer.

He shakes his head, gently prying your arms away from your body. “Do not hide yourself from me. I want to see you—all of you.”

You barely have any time to prepare for what comes next: Zayne leaves kisses on your cheeks, neck, shoulders and chest. Making his way downwards where you needed him the most. Those warm lips press into your pelvis, your inner thighs, kissing the tension away.

A gasp slips past your defenses, the sharp nip of his teeth on your sensitive thighs bringing you back to the present.

It’s dizzying—you lean up to find his head of dark hair right in between your legs. 

Zayne’s eyes are closed, a worshiper right at your altar, his cheek pressed to your inner thigh. 

Puffs of warm exhales graze your skin, and you feel him right where you need him. 

Finally, his tongue touches your clit, runs through your folds; sending shocks down your spine. 

Zayne, you cry out his name. Oh God…

The pleasure is overwhelming, dragging you under. You reach for him, twining your fingers in his hair to anchor yourself.

Tastes delicious, he mumbles. Like the sweetest dessert I’ve ever had.

You whine, never expecting such a sentiment from him. He’s getting you so wet only to lap it all up; completely starving for you.

You always had an inkling that he was a giver, but here in your bed, Zayne doesn’t hesitate to offer you everything. 

Pitchy whines and gasps were your reward for him; growing dizzier on his tongue.

You’re shaking, desperate and aching. And he’s unrestrained, clamping his hands on your thighs to stop you from squirming, keeping you nice and open for him. 

“Shit,” he mumbles. “You’re so beautiful to me.”

It’s like he knows your body inside and out; how you like to be licked, how you twitch and gasp when he sucks on your bare clit. His groan resonates in your core, deep and carnal.

He needs you just as much as you need him. 

“Zayne,” you mumble wetly, tugging on his hair. He lifts his head, green eyes almost dark with an unnamed emotion that makes your stomach flip in nerves. You bring him into your arms, twining him fast to your chest. In the darkness, you don’t see his scars or the brokenness lining his very being; only focused on how amazing he feels flush on you.

You’re much too close, and it should scare him.

Instead, Zayne finds himself entranced by your doe-eyes and wet, swollen lips. He wants to devour you piece by piece; eat you all up until you’re one with his bones.

Taming those emotions down, he touches your face instead, caressing the soft plush of your cheek.

“Tell me what you want,” his voice is soft, non-intrusive.

It warms you, makes you fall deeper into this trance he has you trapped in. 

You’re trembling, he notices. Zayne guides you onto his lap, letting you take the lead. He doesn’t want you to be afraid; he would never forgive himself for hurting you.

He waits for you to become comfortable enough to meet his eyes, smaller palms gently folded on his chest.

“... I’m nervous.” Your teeth catch on your lower lip, mind caught in this tug of war. But, you’re dripping on him, sweet little pussy making a mess on his thigh. 

Such conflict intoxicates him—makes him want to push your decisions so it would always be him, him, him. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs, strong and reassuring. 

Sweeping you to his chest, he adjusts his lower body, so that you feel it.

The tip of his cock, hidden from your view, prods your tightness. You freeze, and he shushes you. 

“Little one… you know what’s going to happen, right?”

You nod, despite your anxiety. Zayne frowns and rubs your back.

“There is no need to be afraid. I will never harm you. You’re safe here.” With me. 

“I know,” you shut your eyes, breathing in deeply. “It’s just…” You trail off, and determination lights your features.

You sit up, fully in control now. Zayne watches the determination unfurl; how you grasp him in your smaller hand and stroke him from base to tip. He fights back a hiss, head thumping back onto the soft bed.

That feels so good.

He’s much too big to fit in one go; you had to buy yourself some time to wrap your head around his sheer size.

Wetness coats your wrist, and you glance down, shocked to find a clear bead dribbling from his tip. Something urges you to taste him, and you are about to trail down his body; to repay him for his first selfless gesture, when he grasps your hand, shaking his head.

“I can read your intentions, little one. I do not think it would be wise.”

You pout, about to ask him why?

He doesn’t give you a moment to voice out your disappointment. Flipping you back to the bed, he pins your hands down, nudging your thighs wider so you’re spread out nicely for him. 

With his free hand, he lines himself to you, dragging the heavy tip in between your folds. You’re so wet, it’s messing up on his cock and his resolve; messing with his mind.

Zayne fights to be gentle with you, resisting the urge to sheathe himself in one go—not wanting to hurt you. 

“Please…” you whimper, shamelessly begging. “I need you, Zayne.”

You’re being so good for him, he wants to do nothing but stuff you full of him; his cock, fingers, tongue, love.

He pushes in, not wanting to delay another second longer. The stretch is tight, gets him gasping and groaning.

You squirm and shift, trying to get him all in. Sweat beads on your forehead, teeth gritted.

“Relax,” his voice is low and hoarse. You need to relax or else I can’t get in, darling.

He releases your hands, sinking down into your open arms. He cups your pussy, rubbing your clit with his thumb. You’re doing so well for me, beautiful. So, so well.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, keeping him in place, shaking from the stimulation. 

He’s halfway in; your eyes start to fill with tears.

Zayne watches your every expression, stopping when you twist your head to the side.

“Does it hurt?” He almost pulls out, but you tighten your grip on him, furiously shaking your head.

“N-no.” The emotion is thick in your voice. “It’s…”

You hiccup, trailing off.

What is it, darling? Tell me. You can tell me anything.

“It’s… familiar. What we’re doing.” Your cheeks were warm, your flustered expression making something in his chest twinge. He leans close, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead.

“If it makes you feel any better—you’re driving me insane.”

He can hardly form proper words, cock so heavy it’s almost painful. But, he pulls the desire from overtaking him, from overwhelming you.

“You’re so beautiful… I must be dreaming.”

Zayne wants to spell his devotion on your skin, fill you up until he’s the only thing you can taste in the back of your throat.

You whine, trying to hide your face, but he won’t have it. He grabs your hands, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the bed.

“Don’t hide from me,” he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off your parted lips and glossy eyes. “Never hide yourself from me again, my love.”

… My love.

You don’t have a second’s respite to take in that sweet nickname, your pussy stuffed to the brim with him.

Zayne sinks right down to the hilt with little resistance, giving you all of him.

He breathes sharply, breathes you in. Hips rocking, pumping deeply in and out of your little cunt; your wetness coats him from base to tip, a sweet squelch filling the air every time he shallowly fucks into you.

You’re gasping, arching your back. Fingers flexing in his strong grip. Zayne thinks your body was made to be poetry; the circle of your nipples hardening, shapely hips clipping with his; delicate throat exposed to his biting kisses. 

He sucks your skin, leaves his marks of possession anywhere his lips could touch.

“Such a good little one,” he murmurs, pressing his face in the crook of your neck. Releasing his hold on your wrists. You latch onto him, arms around his shoulders and thighs wrapped around his waist; letting him rock you apart slowly. 

Feels so good. You feel so good, Zayne.

Needy little gasps. You’re clenching down on him so well.

Zayne feels like he’s on cloud nine; lost in the hazy stupor of your body. Strawberries and cream swirl around him, drowning him in a fruity, lactonic coma. 

He noses your pulse point, completely putty for you. 

It’s a mess where your bodies meet; slick staining the sheets. He’s too out of it to realize he’s making love to you raw. Zayne fights back the fog—reminding himself to pull out. I can’t spill inside of you.

You’re making it hard for him to stick to that resolve, especially when you whine in protest. 

I want it… need it inside of me, Zayne.

“Careful,” he grits out when you start to feel too good; squeezing down on his cock like your walls were made for him. 

Like fast melting snowflakes, his will of steel is disintegrating right in your warm pussy. 

Want to feel you all inside of me… make me yours, Zayne. 

His breath catches, turning into a groan. It feels too good, he was a split second away from insanity. 

Weak, a voice chimes in the back of his mind. You’re growing weaker for her. He wants to smother the apprehension; tunes into your breathy whimpers and moans.

You crave him—every low growl, every hard dig of his fingers into your fleshy hips.

You’re so sensitive, you can feel every twitch of his tip catching on your golden spot. His jaw grows slack, the pleasure building and building. Every stroke drives you closer to the edge, and you’re whimpering his name over and over again, blinded by the cresting pleasure.

“Zayne!” your mouth falls lax, cries bounding across the walls. 

Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his biceps. The pinch of pain shoots straight to his cock, and Zayne has to bite down on the release threatening to burst into you.

Not yet… focus on her…

Your orgasm crashes into you when you least expect it. Shattering through your entire soul. 

Zayne! Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You pant over and over again. So good, so good—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop. 

He’s not planning to, not when your contractions grow stronger and nearly pull him inside your body. He thinks you could steal his soul with how intense your pussy is squeezing down on him. 

Fuck, little one, he gasps, eyes nearly rolling back into his head. S’like you were made for me.

You’re shaking, so sensitive from cumming. With how good his strokes feel, the sensation builds up again—this time faster and more intense—reaching its fever pitch like a wildfire.

Shit! Shit… again. I-I feel it again.

“One more?” he groans, sweat slicking his dark bangs to his forehead. Your eyes get hazy, lidded; mouth falling open and the tip of your tongue slightly lolling out.

You look so fucked out, Zayne thinks he should destroy the entire universe so he could be the only one to see you like this. 

A dark rush of possession shoots through his veins, and you clamp down on him—tighter and growing more delirious.

Twinges of pain join in tandem with his strokes, the head of him bumping somewhere too deep inside of you to name. It sparks and withers, makes your thighs clench and toes curl. 

But, you welcome the discomfort—beg him for more.

Harder, Zayne. Make it hurt.

He’s gritting his teeth, gorgeous green eyes so hazy it fogs up your mind. His cock splits you wide open, walls trembling every time he rams into you so hard you feel the pain shooting up your spine. 

You cry out, start to sob.

More, more, more. Please, give me more.

“Cum for me, darling,” he says, and it’s not a request—it’s a command. Your body responds in kind, quick to bend and break just for him.

He has you in the palm of his hands; has you cumming again for him.

Zayne presses forward, fucking into you hard enough for the bed to shake. He gives it to you good, milking out as many pulsing contractions out of your body before you’re wrung dry.

You gasp and arch your back, till only your shoulders are touching the mattress. His thrusts grow harder. Sloppier and messier. One, final hard push.

Zayne breaks, spilling into you with an almost unbearable warmth. Pumping you to the brim with his load, he doesn’t let a single drop leak out of you, plugging you up and lifting your hips with those veiny, strong hands so you were full of him.

Fuck, little one… so good to me. His words are slurred into your throat, almost incoherent. 

“God…” your voice is raw and hoarse. You touch his chest, glide your hands through the slick sweat coating his back. 

Zayne remains deep inside of you, keeping you well plugged until you swear both your breaths become one.

He turns you to your side—reaching for your warmth and firmly lodging his face in the crook of your neck. Are you alright? 

He holds you like this, your back to his chest, palms splayed possessively over your belly and chest.

You nod, completely exhausted.

“Zayne?” 

“Hmm?” 

This time, you’re not afraid to voice this part out; the part which hesitated for a split second before you let him consume you.

“Will you stay the night?” 

He places a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, lashes tickling your cheek.

“Only if you let me.”

Of course, you would. Irrational as it was, Zayne was a part of your life now. This stranger turned lover whose touch could bring you alive in so many ways.

“I do,” you whisper back. “For tonight… and perhaps… many more nights after this.”

He falls into a silence—far too quiet that you thought he might’ve dozed off.

But then, his arms pull you closer, and you think you might fold under the weight of his hold when his words fill you back up with all the light the universe has to offer.

“Yes,” he murmurs, certain and true.

“For as long as you let me, I would love to be here with you.”

Linkon City’s best cardiac surgeon stirs in his sleep, the beginnings of his nightmare locking him in place.

He dreams of him again—that darker, murderous version of himself. Those dreams always start the same; gray walls, cracked mirrors, dark leather gloves stained with blood. Bodies exploding into Protocore dust. 

Each of them follow the same devastating pattern, and yet, his dreams feel different.

This time, there’s a girl in them. She’s smiling at him, playing with his fingers. Feeding him spoonfuls of cake. The images come to him like broken polaroid flashes; each one more intimate than the last. 

Her bare thighs peeking from under his black shirt. Her palm on his heart. Her head on his chest—a familiar weight. He even dreams of her on her knees, tiny hands braced on his thighs, while her mouth wraps around his thickness. 

Something ignites his curiosity, and when Zayne looks closer, he finds her more than familiar.

She was you. 

Well, not quite you you. 

This you felt more tragic than the one in his life; her smiles fainter, cracked with pain and the weight of an unknown burden. 

Sadness coats those eyes of hers, though her lovesick expression never wavers. 

Her arms feel like home, and he discerns that the other Zayne—the one who had haunted him since he was twelve—is far happier than he has ever been. 

Zayne, do you ever want a family one day? 

The both of them (him and you) were laying on a picnic blanket, watching the clouds shift and change. There’s a parked motorcycle with two helmets on the pillion seat nearby, a box of chocolates melting beside your hand. You lazily pick up one piece, unwrapping the foil and popping it into your mouth. 

This Zayne glances at you, his eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Why do you ask?” 

You nudge his shoulder, beckoning him to follow your line of sight. He leans up on one arm, looking at where you were pointing. 

A nest of caramel-colored bunnies appear by the bushes nearby—mama bunny in the front, with her little balls of fluff trailing right after her. Such a sight was rare in their world, and Zayne is shocked these tiny creatures have yet to be eaten by Wanderers.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” You take his hand, twining your fingers with his. “My mother always told me this old wives tale from long, long ago. If rabbits appear before two lovers, they would be blessed with a family. That’s why I asked.”

She is bold; bolder than you in his life.

The Zayne of this world tightens his grip on her hand. A look flits across his face, one which Zayne recognises as a fleeting desire and sadness.

He feels the other Zayne’s conflict; the yearning clashing with logical reasoning—a daily struggle he encounters even in this life. 

But, unlike him, this Zayne was adamant in falling in love with his version of you. 

He pulls you to his chest, nose buried in your hair, cheek pressed to your shoulder now. They must smell like strawberries—he knows that scent very well. 

“I do,” he whispers, almost mouthing the words into your skin. “I want everything with you.”

Zayne jolts awake the second those words leave the other Zayne’s mouth. 

He blinks, groggily taking in the darkness; broken by your steady snores beside him. It’s early—4AM in the morning and he has two more hours before he has to be up. 

His heart is racing, but not for its usual reasons. Typically, those nightmares leave him incapacitated, frozen completely in fear until he forces himself to his feet, lunging towards the bathroom to scrub off the imaginary blood from underneath his nails.

But, this time, those dreams leave a hollow ache in his bones. 

He glances over to where you lay, still sound asleep. You would be up an hour after him, dashing to the bathroom and tripping over your feet with your toothbrush clenched between your teeth; rushing to get ready for the day. Zayne knows this because he’s seen you doing it over and over again—across many different lives. 

I want everything with you. 

Zayne reaches over, gently draping an arm around your midsection. You mumble in your sleep when he pulls you closer, palm splayed protectively over your belly.

He lets himself imagine, for a split second, how you would look all swollen and full with his baby—the curve of your belly, your radiant skin and glowing smile.

The ache appears again.

Despite his reservation and hesitation, he thinks back to the Zayne in his dreams. How he would be feeling the same way—perhaps, with even more bitterness.

Linkon’s best cardiac surgeon mulls over that thought in his mind, and as he falls back asleep, he faintly hopes the other Zayne’s wish would come true. 

The night stretches into a tolerable silence. 

Zayne glances at his watch, waiting for his next customer to appear. Her profile reads as a widow who recently uncovered a coin size bulge on her arm. The signs had appeared soon after, her physical health rapidly deteriorating. 

He’s supposed to meet her here tonight, at this alleyway a neighborhood away from your apartment, but it appears she’s late. Zayne glances at his burner phone, noting your text to him.

What time are you coming home tonight? 

His heart warms, and a faint smile plays on his lips.

10PM. I'll wait for you, little one. 

“Mr. Zayne?” 

A hoarse voice cracks through the silence like a whip. Zayne immediately straightens, stowing his phone away and hides a gloved hand behind his back. Sharp and thin like a blade, the icicle appears in his grasp, poised for attack.

Her hair is in a disarray, eyes swollen with globs of black mascara streaking down her cheeks. 

She walks with a limp, and he can tell the Abomination was overtaking her with each passing second.

Her ragged breathing fills the alleyway, and he swears her eyes shine indigo for a split second.

Someone like her was too far gone; couldn’t be saved.

The best thing he could do to help was to end her misery early. She stops, sways on her feet, and plunges a hand into her pocket to pull out a wad of cash, tossing it to him with defiant nonchalance. Zayne catches it, stows it in the lapel of his jacket. 

Her eyes droop closed, and she goes completely still.

The night air crackles with tension, and Zayne swears he smells burning skin.

A tendril bursts from under her eye, and one more pierces through her cheek.

“Before you end me, Mr. Zayne… can I ask you something?”

Many of his paying customers would use this moment to share their last wishes and requests; or, to confess a sin they couldn’t bear to carry anymore before they greeted the grave.

He waits, a patient Grim Reaper for them to lay down their burdens on his already strained shoulders.

“Have you ever been in love?” 

His mind immediately jumps to you. Zayne blinks, and his silence must’ve been some form of confirmation because she starts to smile. There’s bliss in her expression, even as a faint purple light halos around her face.

“I was in love… so in love with him… the sickness ended his life and he gave it to me. His name was Kai. We were married for 5 years when we discovered the symptoms. I was always there for him, and he, for me.”

She takes in a shuddering breath, and Zayne can’t rip his eyes from her. “If you have someone you love in this fucked up world, take care of them, Mr. Zayne. Nothing here is permanent. Everything here is… pain.” Her eyes leak fresh tears, and in this light, she almost looks fully human again.

But, Zayne knows what she is; what she is capable of. He has to end her before the sickness can fully set in. 

“My only consolation is that I can see him again. I dream of him all the time, Mr. Zayne. He’s in a field. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to come to him. I’m paying you a lot of money so that you can send me straight to my Kai, do you understand me?” 

Zayne nods, voice caught in the back of his throat. 

She closes her eyes, and the fear morphes into peace; her expression serene and accepting like a dying saint.

Softly—so softly that he almost doesn't hear—she whispers her husband’s name.

The icicle in his hand solidifies, and he removes his arm from its hidden view behind his back, aiming the shard right for her heart.

Another tendril bursts from her stomach, and she cries out in pain.

Zayne takes it as his cue to lunge forward, pushing the entire chunk into her heart.

Her blood stains his hands, his coat. The pulsing purple light fades into the background and her body dissipates a second later; becoming one with the dust stirring his black boots.

Zayne gets onto one knee, inspecting the last few fragments of her. Evidently satisfied with his work, he stands, and makes the slow, arduous journey back to your apartment.

He doesn’t expect you would be home by the time he reaches—an hour earlier than what he had told you; nor to hear your gasp reverberate across the house when you notice his bloodstained clothes.

It’s too late to cover up now.

Zayne remains frozen in place, eyes wide and locked onto you.

You take one step towards him, and then another. You’re in his shirt and nothing else, hair freshly washed. 

The smell of strawberries makes him dizzy, and he has to stop himself from rushing towards you—conscious of how he must look right now. 

Like a monster standing under the lights, eyes frenzied and specks of blood coating his chin and chest.

“What happened?” You ball your hands into fists at your sides, expression wide and hurting. “Did something happen—”

“It is not my blood.”

His words stun you, and you take a step back, hands to your mouth. “Zayne…” you speak through the cracks of your fingers. “Did you… did you…”

Zayne can’t pretend with you, not when he wants you to see him fully for who he is.

“A monster stands before you,” he mumbles.

Daring himself to look into your eyes, he holds your gaze, throwing your words—your promises—back to your face. “You said you would be the judge of that—well, here is my truth.” 

Zayne curls his shoulders forward, eyes to the ground to avoid your prodding gaze. “You may know me as Zayne, but I go by another name…” 

He exhales it into the suffocating silence, shattering your hopes in him—your believe that he was a good man:

“Dawnbreaker.”

cries and dies thinking about what comes next .... also... reblogs and feedback are very much loved !!

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

---

LookBook | KAGOME HIGURASHI Edition

-- Imperfect order doesn't need to be corrected. True redemption lies in utter destruction.