Oh, How I Sobbed When He Was So Worried For Her After The Call Happened My Heart :((

oh, how i sobbed when he was so worried for her after the call happened my heart :((

Dove (part nine)

Leon Kennedy x female reader (bodyguard trope, slowest, slow burn I swear, a few swears in this one) Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight.

The click of the lock – unsure how your ears even picked up on it at all with the ghost of the alarm still screeching around your skull – makes your stomach churn as Leon heads out into the garage, off to face the unknown.

What if it’s one of those… those Lickers, stalking around the house, waiting to wrap him up in one those awful tongues, fling his body from side to side?

Fuck, your chest feels impossibly tight, like there isn’t even space in there to take a deep enough breath. You squeeze your eyes shut, sitting upright on the sofa, forcing yourself to count - in, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold out… If those things are out there, you try and placate – your breathing steadier than it was but heart still pounding furiously - Leon can handle it. He’d said so himself that he had a lot of experience so that must count for something, otherwise he'd more cautious and less cocky when he’d strode out the door.

He is coming back – you repeat it in your head like a prayer, maybe if you say it enough times it’ll make it true.

You two had been about to kiss. He needs to come back.

--

Leon heads straight to the trunk of the SUV to rummage through the duffel bag that he’d stored there the previous day. You’d been polite enough not to remark on why it had been accompanying him to the bathroom and out on his perimeter checks, but it could only go on so long without being commented upon. It seemed a good compromise to leave it locked in the trunk, whilst still having enough on his person to get by. He helps himself to a couple more rounds, two flash grenades and two straight up grenades, though he sincerely hopes he won’t be dealing any of those out so close to the house. Attaching everything to his utility belt, he takes a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. His heartrate is elevated, adrenaline pulsing through his veins from a combination of the alarm, what might be waiting for him behind the garage doors… ..and the fact that he was a millisecond away from kissing you.

Need to address that later.

He won’t have the chance to if he doesn’t get his head on straight, though. He checks his ammo one last time, clicks the safety off and undoes the padlock on the garage door, lifting it up so fast it bounces off its hinges as he tucks himself to the side, preparing for an ambush.

Nothing but a strong gust of wind.

He walks forward, slowly, gun raised, and sidesteps out, keeping his back pressed against the outer wall. It’s a fraction different being in a rural setting, surrounded by fields than it is to be in the depths of an underground facility, not worrying about being so exposed. No-one else here to have his back, so this’ll have to do.

He edges around slowly, trying to keep his ears peeled for any movement above the wind – a heavy footstep, maybe a tile slipping from the roof – but there’s nothing but the rustle of the trees as the wind wooshes through. He keeps his eyes flickering between the horizon, the sky and the ground for any evidence that there was someone or something close enough that would trigger the motion detectors, but nothing is to be found.

Leon circles the perimeter two more times before retreating back into the garage and viewing the footage, trying to pinpoint the exact alarm that was triggered, though it doesn’t seem to be obvious. There’s nothing at all to be seen as he thoroughly watches each of the feeds, checking that there wasn’t some dark flash in the corner of one of something or someone retreating out of shot, but it all comes up blank.

Maybe the alarm was divine intervention, he muses, pulling the garage door back down and securing the padlock. He really shouldn’t be kissing the witness, should he?

His phone rings – Hunnigan. Of course, she’ll be keen for an update.

“Hi. Look, I haven’t forgotten,” he starts, hoping to deflect from a lecture. “Dove’s just got up, so-“

“Great.” Though she doesn’t sound sincere. “Patch me through to your laptop, we can have a video call and I can ask her myself.”

“Oh. Er…” He hesitates, trying to drum up an excuse. “Surely you’ve got a lot of other pressing matters on your plate than this. I’ll ask her now and then I’ll email through the intel, if there’s any.”

“Leon,” her tone is stern, “may I remind you that I’m the handler of this case and it is my right to speak to Dove if I want.” There’s a pause and Leon realizes a moment too late that that was his moment to placate her. “Are you hiding something from me?”

“No, of course not!” He sighs, frustration creeping into his voice. He knows it’s not professional, that he needs to keep his emotions in check, but it’s all starting to bubble over with the accusation. He can’t just waltz back in the living room, declare the perimeter is clear, shrug off the near-kiss and shove you on a video call with Hunnigan – it’d be emotional whiplash.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m not hiding anything from you, you know me better than that. I just… I haven’t had chance to give Dove the last update yet, and I don’t want her to know about the CCTV hack.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think she needs to know.” “You don’t thi…? Agent Kennedy,” he knows he’s in trouble now – he can picture her rubbing her temples as she thinks how to handle this. “You’re aware I was the one who chose you for this assignment, and I can quite easily choose another agent and reassign you if you refuse to co-operate with myself and HQ.” “I am co-operating! And you know what, Hunnigan? You should trust me. I’ve never given you any reason to doubt that.” He huffs back. “I’ve been where Dove is, okay? She’s still shaken up, she’s fragile. I’ll tell her what she absolutely needs to know, but I don’t want to tell her things that will just pointlessly scare her.” “Oh, come on, you don’t want to scare her? You’ve been in that house barely 36 hours together and you sound like an overprotective boyfriend.” “I don’t.” He near enough growls at the accusation.

“You do – you’ve never made me chase you so much to get information from previous witnesses. Why do you care about her so much?”

“No, hold up - those fucks were not witnesses. All they cared about was avoiding Umbrella’s wrath, not wanting to fall victim to the fucking monstrosities they helped create. Dove was just trying to do her job, to try and keep the public safe – like we are – and look where it got her. She’s injured, in pain, locked up in the middle of nowhere, worried about being suspected of being involved, we just had the security alarm go off and-“

“Wait. Alarm?” He’s used to her typing whilst he’s on the phone, but this time it sounds a little more frantic. “What alarm?”

He exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. I’ve just checked. Nothing to suggest anyone or anything’s been close. Must’ve been the wind – pretty gusty here today.”

“No, it’s just…” She trails off and Leon can hear her attack the backspace key. “We have it set so FSOs are alerted when an alarm system at any of the safe houses trigger. When did this happen?”

“About 30, maybe 40 minutes ago?  I’ve done the perimeter four times, it’s clear. I’ll review the footage when I’m back inside.”

The typing ceases. “There’s nothing in any of the logs.”

“That a problem?”

“It’s set up to trigger a notification so we can get in touch with whoever we have out on security detail and check in. I should’ve got something.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs as if she could see, “maybe it’s glitched.”

“Maybe…” She trails off, scanning the information on the screen once more. “Okay, fine – a compromise. Go and speak to Dove, quickly tell her what you want to tell her and then video call me on the laptop so I can ask about the servers.”

“And you won’t tell her about the CCTV?”

Hunnigan sighs. “No, I won’t tell her about the CCTV. 10 minutes, understood, Agent Kennedy?”

He takes another deep breath, he’s mad at himself, irritated with the situation and the fact he’s on thin ice after that outburst, that’s for sure.

“Yes, ma’am.”

--

The garage door unlocks and you jump to your feet, bracing yourself. There’s no denying the relief when you see Leon step back in, physically unharmed. You want to run over, to embrace him, but you stay glued to the spot.

“All clear, Dove. False alarm.” He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile but he can’t quite commit, quickly turning to lock the door behind him.

“Really?” You don’t mean to sound quite so skeptical.

“Mm-hm. I think the wind must’ve just hit the sensor a certain way.” He turns back, but doesn’t make to step forward. “Sorry I was gone a while – wanted to be thorough, you know? And then Hunnigan called just as I was going to come back in.”

“Oh, with updates?” You don’t know what you’d like to hear.

“Kinda.” He hesitates for a moment before moving towards the kitchen. “Sit down – I’ll grab some water, okay?”

He clocks the panicked look on your face, even more so than it was when he’d left the room. Good going, Kennedy. “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

“Okay. Sure.” You mumble, sitting back down heavily on the couch and picking a spot on the coffee table to stare at as you hear him busy himself in the kitchen. He appears a few moments later, a glass of water in each hand and his laptop tucked under his arm. He places one glass down carefully in front of you and moves to sit on the other couch.

The distance feels too great for a man you swore was a millisecond away from kissing you not even an hour ago. Are there CCTV cameras in the house? Maybe Hunnigan had seen what was about to happen before the alarm had gone off and Leon’s getting reassigned. If he can’t know your real name, he really shouldn’t be kissing you either, should he?

“So, first of all,” your attention snaps back to agent. He’s opened his laptop up, placed it on the coffee table, and sat right on the very edge of the other sofa that it doesn’t look like it could be comfortable, “the President wanted the surveillance department back up and running as soon as possible. A lot of manpower has been dispersed to assist.”

“That makes sense - national security and that.” You wonder if they’re in the same office, sat in your colleagues’ chairs. Did they just… steam clean the carpets to get out the blood? Rip them out entirely and lay down rugs to cover the concrete floor?

They should burn the whole building down to the ground.

“In a way, but they are still working on tracking down the perpetrators of the attack. It also means that Hunnigan’s not been able to send a team to your place as yet.”

“So, I’m still a potential suspect?”

“Not to me.” He replies, firmly. “But I’m afraid it’s still something that needs done. In the meanwhile, er, she wants to know if you remember anything about the servers, specifically how they operated.”

You shake your head. “Not anything technical.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, just they’re struggling to regain access and, well…” He looks at you, sympathetically.

“I’m the only one left to ask.”

“Mm.” Leon looks down at the laptop then, a few taps and clicks as he seems to set something up. “Hunnigan would like to talk with you – pretty urgently – so I said we’d call after I’ve given you the updates. You ready?”

Leon spins round the laptop before you even had chance to respond, an outward call already ringing, the camera on and showing your rather surprised expression in a box to the right of the screen. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he hung up with Hunnigan – he’d wasted a few precious minutes putting the grenades and ammo back in the duffel bag in the SUV.

“Dove,” Hunnigan’s voice comes through the speakers first before her video appears on the screen. “How are you doing?”

“Okay. Thank you.” You shuffle in your seat as Leon gets up and circles round to the back of the sofa you’re sat on, crouching down to check the angle. “How are you?”

“Good - thank you for asking.” There’s an awkward pause, you can see her purse her lips before she pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose before continuing. “Agent Kennedy, you are not required for this call.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He can’t help himself still, apparently. “I’ll go just shower, then, if I’m not required.”

“Good idea,” Hunnigan bites back. “Go cool off.”

You shift slightly in your seat, not sure how to deal with the tension between the two. What had been said in that call? In the little box to the right hand of the screen, you can see Leon raise a hand, almost as if he was going to reach out to squeeze your shoulder. Instead he drops his hand into a fist, bounces it off the back of the couch twice and strides out of shot towards the bathroom.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Dove - the servers.” Hunnigan’s tone has changed – lighter, now she’s talking to you, and she’s typing along with every word. “What can you tell me about them?”

“Erm… Just everything that I told Leon for his report already, I think. All the active cases are stored on there – it distributes them randomly to operatives every morning via the terminals. I already have some pre-allocated when I log in – it must do them at some point in the night.”

“And the end of the day?”

You shake your head. “Nothing particularly different at the end of the day that we need to do. It saves periodically on the server as you update cases. Nothing’s saved on the terminals themselves – it would be a security risk.”

“And did they ever talk about the security embedded into the server itself?”

You hear the shower switch on from the bathroom, wonder if Leon will be using the same shampoo and conditioner… “Dove?” “Er, no. Not that I can recall being told.”

“I mentioned there was a breach on the database when we first met.”

“Yeah.” You swallow around the lump in your throat, wondering what she’s about to reveal. “Did they extract all the information, then?”

“They got nothing.” She sounds disappointed.  

“But that’s good, isn’t it? It’s a lot of information, personal information too. You wouldn’t want that getting out into the wrong hands.”

“Mm, not entirely. The server wiped itself in result of the attempt.”

That doesn’t sound right. “Wiped itself?”

“Apparently”, she sounds skeptical. “it’s protocol.”

“No. I mean…” You shuffle in your seat, trying to think ahead of each word before you say it. “I honestly don’t know what it was meant to do in that scenario, but it doesn’t seem right that they’d set it up to wipe without any sort of recovery method, or a separate back-up in the event of a hack or a breach.”

“We’re of the same opinion, then.” She nods, a satisfied smile on her lips. “But I’m curious as to why you’re so sure.”

“Because some of the surveillance has been going on for months, occasionally even a year before enough intel is gathered to be escalated.” Sometimes you’d had to scroll through pages and pages of notes to get yourself up to speed before you even started analyzing the most recent intel.

“What do you mean by escalated?”

“Well, the surveillance team doesn’t act on anything – we’re just collating it as evidence for action then to be taken if deemed appropriate.”

“Do you decide that?”

“I don’t have the final say in it, but I write advisories.”

“How so?”

“Erm, like, this one was flagged up erroneously so it should be closed. This one is of interest, but not enough to act on, ongoing surveillance required. And then any more than that, I flag for review for the senior analysts.”

The shower shuts off.

“And they worked in the same building.”

 Worked.

“Yes.” You press past the thought. “I don’t see why they would risk losing everything without some sort of failsafe – it would set the whole operation back to day zero.”

“Indeed, as that’s where we are now. They don’t even know where to start.” Hunnigan sighs and leans forward, rubbing temples with one hand.

“If you’re cleared of suspicion of the attack and breach, how do you feel about leading the division?”

“If?” You can’t help but bristle at that, the fact that she’d put the two things in the one sentence. Were you meant to be flattered at the offer?

“Yes – if.”

“I told you, this isn’t anything to do with me. I… I passed all my security checks at interview, we get vetted monthly without fail! If there had any doubt about my loyalties I would’ve been off the team and in custody immediately.”

“No need to get defensive, Dove. You have to understand where I’m coming from.”

“No, I don’t understand.” Tears burn at your eyes, though you’re determined not to let them fall. “I don’t understand how you think I could possibly have anything to do with what happened, that somehow I acquired those… those Lickers and let them, let them…” Your breath catches in your throat, the memories overwhelming you.

The bathroom door opens, but you don’t turn, eyes fixed on the screen. “Surely you have to agree it’s suspicious that you, out of all of those people, were the only one to survive, and yet with so little injury too.”

“Hunni-“

“I don’t know!” You retort, cutting across Leon’s warning to the agent. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. I don’t know why they didn’t bite my head off, rip me apart limb from limb, but… but I wish they had.”

“Dove,” Leon’s voice is soft, now directed towards you rather than the laptop screen, “you don’t mean that.”

“Noted.” Hunnigan’s tone is icy. “Thank you for your time.”

There’s a beep and the call disconnects.

You get to your feet, keep your head down, trying to make a beeline for the bedroom – it’s the only place you can go – but Leon steps in front of you, holding his hands up in front of him, as if he’s afraid to touch you, smelling sweet from the strawberry bodywash.

“Hey, look at me.”

“I’m tired, Leon.” You are, truly – suddenly and inexplicably feeling exhausted. Pathetic.

“Please.”

You look up then, defeated – you’re going to have to look up eventually - but there’s no tears in your eyes. His hair is damp and he’d dressed in a hurry, patches of his white t-shirt going translucent. “What?”

“I know it’s difficult right now – and I’m not just saying that, trust me, I’ve had that feeling when you’re the only one left and you don’t know why – but please don’t say things like that.”

You stare at him, but you don’t know what he wants you to say. “Sorry.”

“No, Dove,” he sounds exasperated, “I don’t me-“

“I really am tired.”

And he believes you. He wants to wrap you in his arms, pull you close to his chest, whisper promises in your ear, press kisses to your crown – anything to bring a spark back into your eyes than the look of defeat.

What had Hunnigan said?

“No, of course. You’re recovering.” He steps aside, leaves a clear path to your bedroom. “Go have a nap or just a rest – whatever you need. I’ll make us lunch when you’re up.”

You nod, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door behind you with a click and near enough collapse into the bed, mindful of your arm, muffling sobs into the pillow.

 --

“Why do you care about her so much?”

The words ring around Leon’s head as he lays on the sofa, one arm tucked behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. It’s been over an hour and a half since you retreated into the bedroom, an hour or so since he last heard a muffled sob behind the door. He’d had to stop himself dialing Hunnigan’s number to find out what happened – tensions were too high. Why does he care so much? You’re beautiful, sure – always been a sucker for a pretty girl and that’s got him in trouble in the past – but it’s more than that, far more.

Maybe… maybe he cares so much because he’s never really had the chance to care for someone like this. He’s not had any sort of real relationship since before Raccoon City, one night stands here and there, but nothing of any domestic substance. You’re not entirely reliant on him, but it’s those things you’d do for a partner when they’re having a rough time. He could’ve been obtuse and unhelpful, watched you struggle in a foreign environment, but that’s never been his style – the wide-eyed, rookie cop who just wanted to help was still in there.

But what was he thinking earlier, nearly kissing you? You’re vulnerable, a prisoner almost, under his watch. He shouldn’t be doing that. It’s too much of a pressured environment, emotions and tempers are high – as the blow-out with Hunnigan had made abundantly clear.

He rolls to his side, cursing the world. Why couldn’t he have met you anywhere else?

--

You wake up, disorientated at first as to why it’s so dark. You’d retreated back into bed just before midday, surely Leon would’ve woken you for your medication at least. You sit up, allowing your eyes to adjust before hauling yourself out from under the warm covers and tentatively open the door, unsure of what the hour may be.

The living room is empty, an abandoned pillow and blanket on the sofa – Leon must be out on a perimeter check – but the garage door is ever so slightly ajar.

Leon’s never done that, even when he went out to search for a chair he’d got through the same routine and locked it up tight behind him. Maybe he’s grabbing something from the SUV and with you being in bed hadn’t felt it necessary to follow his usual routine?

“Leon?” You call out, cautiously.

There’s no response.

You walk slowly over to the door, trying to steady the building panic in your stomach, and peek through.

The garage light is on. The SUV is still in place, the garage door shuttered down and Leon is on his side, his back facing towards you, almost in a crescent shape so you can’t see his head, and the garage floor is smeared in blood. His blood.

You retreat like a coward – you should go forward, check for a pulse, see if you can do anything to help, but the panic is overwhelming. You make it only a good four or five steps when there’s that horrible, unhuman sound at the same time as something wet wraps around your ankle and yanks you down hard.

A tongue.

It’s one of those things’ tongues.

You scream, try and grab purchase on the carpet, your nails ripping up fibres but it’s not enough. You kick back wildly with your other leg, all terror and no substance, but the tongue begins to retract, yanking you along with it, the carpet burning against your knees as it drags you back into the garage.

You turn to look over your shoulder, tears burning your eyes, as the monstrosity waits on the hood of the SUV, dragging you to rest besides Leon’s lifeless body.

Lifeless and headless.

You scream.

There’s a bang – not of a gunshot, but of a door hitting the wall - and you’re up right in bed, heart pounding furiously against your ribcage, hard, shallow breaths but there’s no oxygen reaching the bottom of your lungs.

“Dove?”

--

The scream had come from your room and Leon can’t remember getting from the sofa to the door he’d moved that fast, throwing it open with such ferocity that it had banged against the wall, the handle leaving a hole in the plasterboard. He had his gun raised, cursing himself already for leaving you alone, only to find the room empty of intruders and you sat up in the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks, staring blankly into the space and breathing so hard it was as if you’d been sprinting.

He holsters his gun – safety clicked back on – and is by your side, crouched down, hand on your covered legs in moments.

“Dove?” He asks, softly.

You look at him, eyes wide in alarm, panting, before you grab his hand, squeezing his fingers in the hopes of reassurance, not quite believing you’re awake. “You’re… You’re okay.”

“Me?” He raises an eyebrow.

You nod. “You were… They were… I…” You swallow back down a sob.

“Hey, it’s all right. It must’ve been a bad dream.”

“It had got you, you were… You were dead.”

You squeeze his fingers again before letting go, trying to steady your breaths. “It felt so real.”

“I know.” He wasn’t a stranger to having such dreams, despite how many years had gone by. “But it wasn’t. I’m fine, see? Not a scratch or bruise on me.”

You nod again, shakily.

He gets to his feet. “Let me get you some water, hm?”

You wrap your fingers around his wrist then. It’s not a strong grip, he could pull out of it easily, but it’s enough to still him.

“Can you stay?” You’re not looking at him, eyes fixed on a random spot of the duvet.

“I’ll only be gone a moment, just to the kitchen and back.”

Your grip tightens a little around his wrist. “Please.”

“Okay.” How could he ever say no?

You shuffle along in the bed then, making space wordlessly.

“Are you sure?”

There’s only a slight tug on his wrist before he clambers carefully onto the bed – boots and all – lying back against one of the pillows and you shuffle to lean into his side, leaving a little space. He wraps his left arm around you without thought, pulls you in closer so your head is laying on his chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He begins to rub his palm on your lower back in soothing circles – mindful not to go higher with the bruising. He can feel the rate at which your heart is pounding.

“Do you want to talk about anything?”

“Can we just…?” You squeeze your eyes closed tight. “Can we just stay like this in silence for a bit? Please.”

“Of course – anything you need.”

You keep your eyes closed, trying to focus on touch to calm your heartbeat - relishing the warmth of his chest on your cheek, his palm on your back and the sound of his steady heartbeat. It doesn’t take long for you to relax again in his embrace, another wave of exhaustion rolling over you from the shock.

“Dove?” He asks gently, cautiously when you’re on the precipice of sleep.

You don’t reply, the effort too great.

“What are we gonna do, huh?” He whispers, giving you a light squeeze.

You feel him press a long kiss to your crown.

--

He’s just extinguished a cigarette, but he already needs another as his associate makes a beeline across the office, a shit-eating grin on his face. Fucker shouldn’t look so happy. He bangs the packet on the table to retrieve another, lighting it and taking a deep drag as a single printed page is laid before him. He looks down – a list of addresses divided into columns that mean absolutely nothing. “What’s this shit?”

“Addresses.” His companion answers, tapping the paper enthusiastically with his every word. “But, more importantly, a list of DSO assets. As you’ll see, there are quite a few of them, all dotted around the States.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, waiting for him to continue. “And I happen to know some of these are designated safe houses - equipped with state-of-the-art alarm and surveillance systems.”

“Right. Do you have a point?”

“Getting there. Alarm systems are all connected to the central hub, so yours truly worked his magic and set all active alarms on the system to trigger at the same time.”

“And why should I care?”

“You should care because only one alarm triggered, suggesting there’s only one in use.” His companion dips his hand in his pocket, pulling out another sheet of paper and a pen. He places it down besides the list of addresses to reveal a grainy CCTV still of a figure and proceeds to pull the cap off the pen off with his teeth, spitting it out on the table and circles an address.

“And that means…?” “That means…” He draws a circle around the grainy image of you laying at the bottom a stairwell, “I know where she is.”

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

Comments, follows, likes and reblogs make my day!

oh, the way i sobbed through the whole thing. this is so AMAZING UGH MY HEART. your writing is to die for <3

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

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IDKHOW MENTION ‼️🗣

stupid for you

chapter six: Whoops!

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

summary: college radio show host, park sunghoon, and his friends are struggling to get callers for their weekly advice segment on hybe radio. what happens when jake tells the girl that sunghoon is interested in to call and anonymously ask for relationship advice (that just so happens to be about sunghoon himself)?

genre: radio show host au, unserious, pining, fluff

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taglist: @isabellah29 @sweetiejaeyun @onlyhyunjin @i03jae @hoteldelyoona

@charlizefaye @isa942572 @heegyuwrld @junnysbae @getoxo

@sumzysworld @ppeachyttae @sol3chu @ladyartemesia @stormy1408

@bee-the-loser @norihoyeon

i swear, right, as i got this notification, i dropped everything and ran. i live for this slow burn SOOO MUCH. you are absolutely amazing!! the way you write leon and readers' situation and their slow building connection to each other is just chefs kiss <33

Dove (part seven)

Leon Kennedy x female reader (bodyguard trope and the slowest, slow burn I swear)

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six.

---

A tense knot has formed right between Leon’s shoulder blades – can feel it pull when he tilts his head side to side, but it doesn’t seem to be loosening. Can’t even blame it on sleeping on the sofa cos he hasn’t laid down to sleep since the call with Hunnigan, stays sat up right. He’s athletic, he can jump up to his feet from horizontal but it’ll add a second or so to his reaction time and he’s not taking the risk.

He's on edge and he doesn’t like it. The ball of anxiety in his gut has saved his life more times than he can count, but it shouldn’t be necessary in this situation, should it? He’s set up in a safe house, literally off some beaten track in the middle of nowhere – location chosen and distributed by encrypted software so, technically, no-one in the DSO knows where he is either. It’s rigged up to the heavens with security measures - cameras, alarm systems, motion detector - explosion-proof windows, reinforced doors, all topped off with his favourite array of weapons in the duffel bag, currently resting by his still booted feet.

The objective of his mission hasn’t changed after the intel he’s received, that some foreign agency has had access to the CCTV feed for who knows how many hours before they were cut off. He should feel reassured that the quality of the footage was awful – it was only by how many times he’s encountered Lickers that he could even tell that’s what the creatures were when he’d be presented with the grainy images. He didn’t see the footage of you being rescued, but it would be a cruel kick in the gut to find that feed had been HD.

He lifts an arm – his left, keeping his right arm free, his accuracy is better by millimetres with his right – and rubs the knot, hoping to relieve the tension. It's not 100% confirmed they are looking or will be looking for you either, but why would anyone link up to the CCTV circuit if not to check on the outcome of their operation?

His immediate thought had been to up the frequency of his perimeter checks, one every two hours. He could do that at night, sure – military training taught him the correct and most efficient techniques to power nap – but in the day it would be harder without worrying you about what’s changed.

You wanted updates. Hell, you were entitled to updates. But he wants to give you good news, doesn’t wanna add to the weight on your shoulders with what could be nothing. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but in these sweet domestic moments the two of you have been sharing, he’s been pretending it’s something else – friends watching television, cooking a meal together – the sweet smiles the two of you exchange, but it’s all ripped apart the moment he has to do his checks. He can see the worry settle on your face then, a reminder of where you are with the flick of the safety off his gun and the twist of the lock as he goes outside to conduct surveillance.

Speaking of, his phone beeps for his next circuit on the building and he’s up on his feet in the blink of an eye. He pats his cargo pocket out of habit for the keys on the walk over to the garage door, but finds himself pausing outside your bedroom, his eyes focusing on the handle. You should still be pretty under with those sleeping pills – note to self, he’ll need to start weening you off them from now on, far too easy to get addicted. It wouldn’t hurt to just… check you were okay, would it?

No – that’s what you’re here, why he’s here – to protect you.

It would just be doing his job.

He presses down on the handle and slowly opens the door, breath caught in his throat. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark, the lamp in the living room not quite reaching as far as your bed, but eventually he can make out your face – as peaceful as he’s ever seen it.

You’re on your side. The position doesn’t look like it would be comfortable with your arm still strapped up in the sling, but it’s testimony to how well the sleeping pills are working. Your other arm is up by your face, hand clenched in a tight fist around something. He steps forward without thinking, curious what it could be.

Your fingers are gripped tightly around his watch.

And there’s a pain in his chest that feels like they’re gripped around his heart as well.

That settles it - he’s not gonna tell you about the hacked CCTV feed. He will tell you that Hunnigan hasn’t searched your place yet, that they’ve restarted the surveillance department – she’d asked him to ask you if you knew anything about the servers since they were appeared to be working from square one – but that was it.

Leon steps back with unnecessary caution, leaving the bedroom as silently as he entered and shuts the door with a soft click. He takes a deep breath, pats down his pockets again and heads out to circle the perimeter.

And, just like after you kissed his cheek, he does it twice.

--

You wake up after another peaceful and dreamless sleep, though it still takes a moment to remember where you are as you stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling. You wonder if tomorrow you’ll not experience that flicker of panic, just get up and accept that you’ll be picking today’s outfit out of a selection of clothes that you’re not sure if anyone’s worn before you.

You feel sore, as seems to be becoming the norm, but with unusually stiff fingers on your good hand. It seems you’ve clutched Leon’s watch all night. You’d fallen asleep quite quickly – all thanks to those sleeping pills – but you remember looking at it when you’d first got in the bed, the seconds ticking by lulling you to sleep. The fact that you’ve held it for so long reminds you of when you were a kid and snuggled up with a stuffed toy for comfort, except instead of something soft and cuddly, it’s what appears to be a top of line timepiece. There’s a lot of information contained on the face of the dial but there’s the time is the only one you really care about – 0906.

You get to your feet, raising your good arm to a grunt of protest as you try and run your fingers through your hair in lieu of a mirror. Huh, that pain’s new. Your hair is definitely due a wash now, but that’s an issue for later. You pull on a pair of sweatpants one-handed – you’ll be a pro soon, you’re sure of it – and put Leon’s watch in the pocket for safekeeping. It’d be difficult to try and navigate the door handle with it still gripped in your good hand and you’d hate to scratch it up.

You open the door cautiously – you hadn’t seen Leon asleep yet, but he must do at some point. Maybe you should offer to alternate the sofa and the bed? Though you have a feeling that he’s far too much of a gentleman to accept.

Or there’ll be something in the rules that prohibits that.

There’s no danger of waking him though - the agent in question is performing sit-ups in the middle of the living room floor, facing the other way. Muscular arms behind his head as he lets out little puffs of exertion at the exercise, alternating sides as he twists.

Wary that you don’t want to be caught staring, you shut the door with more force than necessary behind you and greet him with a smile when he looks over his shoulder.

“Morning, Leon.”

“Dove!” He doesn’t even sound out of breath. “Morning. Sleep okay?” He jumps up to his feet before taking a couple of steps over in your direction. There’s a grin on his face at the sight of you – makes you feel giddy.

“Yeah, thanks. How about you?”

“That’s good. Yeah, I slept fine.” He nods. It’s not a lie – he did sleep fine for the position he forced himself to maintain all night, despite the slight crick in his neck.

“Is that how you usually start your mornings?”

One of the arms you’d been admiring goes up to rub the back of his head again. “Kinda. I usually go for a run, but…”

“But you can’t leave me on my own.” You finish, smile dropping a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be - I’m not.” He drops his arm back down, casting an eye over a watch that’s not there. “Hey, you hungry? I can get breakfast started. Oatmeal again?”

“Sure.” You nod, fishing his watch out of your pocket and holding it out to him. “Thanks again for this. It was nice to wake up and know the time this morning.”

“Don’t mention it. You can, er, you know, keep it. If you like.” He can’t get the image of you fast asleep last night, clutching it close to your face. He knows it was most likely the sleeping pills meaning you’d just passed out with it in your hand more than anything deeper, but, hey, a guy can pretend.

“I’ll be okay, I can get the time off the TV during the day.” You hold it out again with insistence. “But maybe… maybe I could have it for the night again?”

“Deal.” Leon hastily agrees, his fingers brushing yours as he takes back the watch before fastening it around his wrist. “Breakfast coming right up.”

You take the opportunity to duck into the bathroom as he heads towards the kitchen – your heart warmed once more by the sight of the blob of toothpaste sat ready and waiting on your toothbrush.

--

“And, finally, oatmeal.” He places it down on the coffee table, alongside your coffee, a glass of water and your morning dose of painkillers.

“Thank you.” You lean forward to pick up the spoon, smiling back at the face that Leon’s drizzled in honey atop your breakfast again.  

“Nah, pleasure’s all mine.” He calls over his shoulder as he picks up his own bowl from the kitchen. He hesitates for a second, before choosing to sit the other end of the sofa to you, rather than the opposite one.

“You know, I don’t get to do this very often. It’s nice.”

“Mm,” you swallow a spoonful of oatmeal. “Thought you said you’d been in lots of safe houses.”

“A fair amount. But, no, not that part. I mean, eating breakfast with someone.” “So…” You stir the spoon around the bowl, hoping it might prove a perfect segway into something you’d been wondering. “..there’s no-one at home for you?”

“Me?” He seems to scoff at the idea. “Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He replies casually, before his blue eyes widen in alarm at how it might come across. “

“I mean, just by the fact that you hadn’t mentioned anyone at your apartment that morning and you hadn’t asked any of those sorta questions, you know, if they’d been told about what happened, where you are...”

He’s flustered, feels like he’s really putting his foot in his mouth this morning. He can take the lead in the interrogation of some of the world’s most despicable humans, for goodness’ sake, he should be able to talk to a pretty girl.

“Yeah, I figured.” You tease back and he swears he feels the weight lift off his shoulders.

The two of you eat in silence for a moment when curiosity gets the better of you. “So, you didn’t eat breakfast with the… others?”

“Nope.” His tone is firm as he recalls some of his previous charges. “Certainly didn’t make them it either. Trust me – they were nowhere near as nice or as deserving of my protection as you are, Dove.” The comment makes your head tingle.

“It’s all been people ‘realising’ how deep they’d sank but only grew a conscience to save their own skin. Hell, you might have even performed surveillance on some of them. A lot of criminals finally show backbone when they realise their time is running out.”

“Well, I’m glad to make a change – both for sharing breakfast and …safe house occupancy with.”

“A nice change,” he mumbles, but you still hear.

--

After breakfast, you go to shower and Leon sets himself to task with the dishes once again, says he did his last perimeter check before nine. Removing the sling proves trickier than yesterday – when you go to tug off the Velcro your opposite shoulder smarts with a similar pain of that morning, causing you to hiss through your teeth, something which the painkillers from breakfast don’t seem to have alleviated.

You step into the cubicle after undressing – the hot water immediately somewhat soothing on your bruised shoulders but you still struggle to get what you now deem as your good arm high enough to even entertain the possibility of washing your hair.  

You try and avoid your reflection in the mirror when you dress, though you know you’ll have to confront your hair at some point. Unfortunately, you catch a glimpse – a greasy mop sat upon your head that makes your heart sink.

There must be a trick to it – other people must wash their hair one-handed all the time, but maybe they can lift an arm above their head. If you were home, you’d go to a salon, you think – an expensive you would deem necessary for your sanity.

A thought flashes across your mind – a ridiculous one. Leon is already doing so much for you, surely this would be completely over the line.

But you could… ask, couldn’t you? The worst he could do was say no, it would be awkward, and maybe there’s a hat in the duffel bag you’ve yet to discover.

You open the bathroom door, but don’t make to step over the threshold. Leon looks over from the sofa – dishes now drying in the rack besides the sink - and clocks your hesitation.

“Need a hand with the sling?”

Are you really going to ask him this?

You’ll break at some point - you know you will, so why not get it over with now? You’re a regimented two-day wash kinda girl and it’s day three. Not to be completely vain, but you’re covered with bruises and cuts, dressed in less than flattering clothes that aren’t yours and it would be nice to feel somewhat decent about something in your appearance.

Especially with the handsome company you’re keeping. Hell, Leon could be a model, a hair model too. There’d been shampoo and conditioner in the shower and you certainly hadn’t used it.

“Dove?” You’ve taken too long to reply again, getting stuck in your spiralling thoughts.

“I know this isn’t what you’re here for.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can think further.

“Okay…” Leon's eyebrow is raised, a curious smile now fixed on his lips as he gets to his feet.

“And say no, obviously. Please. Just… I’d like to wash my hair.” You drop your eyes then – maybe it’ll be easier if you talk to your feet rather staring into his kind eyes?

"Right."

“And I’d… You know, I’d go to a salon and get it done there if we weren’t… here.”

“You’d like me to help you wash your hair?” There’s a tone of amusement or maybe disbelief in his tone.

Hearing him say it aloud makes you doubt the entire exercise, your heart begin to pound at your stupidity. “Sorry. No, I don’t know what I was thinking. It was stupid to ask-“

“Hey, no, it makes sense.” He soothes, immediately wanting to ease your frustrations. “You can’t lift your arm above your head, right? My fault for not thinking about that.”

You look up then, seeing the sincerity on his face – like it truly was his fault that you couldn’t wash your own damn hair.

“I can do that, Dove. I don’t see why not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm-hm. As you said, if you were anywhere else right now, you could go to a salon and whilst I can’t promise their quality, I seem to do all right with my own.” He shrugs. “You thinking over the sink?”

He doesn’t know why he asks – it’s hardly like you’re going to ask him to get in the shower with you.

Is it?

“I think so.” You look around the living area, though you’re well acquainted with what feels like every square inch of it now. “Though it might be a little awkward since we don’t have any chairs.”

He snaps his fingers. “Nah, there might be one in the garage, actually. Lemme check.”

He barely makes it into the garage when his cell vibrates in his pocket – one new message from Hunnigan.

Any server information for me?

Leon finds the folding chair nestled at the side of the washer and dryer and hesitates over the text back.

He’ll wash your hair – seeing how torn up you’d been about even asking him had made him feel awful - then he’ll give you the updates and ask about the servers.

He picks up the chair and tucks it under one arm, swiftly typing out a message on his cell and clicks send.

Not yet – Dove’s still asleep.

---

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

Comments, follows, likes and reblogs make my day!

---

Cuffed

Leon Kennedy x reader, Valentine's Day nonsense

I just really liked this gif*

You let out an annoyed huff, craning your neck back as far as humanly possible in the hopes that somehow this time you will be able to see the lock on the handcuffs you’re trying to pick.

It’s embarrassing – taken down by a scientist with a metal suitcase who’d swung it wildly in defence, rather than putting his hands up above his head as you’d so kindly requested. His antics had sent your gun flying out of your hand and skidding across the linoleum floor and by the time your fingers had grazed the handle of the dagger holstered at your hip, the suitcase had met the side of your skull, sending you toppling down, ears ringing.

You don’t think you fully blacked out, but it was enough of a blow to stun you, knock your earpiece out – all topped off with the scientist taking the handcuffs from your side and locking your wrists above your head, around some sort of metal grill.

He’d even had the gall to say sorry as he did it, before picking up the suitcase and running out of the room.

It’s fine, you’d reassured yourself once the room stopped swimming as much, you’ve got a lockpick hidden away in your watch. That first step had been hard enough – feeling blindly for the small dial on the side with your fingers to pull out the thing but you’d succeeded in the end, so surely you’d triumph here as well… right?

You don’t know how long it takes, but eventually you feel resistance, indicating you’ve finally managed to locate the lock itself. Great - now all you need to do is get through the pin mechanisms and you’ll be free, and you won’t even have to mention any of this to Leon-

Dink.

The sound of the lockpick hitting the floor as it slips from your grip is a kick in the teeth.

You aren’t granted time to commence a pity party as a beat later the door opposite is kicked open to reveal Leon, gun poised, finger on the trigger, looking mad as hell. His face relaxes a little at the sight of you, but he’s still sure to scan the area before he deems it clear, clicks the safety on and holsters his weapon. He holds a finger up to his ear and you hear a faint beep.

“Condor One to Roost. Hummingbird acquired – we’ll head to the evac point shortly.”  

Leon strides over as he speaks to HQ, before finally crouching down in front of you with a smug grin and a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Hi…” You trail off, embarrassed about your predicament.

“Well, this isn’t exactly where I was expecting to receive my Valentine’s Day gift, but you’ve definitely surprised me.”

Your face burns at the implication – you two keep it as professional as possible when on assignment together, but something about your current situation has Leon unable to resist. You attempt a half-hearted kick out at him in protest, but he stills your thigh easily with a hand.

“It’s not funny, Leon!” You retort, tugging at the handcuffs in frustration. “The target got away with the suitcase and-“

“Easy, I got him. He’s in custody, goods secured – much like you.”

“I’m not going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Uh-uh, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, before grasping your chin with gloved fingers and begins to check over you for injuries – a purple bruise already blossoming on your temple. “How many of me can you see?”

“One.”

He holds up his other hand. “And how many fingers?”

“Three. Look, can you just get me out of these now – please?” You pout, but he’s enjoying being the tease a little too much to concede just yet.

“It’s on the agenda. What’s the date?”

“14th February.”

“Good. Otherwise known as?”

You roll your eyes. “Valentine’s Day.”

“And who’s your Valentine?”

“Well, he won’t be if he doesn’t uncuff m-“ Leon cuts you off, pressing his lips to yours – a soft, slow and sensitive kiss. You don’t even realize his hands are now above your head until there’s a soft click and finally your wrists are freed from their confines.

“You were saying?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither was you scaring the shit outta me when you dropped off comms, sweetheart. Come on.” He wraps an arm around your waist and helps you to your feet. “We need to get you checked for concussion.”

“Really?” You frown, though you do feel a little light-headed now you’re standing. “It wasn’t that hard of a hit.“

“Well, there’s a definite dent on that suitcase we confiscated, so I think we should play it safe.”

“Fine.”

He presses another kiss to your lips - this one a little more fierce, and pulls away only slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Leon smiles and retreats, but keeps a hand on the small of your back as he bends down to pick up your discarded gun and handcuffs. He proceeds to offer the gun back to you and you murmur a thanks and holster it, expecting to be handed the cuffs next, only for him to tuck them away into one of his many pockets on his pants and start to usher you out of the room.

“Wait, those are mine too.”

“I know.” He replies in an amused tone.

“Then why are you keeping them?”

He laces his fingers through yours, brings it up to his lips to kiss. “Let’s just say they’re going to come in very handy for my Valentine’s Day gift later.”

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

Comments, follows, likes and reblogs make my day!

---

the way you write heeseung reminds me so much of awsten especially with him being a brony😭😭

stupid for you

chapter five: lets just say.. the devil made him do it

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

summary: college radio show host, park sunghoon, and his friends are struggling to get callers for their weekly advice segment on hybe radio. what happens when jake tells the girl that sunghoon is interested in to call and anonymously ask for relationship advice (that just so happens to be about sunghoon himself)?

genre: radio show host au, unserious, pining, fluff

notes: sorry if the povs get a little confusing, just pay close attention. it starts in hoons pov then it moves to yn. radio rebel gc is back to hoon... hope that made sense

prev / masterlist / next

taglist: @isabellah29 @sweetiejaeyun @onlyhyunjin @i03jae @hoteldelyoona

@charlizefaye @isa942572 @heegyuwrld @junnysbae @getoxo

@sumzysworld @ppeachyttae @sol3chu @ladyartemesia @stormy1408

@bee-the-loser

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