#Converging minds au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nsharks · 3 months ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The rattle of vials cuts through the quiet sobbing as you raid the cabinet, stuffing a backpack with painkillers, sedatives, and wound care.

"We had antibiotics on us. Where are they?"

From the corner of the room, the response breaks apart. "I don't... I don't know about any... This is all we have."

You drop the backpack in favor of the gun at your waist, and direct it at her. "Don't lie to me."

"I-I'm not! I don't know where they are!"

A twist in your gut says she's honest. "Is there any alcohol?" you press with a curl at your lips.

"There's... some... under there."

You lower the gun and move to the sink, uncorking a half-filled bottle that reeks of absinthe. It fits snugly into the backpack. A nod to Nereida. She lowers her own gun from the young woman’s temple. Straps over your shoulders, you step into the smoke-tinged air, leaving the woman behind, when her accented voice chokes out: "You have taken... everything from us."

You stand in the doorway, watching a piece of ash fall on the scuffed leather of your shoe, then glance over your shoulder. "There is still some medicine left in there. Take what you can, get the other women, and leave. This place could be teeming with Greys soon with all the blood spilt. Travel north. We're going south." Her glossy eyes drift up from her hands. Your gaze hardens. "We will kill you if we see you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

You look away. "Salome is in the cell. Alive."

The flames lick at the chapel’s frame as you return to the others. The stone walls have blackened, the door swallowed in fire, windows shattered. The acrid stench of scorched wood and charred flesh burns your nose. The last survivors—the few men left after Price and Kyle cleared the barn—had been shoved inside with the Grey.

You need to get out of here—away from the stench of blood. Clean water is urgent. A safe place to treat everyone's wounds, even more so, though the missing antibiotics linger in the back of your mind. Adrenaline wearing off, you move quickly, pausing only to hastily dress Blue's feet and Ghost's back with medical cloth from the cabinet before continuing down the main road. While everyone yields a backpack and gun, Ghost carries Blue to his chest. He hasn't once let her go.

The flames still flicker behind you when his grip falters. He stops to adjust her weight, and you touch his elbow, speaking low. "Let Price or Kyle carry her."

"I've got it."

You don’t press, though the gnawing concern remains. How much blood has he lost? You can only hope it's clotted enough to hold a bit longer.

The only words Price manages are instructions—what to watch for to indicate freshwater. Downward slopes, converging animal tracks. You’re nowhere near as injured as the others, yet your thighs shake, your vision blurs, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut to regain focus. You still flinch at every sound, ready for blood.

An hour out, the sun hangs heavy. Dense vegetation and a small cliffside offer promise. Carefully, you help each other down. Ghost finally relents, letting Blue cling onto Price’s shoulders so he can manage rappelling down the rocks. You stay close without thinking, your hand ghosting over his bicep when he wavers.

Then you smell it. Water.

Relief nearly buckles your knees.

A narrow creek winds between boulders, tucked beneath towering cypresses.

Everyone washes off the blood, dulling the stench. A fire will be needed to clean it for the wounds. As you rake water through your hair, your gaze drifts upstream—where cypresses give way to ripened plum trees, bordering what seems like a property. Price sees it too. He’s already shouldering his backpack, moving to check it out.

The gown pools at your ankles, dipping into the shallow water as you cross. The property is silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker. You tighten your grip on the gun, scanning the unkempt garden and overgrown path leading to the estate—a summer home fit for a family or, as you soon realize, two wealthy old fucks. Their skeletons are all that remain inside, draped in dust like the furniture around them.

Price lowers the rifle to his side and nods in approval. "This will do."

If you could, you’d strip off the stained gown and shut your eyes. Instead, you follow Ghost as he kicks open doors—nothing but a bathroom and parlor. On the second floor, the first door to meet his boot reveals a bedroom. You shake the dust from the quilt, and he carefully lays Blue down. You're already sifting through the backpack.

Ghost kneels to take her feet. He fumbles with the cloth, exhaustion stealing motor function. You help, unveiling the jagged cuts edged with dirt. Ghost grits, "They did this?"

"I did," she whispers. "I hoped you'd find me... and the Greys... they got distracted by my shoes."

Her words linger as you dab alcohol onto a strip of cloth. "This will hurt," you whisper, biting your cheek.

Ghost grips her ankle to keep it still and takes her hand, offering something to squeeze. At first touch, her nails claw at his wrist. Her lips press tightly together to muffle a small sound that dies in her throat, and then she falls silent. Her eyes flutter shut, reopening only to release a lone tear when you finish with both, then wrap them again.

"Your arms," you say, reaching for them. One is already bandaged—must've been done by them. The other is freshly cut. When you try to look at it, she recoils, inhaling sharply.

"They did this one, didn't they?" he asks.

A slight nod of her chin.

Anger leeches from Ghost's skin.

He exhales sharply through flared nostrils, then gently takes her wrist, pressing a kiss to the skin just before the cut begins.

"Let Twix clean it, baby."

Her fist clenches before she offers you her arm. More tears cut a trail down to her lips.

"There. Let's get you something else to wear," you breathe out, stuffing the cork back in once it's over.

What you find in the closet is at least better than the bloodied dress she was supposed to die in—a large flannel shirt that smells like old man. Blue accepts it, but stares at the shirt in her hands for a long moment before asking Ghost to look away. He does, and you help her, keeping your eyes on hers while undressing her.

You turn to Ghost. "Your turn," you whisper.

Lowering to the bed is a great effort, one you have to steady with a hand under his armpit. As gently as possible, you peel the cloth from his back. Seeing his wounds before did nothing to prepare you for this—up close, in the unforgiving sunlight. Deep, inflamed gashes ooze fresh blood at the disruption. The stench of festering flesh makes it hard to focus as you murmur for Blue to touch his hair, distract him for the first dab of alcohol.

Where Blue was able to silence herself, he cannot. Not when it’s this bad. The terrible, wrecked groan and the violent jerk of his body make you want to disappear—to run and let someone else do this to him. But you know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t trust anyone else to. So you steady the tremble in your fingers and continue, the room heavy with his pain. It finds its way to your back, as though someone behind you is holding a whip. The phantom pain sinks into your skin with each of his groans, forcing you to push it away to steady your hand as you work.

Blue twists her fingers in his hair, whispering in his ear. "It's almost over, dad."

By the time the wounds are cleaned, redness remains, offering little reassurance. Over a day's worth of sweat and bacteria isn't something you can simply undo. You'll need to keep an eye on them for infection. You sift through the vials and push two painkillers to his lips, helping him sit up to swallow them. As you’re about to help him back down, he grabs onto your wrist, a pulse of pain pulling your gaze to where you slit your own vein. The linen strip is soaked through. Ghost silently unties it and reaches for the alcohol at the bedside table.

"They did that?" Blue questions from behind him.

"I did."

The pain sears as he cleans it, though it’s nothing compared to his.

When he lays back on his stomach, there’s no fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. Blue curls up beside him, wincing. You get her two painkillers as well.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asks quietly.

You pull the light quilt over her body. "His body just needs to rest. So does yours."

"That's not an answer, Twix."

The way she calls you out makes your face fall. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know."

There is a pause of silence before she sighs audibly, arms falling flat at her sides and her gaze finding the ceiling. "I don't think I can sleep."

Your chest tightens at the thought of what she must be thinking of, what she must have seen when you weren't with her. The wounds you can't wrap up. You dig for one of the sedatives: lorazepam. "Here."

It takes a while for it to take effect.

"You're safe," you whisper to her, over and over, tucking her hair behind her ear until you feel the subtle shift in her muscles as they slowly loosen from their panicked tension. When sleep finally comforts her, a shift in the air causes you to leap up.

"It's me," Nereida whispers, poking in her head. "The others are sleeping, too."

Right. The others. "They're alright?"

"Just a few fractured ribs."

"Someone needs to keep watch."

"I'll do it." Seeing the protest twist on your face, she adds, "You haven't slept in days."

She's right. It was impossible to sleep in that cell outside of being drugged.

You give in. "Patrol the whole property if you can. And keep track of the air. The flowers here should help mask our scent, but—"

"I've got it, Twix."

The fatigue truly hits when she leaves. You barely have enough fight in you left to peel off the stupid dress and raise another flannel shirt from the closet over your head, the hem resting above your knees. There is a chair in the room—that's where you sink down, knees tucked to your chest. At first when you close your eyes, the world is loud and red. Then, it quiets to black.

A dove call announces morning, and you jolt awake to fresh light from the window.

You fell asleep.

They've already killed her.

You didn't get there in time—

Your gaze lands on the small body lying in the bed beside a much larger one, and the panic escapes through a shaky breath. You inhale and exhale to calm your heart rate before uncurling from the chair to touch Blue's soft cheek. The skin is cool. You move to her father next. Palm to his forehead. Hot, dry skin snaps your touch away as if burning you.

"Fucking shit," chokes out of you, along with a fresh wave of urgency. Blue stirs in her sleep. You clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself and whirl out of the room. A fever: you need water. If you hadn't slept so long, you could've boiled some sooner. With the recovered energy, you race outside in the chilled morning air.

Nereida sits up from the porch.

"Good morning. You're the first one up. I haven't seen—"

"He is burning up," you seethe. "You should've waken me. I slept all through the night!"

Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"

You push past her. "I'm getting water."

She lightly touches your elbow. "I already got some from the creek. I boiled it over the fireplace." She rushes to show you the full metal pot in the kitchen.

You don't pause to say thank you, hoisting the water upstairs to urgently wet a cloth and place it over his forehead. His lashes flutter, once, then twice, before fully opening.

"You have a fever," you exhale, swallowing hard. "I need you to drink a little."

He sits up to swallow a handful of the water from your palm, faint bobs of his throat, and you feel just how dry his lips are. His voice emerges low. "Did they have anything for it?"

"I couldn't find the antibiotics," you bitterly admit, swiping a thumb over the faint freckle on his temple, as if maybe, the sip of water has already changed the temperature. It hasn't. A growl pushes under your breath. "The bitch probably lied to me and took them. We'll need to experiment a bit for now."

"Sounds promising," he manages through his teeth. He glances down at his daughter. "She's alright?"

"She's okay, not warm." You inhale sharply. "Lay down. Let me look at it again."

When he does, you gently remove the bandages and are met with yellow-green pus. The sound that fills your throat, caught between helplessness and disgust, has him popping an eye open to look back at you over his shoulder. "Sorry, it's just..." Another explicative leaves your lips, and you have to bite your cheek hard to keep from vomiting at the sight and smell. Blue is awake now, sitting up against the pillow; she need only glance over once for her face to twist in concern.

"It's bad, isn't it?" She covers her mouth.

"I need to drain it," is what you say. Luckily, it's already oozing, saving the need to puncture the wounds open. You wet another cloth and carefully press at the swollen ridge of the first laceration, making him groan through his teeth as pus begins to run down his sides. Blue has one hand back in his hair, and uses another wet cloth to collect the pus. You keep pressing, draining each irregular wound, having to remind yourself the rotten smell being released is for the better.

After what feels like hours, it's mostly cleared. Only a bit of swelling remains, revealing just how deeply the skin was shredded, as if slashed through repeatedly in the same spots.

"How come you were hurt more than the others?" Blue asks him the question you've been mulling over since the moment you found him.

"I was their favorite," he mumbles lowly. "The most handsome."

"It's not funny," she presses, nails twisting in his hair, teeth grinding. "It's infected. You could fucking die."

"I won't," he says to her, but the silent, heavy glance you exchange with him acknowledges the understanding that he very well could, deepening the harsh pit in your stomach. "We have a nurse here."

"An unlicensed one." You finish securing a new layer of cloth and lean back. "And one without real medicine." Realizing you are supposed to be reassuring her, you hide the way your nails pick each other and add, "But draining all that pus will help. Eating will help even more," you look at Blue, "For you, too."

Blue and you share a meal of wild cucumbers, strawberries, and two small field mice you catch by the creek, swiftly snapping their necks before skinning them. For Ghost, you boil the bones with garden carrots to make a broth. You have to coax him into finishing it, no matter how it tastes, promising that once it's done, he can sleep longer.

By the time the others are awake, you and Blue have failed to leave his side, simply watching the continued rise and fall of his chest as if it might halt if you look away. "Please get better," you catch her murmuring. The only time you go is to speak with Price, informing him that Ghost is in no condition to travel again.

"Twix," he interrupts you, the knowing tick in his brow, and worn smile, making you realize you'd been rambling, your tone coming off a bit accusatory. "I have no intention for us to continue yet. No one is ready for it. We need food, and rest."

"I can help hunt, I just need to—"

A firm hand finds your shoulder. His seafoam eyes glance past you at the door to the bedroom, then back into your gaze, low voice barely above a murmur. "You've done more than enough. Let us take care of the food. Just make sure we don't lose him, alright?"

You nod, and when he turns to leave, you mutter to yourself, "I'm trying."

You spend the evening draining pus, refreshing bandages, and scouring cabinets—nothing but expired vitamins. You think to check the garden for onions, their antimicrobial properties lingering in your memory, but find none. So you rinse his wounds again, scrubbing his filthy hair for good measure. For a moment, your fingers trick you into thinking his fever has dropped—then it spikes higher. His skin holds no color except for the angry red of infection and the fever-flushed sheen on his cheeks. Otherwise, he’s a ghost. As if all your efforts have done nothing.

Frustration strangles your lungs, and you palm at your forehead. His body, deprived of sleep and nutritions for days, is struggling to bounce back, to fight off the encroaching bacteria. His unyielding strength is yielding; succumbing. He needs more food and water. You try to sit him up again, retrieving a small bit of leftover broth, but he is unable to help pull his weight.

"Come on, Simon. Please."

He's too heavy for you, even with Blue pulling at his other arm.

You hurry out of the room and call for Price. He and Nereida are there quickly, his rifle ready. "No, I just need—I need you to lift him."

Price drops the gun to steady Simon up despite the heavy hiss of protest. "Gotta eat, Simon."

He holds him as you spoon broth to his mouth, having to rub at his jaw to release enough tension for him to open it and swallow.

The room is quiet once it's all done, and Nereida stands in the doorway with her head hung low. Price carefully lays him back down so as not disturb the work you've done to his back. He glances at the empty bowl in your hands. "Kyle cut up some squirrels he killed earlier. I'll tell him to make more broth with them in the morning."

All you can do is nod and pass the bowl to him.

When they leave, the heaviness in the room has Blue picking at her wrist. You take her hand, placing another painkiller and sedative in them, and urge her to lay down for more rest.

"I'll stay up with him, alright?"

Her chin drops, and she stares blankly at the quilt. "What happens to me if he dies?"

The hollowness in her voice cuts through you. "We can't think like that," you murmur.

"Why not?" Her eyes blaze in the dark. "It's a possibility. I've never seen him like this before."

You shake your head, touching two fingers under her jaw to tilt it up so yours eyes meet. "He's stubborn, like you. And he has too much to live for. He loves you."

She looks away. "I'm not like him. I wouldn't be able to keep going on my own."

"You’ll never be on your own. He and I... we will always come for you," you swear, your voice firmer than you intend. You soften it to a whisper, breathing out, "But even if you were, you’re smarter and stronger than anyone here. There’s nothing you can’t handle, Blue. It was you who kept yourself alive this time."

"It was just luck," she murmurs, curling a fist into the sheet below her. She peers back at you. "If you guys hadn’t found me, I would’ve been bitten to death."

"No," you insist. "It wasn’t luck. You survived because you saw the opportunities, and you took them. You made time for us to find you. You are just like him."

Without thinking, you pull her into a solid hug, pressing your nose to her scalp.

"You’re just like him," you whisper again, screwing your eyes shut. White-hot tears escape, burning a quiet trail down your cheeks, and you feel her begin to tremble in your arms, silently soaking your shirt with her own tears.

Through them, she manages to whisper, twisting your shirt in her fists, "I-I don't want him to leave me again. H-he said he wouldn't."

"He won't," you promise, struggling to catch your breath through a choke, the words rushing out of you. "Never again. I won't let it happen."

After minutes, hours, like this, she grows limp with exhaustion, and you lay her back down, tucking her under the quilt and wiping your cheeks.

You resume position in the chair by Ghost.

This time, you refuse to close your eyes, locking them onto him—the way his cheek is squished against the pillow, the bare stretch of his arm, the curve of his ribs where an old scar splits into the new ones. You keep pulling the blanket over him, thinking maybe the extra heat will break his fever, only to rip it back off moments later, convinced the cool night air would be better. Frustration burns behind your eyes as you rub them hard, then press your forehead against the uninjured part of his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Simon,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to trace your thumb over the freckles there, connecting them with soft, absentminded sweeps of your finger.

He needs more.

Real medicine.

Either the women are long gone with it, or it's somewhere none of them knew of.

This is what you mull over well into the night when sleep threatens with a pull at your lids, and again, you see red. Blood-red. Like the burst of an open throat. You reopen them and jolt up to your feet, panting hard. The need for a distraction to keep yourself awake pulls you out of the room for a stretch of your legs, pupils straining against the dark hall as you stumble through it, crossing your arms over yourself. You've barely looked through this place besides what was necessary, so it's a surprise when you happen upon a spiral staircase going up, not down.

A cool metal rail bites your fingertips as you heave upward, revealing a small attic library. Dark oak shelves reach the low ceiling, all of the leather spines neatly alined as if never having been touched even once: a capsule of time. A large window at the far end offers enough moonlight for your eyes to scan the embellished spines as you brush a finger over them, various French titles staring back at you. You work your way to the window, where the thin curtain is parted just enough to allow you a view of the creek, cliffside, and dark horizon where stars disappear into distant earth.

"I shouldn't have believed her. I should've made her talk more." The words barely leave your lips before the stench of burning flesh fills your senses. Your hands shake violently. With a sudden, forceful yank, you tear the curtain from the rod. Your voice cracks, rising with rage. "I should have killed her—all of them. I shouldn't have let a single one walk away!"

You spin around and begin pulling books off the shelves, ripping at pages, thrashing them at the floor with a cacophony of thuds, until only half are left untouched. The years-old dust caking the covers explodes into your eyes, stinging them, and tears begin to fall, the painful kind. They come hard, ragged, anything but quiet. You sink to the oriental rug, burying your face into your knees and hugging them close as you sob through your teeth, scraping your nails into your shins.

You picture them all—the blonde man, the old woman, the veiled girls. In your mind, you cut them to shreds. Nerves severed, eyes burst. Until you’re drowning in their entrails.

There is a voice. In your head maybe. But no, it's real—someone touches your shoulder, and you flinch. You lift your gaze, and through it, make out the shape of warm, almond eyes, one of them half-opened beneath a swollen bruise.

Kyle kneels beside you. He doesn't say anything, just sits there, his knee touching yours the only point of connection. When your crying subsides, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state he's found you in, and wipe at your cheeks. "Sorry. I woke you up."

"I was already awake."

Silence hums between you, and he thoughtlessly picks up one of the books, thumbing through the pages, then quietly closes it.

"We all owe you our lives, you know. Nereida told us about all you did."

You dig your chin into the tops of your knees and stare off at the wall. "I still didn't do enough."

"You're doing all you can." His gaze pierces into the side of your face, making you feel translucent. "He'll be alright. Always is."

You don't know what to say to that, sighing through flared nostrils and looking down at your feet before over at him. "How is Ari?"

"He's alright. Just shaken, I think. Thank you for asking." A tinge of guilt finds you that you haven't checked on them enough. Ari, just a boy, and he's hardly crossed your mind through any of this.

"You know," Kyle continues quietly, his knuckles whitening around the book. "When we were in there, I didn’t know what to say to get him through it—because I couldn't see much hope myself. I had to watch, do nothing, while they made him memorize that goddamn book just to earn a meal. And he wasn’t allowed to share any with me." He lets out a short, bitter snort. "I've never felt so fucking weak. So powerless. Watching someone you love suffer, not knowing how to help them..." His gaze locks onto yours. "That has to be a pain worse than any torture."

His words catch you off guard. All you can do is reach for him, gripping his shoulders in a firm hug, evening your heart rate. He murmurs a promise about the broth, his hand brushing your shoulder before he excuses himself.

Returning to the bedroom, you check their pulses—her pinky hooked around his in sleep. You press a kiss to Blue’s hair, then, without thinking, your lips skim his burning temple.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley #zombie apocolypse au

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ughbrie · 3 months ago

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converging threads 2 | zayne

part one | part two

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- You pursed your lip, “Are you… jealous?”

For a moment, he only stared at you, unreadable, like he was weighing whether or not to say what was truly on his mind. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled and looked away—not in avoidance, but in thought. “Am I jealous?” he echoed, as if testing the words on his tongue. His lips twitched slightly, a breath of something close to a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No.”

Zayne sighed, rubbing a slow hand down his face before finally meeting your gaze again. “It would be unfair of me to be jealous of myself, wouldn’t it?” His voice was quiet, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. Not resentment, not bitterness—just a deep, weary understanding.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your wrist, tracing slow, thoughtless circles. “I’ve spent most of my life haunted by his memories, suffering through nightmares of a life I never lived. But that’s not your burden to bear. It never should have been.” He inhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line before he continued. “And the truth is… no matter how much I deny it, no matter how much I try to separate myself from him—he’s still me.” His grip tightened, firm but not desperate. “He’s still Zayne.”

(Or… in the quiet hours of the night, you wake to a familiar touch—but it isn’t Zayne. Dawnbreaker lingers, desperate to hold onto a fleeting moment that was never meant for him. And when he’s gone, Zayne is left to face the echoes of what was shared, understanding yet unable to ignore the weight of it.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- zayne x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- angst, smut, & fluff

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 10.5k

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ- nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, dom!zayne, dawnbreaker!zayne, references to zayne's third anecdote (still in the dark), jealous!zayne, slight possessive behavior, bathroom sex, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (cunnilingus), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dry humping, penetration (p in v), breast play, light choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, mentions of ownership, and creampie.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- I said I wouldn’t write a sequel, but the ideas wouldn’t stop coming—so here we are. I know this isn’t entirely Dawnbreaker-centric, but this is how I imagined MC (or any of us) would react in this situation, especially after witnessing just how much Zayne has endured in the previous fic. And sure, Dawnbreaker is technically still Zayne, but if you truly tried to accept him, in every sense, it would inevitably affect Zayne—no matter how you look at it. That being said, I am still going to write a fully Dawnbreaker-centric fic (probably after I finish writing for Rafayel), because he deserves it. But within what I've written for the Converging Threads AU, to focus solely on Dawnbreaker would inevitably lead to a scenario of Zayne getting hurt—and that just wouldn’t fit the story I wanted to tell. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy reading!

The first thing you noticed was warmth—steady and unyielding against your skin. Your mind, still tangled in the haze of sleep, barely registered the faint pressure along your back, the sensation of fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns over the curve of your spine. It was comforting, grounding, but there was something different about it, something that tugged at the edges of your awareness.

A breath—shaky, controlled—ghosted against your temple, and you stirred, shifting ever so slightly. The arms around you tightened in response, fingers pressing more firmly, as if afraid you would slip away. The touch was familiar yet… not. It lacked Zayne’s usual restraint, the careful hesitation that always lingered in his gestures. This was something else entirely—possessive, reverent.

You hummed softly, caught between waking and dreaming, your body instinctively seeking the source of warmth. The fingers on your back stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming their slow, deliberate path. There was an ache in that touch, something unspoken threading through the silence, something that made your drowsy mind stir with a quiet sense of unease. You didn’t want to wake just yet—not when everything felt so strangely safe, so painfully gentle. But then, in the dim glow of early morning, your heavy eyelids finally fluttered open.

And that was when you saw him. Zayne—no, not Zayne—watching you in the quiet. His hazel eyes, usually guarded, were raw with something unreadable, something aching. His hand cradled your cheek, his thumb sweeping gently along the edge of your jaw, like he was memorizing you—like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You blinked slowly, still hovering between sleep and wakefulness, your mind sluggish to catch up with the details that felt off. The way his hold was firmer, the way his breaths came unsteadily, as if he were battling something unseen. You made a soft sound of confusion, burrowing instinctively closer, seeking the comfort of his warmth, and for a moment, you swore he trembled.

“Finally…” The word was barely above a whisper, but the weight in it made your drowsiness wane just a little more. His fingers continued their slow, reverent path along your spine, his palm pressing lightly over the curve of your hip as if grounding himself as much as you.

“Zayne…?” Your voice was thick with sleep, uncertain, and you felt the way he tensed at the name. His breath stilled for just a second before resuming, slower this time, measured. Then, his lips ghosted over your forehead—so gentle, so fleeting, you might have imagined it.

“Not quite.” His voice was deeper, rougher, laced with something unreadable. His fingers curled slightly against your skin, as if anchoring himself to this moment.

Your sluggish mind struggled to piece together the disconnect between the warmth enveloping you and the unease creeping in at the edges. Something about the way he held you—like he was afraid to let go, like he was holding onto something impossible—made your heart stutter. His fingers traced another slow path along your back, and the touch was familiar, yet utterly foreign in its intensity.

You swallowed, trying to push through the fog of sleep. “Then… who?” The question barely made it past your lips, drowsiness still weighing down your voice. But the moment the words left you, his grip tightened ever so slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough for you to feel it, for you to know that your presence wasn’t something he was willing to let slip through his fingers.

His forehead pressed lightly against yours, his breath mingling with your own. “You already know.” There was no hesitation in his words, only quiet certainty. And it was in that moment, with the slow realization settling deep into your bones, that you understood. The warmth that surrounded you, the way his hands mapped the shape of you like he was committing you to memory, the way his voice carried something almost fragile—it was him. It was Dawnbreaker.

A shiver ran through you—not from the cold, but from the sheer weight of the moment. After what had transpired between you and Zayne on the couch, neither of you had bothered with clothes, simply finding solace in each other’s warmth as you eventually made your way to bed. Now, beneath the sheets, your body pressed against his, you could feel every steady rise and fall of his chest, every shift of his fingers against your skin. And yet, it was not Zayne who held you now. It was the other him, the one who had only ever existed in glimpses, in the cracks between nightmares and dreams.

You tensed instinctively, the awareness of your vulnerability sinking in, but then his hand shifted, gliding along your back in a slow, careful stroke. There was no urgency, no demand—only reverence, a touch that felt more like a prayer than a possession. As if he were afraid you would vanish if he let go.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a careful contrast to the roughness it usually held. His lips brushed against your temple, lingering for just a breath. “Are you afraid of me?” The question was quiet, but beneath it, there was something raw. You didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, the way his grip faltered for just a second, as if bracing himself for an answer he didn’t want to hear.

You swallowed, the remnants of sleep finally slipping away as you forced yourself to meet his gaze. Those green eyes, so achingly familiar yet unmistakably different, searched yours with a quiet desperation. He looked like a man caught in a dream he knew would end far too soon.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was the uncertainty, the quiet ache of knowing this moment would not last—that he did not belong here. And yet, neither did he feel like a stranger. His warmth was the same, his touch was the same. The way he held you, as if you were something precious, something fragile, was the same.

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak right away. Instead, his thumb traced the curve of your cheek, down to your lips, his touch unbearably light. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “I don’t belong here. And yet…” His breath hitched, his forehead pressing against yours. “For the first time, I don’t want to wake up.”

His fingers trailed down your jaw, lingering as if trying to commit every detail to memory. “For so long, I only saw glimpses,” he said, voice raw. “Faint images of a world that wasn’t mine—of a life I never had. At first, I thought they were nothing more than hallucinations, a cruel trick of exhaustion.” He let out a shaky breath. “But then I started seeing you.”

Your throat tightened. You could feel the tension in his frame, the way his body seemed caught between relief and anguish. “Zayne… he had nightmares,” you murmured, realization dawning. “But for you… they were dreams, weren’t they?”

A quiet, bitter chuckle escaped him. “Dreams,” he echoed. “I suppose that’s what they were.” His fingers pressed lightly into your waist, as if reminding himself that this was real. “In my world, all I’ve known is ruin. Loneliness. I convinced myself that was all there would ever be. But then, through him, I saw something different. You. A love that wasn’t meant for me. A life I could never claim.” His voice dropped lower, almost pained. “And yet, I longed for it anyway.”

His hands moved with a quiet desperation now, mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he let go. His touch wasn’t hesitant like Zayne’s, nor was it hurried—it was aching, filled with a hunger that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with yearning. With grief. With something that had been denied for far too long.

“I’ve spent years chasing ghosts,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, down to your cheek. “Holding nothing but empty air, waking up to a world that’s already lost.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath shuddering against your skin. “But now, you’re here. You’re real. And for the first time… I can touch you.”

He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening as he pulled you closer, pressing every inch of his body against yours. “Even if it’s just for a moment,” he whispered, voice raw with something fragile and breaking, “let me have this.”

Your throat tightened as you searched his face, traced the way his expression wavered between longing and restraint. He looked like Zayne, held you like Zayne—but he wasn’t. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away. Not when you knew how much he had suffered. Not when you knew this wasn’t his fault. It was the world that had been cruel to him, not the other way around.

Your hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. His gaze flickered, something softer settling behind his eyes, and he exhaled quietly. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “I know.” His fingers ghosted over your cheek, lingering for just a second longer before pulling back. “You love him. And even if I have his face, his voice… I’m not him.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I would never want you to regret this.”

His thumb traced over your lower lip, slow, memorizing. “I won’t take what’s not mine,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Even if I want to—God, I want to—I won’t. Because in the end, you’d feel guilty. And that’s the last thing I’d ever want.” His hand finally fell away, curling into a loose fist against the sheets.

Your heart ached as you watched him. The way he held himself back, the way he swallowed down every yearning touch as if he had no right to it—it wasn’t fair. Not to him. Not to you. You knew now that Zayne suffer under the weight of the nightmares, that the exhaustion in his eyes each time weren’t because of work, it was because he woke from dreams that weren’t his own. But while Zayne had been tormented, Dawnbreaker had been given dreams of you. A life that could never be his.

Your breath trembled as you lifted a hand, resting it against his chest, feeling the sharp inhale he took at the contact. He was so warm, so steady, yet you could feel the way he trembled beneath your touch. You had never seen Zayne this undone before—this starved, this desperate—last night showed a fraction of it. And yet, even now, he held back. He was waiting. For permission. For a sign. For something that would allow him to pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn’t borrowed time.

You swallowed hard, your breath unsteady as he leaned in, close enough that his warmth ghosted over your skin. His hands trembled where they cupped your face, his fingers light, almost reverent—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold you like this. Like he was afraid you’d pull away.

And maybe you should have.

Because despite everything, despite the way he shared the same face, the same voice, the same hands that had held you a thousand times before—this wasn’t Zayne. Not the one who stood by your side, not the one who had spent years loving you in quiet, restrained touches. This was him, but not him. A reflection, a shadow shaped by a world that had given him nothing.

Your chest tightened.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But then his grip faltered, his breath hitching like he was losing the strength to hold himself together. His forehead nearly touched yours, his lips parted—but he didn’t move. Didn’t dare to close the distance himself. Instead, his voice came, raw, broken, barely more than a whisper.

“Please.”

The single word made something inside you crack.

He wasn’t asking. He was begging.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. He wasn’t taking, wasn’t demanding—just waiting, just holding on by a thread, as if this moment was all he had left.

And maybe it was.

So despite the hesitation curling in your stomach, despite the war waging in your mind, you let out a slow breath and reached for him. Your hands found his jaw, tentative, fingers brushing over skin that was both familiar and unfamiliar all at once. His breath stuttered at the touch, his eyes dark with something unreadable. Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t push.

So you gave him what he needed.

“Kiss me,” you whispered. “Only for this moment.”

The moment the words left your lips, something inside him shattered. A sharp, quiet inhale—like he hadn’t expected you to say it, like he had spent lifetimes convincing himself he would never be allowed this.

And then he moved.

His lips crashed against yours, none of the careful restraint Zayne always held, none of the measured control. Dawnbreaker kissed you like a man starving, like he had been dying of thirst and you were the first drop of water to touch his tongue. His hands framed your face with a desperation that made your chest ache, fingers trembling as they threaded into your hair, holding you as if you might disappear the moment he let go.

And despite everything, despite the voice in your head whispering that this wasn’t your Zayne, you kissed him back. Because for now, just for now, you could give him this.

It was different. Zayne kissed you like you were something precious, something fragile to be cherished. But this—this was unrestrained, aching, hungry. Dawnbreaker wasn’t asking for permission anymore. He was taking what little he was allowed, memorizing the shape of you, the taste of you, as if trying to brand you into his very soul.

The heat of him pressed against you, unshielded and raw, sent a jolt of awareness through your haze-addled mind. Skin against skin—nothing between you, nothing stopping him if he wanted to take more.

The thought should have made you pull away. Should have snapped you back to reality, reminded you of all the reasons why this was wrong. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Because despite everything, despite the hesitation curling in your chest, despite the way your heart still beat for your Zayne—this was still him. A part of him, at least. A part that had suffered, a part that had bled, a part that had spent his life reaching for you only to come up empty-handed.

And he was still reaching.

So you let him have this.

You let him press closer, let him steal this fleeting moment, knowing it was all he would ever have. But when his hands ghosted lower, tracing the curve of your waist with aching reverence, you exhaled softly and covered them with your own. A silent barrier. A quiet plea. Not too far.

He stilled at once. Trembling. But he didn’t push, didn’t argue. Just bowed his head, breath ragged, before whispering, “Just a little longer.”

His voice was raw, almost pleading, and it struck something deep within you. He wasn’t asking for more—wasn’t trying to take anything that wasn’t his to have. He just wanted this, this fleeting connection, this moment where he wasn’t alone. And despite the turmoil twisting inside you, despite the way your heart ached with the weight of it all, you couldn’t deny him that.

So you let your fingers trail up, threading through his hair, holding him close as his lips pressed desperately to yours once more. When he pulled back not long after, his breathing uneven, his forehead still resting against yours, he swallowed hard. “I want to be selfish,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to take everything. Just this once.” His fingers traced the outline of your cheek, his touch unbearably soft. “But I won’t. Because even if I had you, it wouldn’t be mine. And I could never do that to you.”

Your chest ached at his words, at the quiet resignation in his voice. He was laying himself bare before you, wanting—craving—what he knew he could never truly have. And yet, he was holding himself back. For you. For Zayne. For something he would never claim as his own.

Your fingers curled around his wrist, gently guiding his hand away from your face, but you didn’t let go. Instead, you held him there between you, grounding him in a way you weren’t sure he’d ever been grounded before. “You were never given a choice,” you murmured, the weight of everything settling over you like a heavy fog. “This—everything was never fair to you.”

His breath hitched, his grip tightening around your hand. “No,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a breath. “But this… you… for the first time, something feels real.” His lips brushed against your temple, lingering for just a moment before he exhaled shakily.

His lips found yours again—urgent, desperate, but never forceful. It was different from Zayne’s kisses, lacking the restraint that always held him back. Dawnbreaker kissed you like a man on borrowed time, like he was memorizing the shape of your lips, the warmth of your mouth, the way you trembled beneath his touch.

You let him, your fingers threading through his hair, anchoring him to you as much as you were grounding yourself in him. His hands roamed, not in demand but in reverence, mapping the lines of your back, your waist, the curve of your hips as if engraving you into his very being. His touch was searing, and yet, there was an underlying hesitation—like he was afraid to break the moment, afraid to push too far.

The early morning stretched on in whispered breaths, in stolen touches and lingering kisses that spoke of longing and sorrow all at once. Dawnbreaker never asked for more, never let his hands stray past the boundary you silently set, but the way he held you—pressed against him, his forehead resting against yours, his hands trembling at the small of your back—spoke volumes of just how much he needed this, how much he needed you.

When dawn came, he unraveled like the last whisper of a dream—fading into the light, leaving nothing but warmth against your lips and the ghost of a touch that was never truly his to keep. And in his place, your Zayne returned, drawn back to you like the tide to the shore, unaware at first that he had ever been gone.

The shift was subtle—a slow inhale, a furrow of his brow as consciousness took hold. His arms were still around you, his body still pressed close, but the desperation was gone, replaced by something softer, something familiar. Then, his breathing hitched. His hands tensed against your back, realization dawning like a weight settling into his chest. “He was here,” he murmured, his voice quiet, laced with something close to sorrow.

You reached for him, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his cheek, grounding him in the present. You hesitated, the words catching in your throat, heavy with the weight of what they meant. But you couldn’t keep this from him—not after everything.

“I… I let him kiss me.” The confession came softly, uncertain, but honest. You searched his face, bracing for something—anger, hurt—but what you found instead was a quiet kind of sadness, an understanding that made your chest ache. His expression faltered, just for a moment, but his arms never wavered. If anything, he pulled you closer, as if reassuring himself that you were still here, still his.

Zayne swallowed, his grip tightening ever so slightly, not out of anger or jealousy, but something quieter—something deeper. His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the hesitation beneath it. “Tell me more. What happened..?”

You hesitated again, not because you wanted to hide anything, but because you weren’t sure how to put it into words. How could you explain the weight of it all? The longing, the sorrow, the way Dawnbreaker held you as if you were the last good thing in his world?

“He just… needed to be close,” you admitted, searching his gaze for any sign of pain. “He didn’t push for anything more. He said he wouldn’t, because he knew I’d regret it.” Your fingers curled against his chest, grounding yourself in his warmth.

But he was desperate. He kissed me like he was memorizing me. Like I was something he’d never have again. You didn’t say the words out loud, but they echoed in your mind, lingering like an imprint on your skin, like the ghost of his touch.

Zayne’s gaze flickered downward, lingering on your lips—still kiss-bruised, still tinged with the remnants of someone else’s desperation. His fingers twitched at his sides, but he didn’t pull away. He only exhaled, slow and measured, though you could see the weight pressing against his ribs, the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I understand,” he murmured, and you believed him. But understanding didn’t make it easier. It didn’t erase the conflict tightening his jaw, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly, like he was swallowing something heavy.

Your chest ached. You reached for him instinctively, fingertips brushing over his knuckles, silently asking him to let you in. “Zayne…” you started, hesitant, searching for the words that would ease the tension between you. “I—”

Zayne let out a quiet breath before a small, knowing smile curved his lips—gentle, without resentment, without hesitation. He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb lightly over your knuckles, grounding both of you in the steady rhythm of his touch.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice steady, unwavering. “I knew you’d be kind to him. That you’d be good to him.” His eyes met yours, holding you there, filled with something deep and endless. “Because that’s who you are. You’re everything good in this world.”

The weight in your chest tightened, not with guilt, but with something far heavier—something aching. You swallowed, searching his face, expecting to see a flicker of sorrow, but there was none. Just quiet understanding, just Zayne, always carrying so much more than he ever let on.

You exhaled softly, your fingers curling around his as you searched his face, hesitant but firm. “Zayne,” you murmured, watching the way his eyes flickered at the sound of his name. “Tell me how you feel.”

His grip on you didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted, something quiet and unspoken. You held his gaze, refusing to let him brush it aside like he always did. You whispered, “After everything last night… I don’t want you to hold back with me. Not ever.”

“What do you want to know?”

You pursed your lip, “Are you… jealous?”

You swallowed hard at the weight of his words, at the quiet acceptance laced within them. He wasn’t angry, wasn’t resentful, but there was something raw in the way he looked at you, as if searching for an answer even he didn’t know how to put into words.

Zayne exhaled slowly, his fingers lacing with yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch. “In some way, it comforts me,” he admitted, his voice softer now, more introspective. “That no matter who I am—who I become—you’ll still love me.” His eyes flickered with something unreadable before settling into quiet certainty. “Just like you said last night.”

His thumb grazed your knuckles, an absentminded gesture, but you felt the weight behind it. “Maybe that’s why I can’t be jealous,” he said, his voice even, measured. “Because I know you. I knew you’d be kind to him. That you wouldn’t push him away, even when you knew it wasn’t me.” His lips curved slightly—just barely—but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because that’s who you are.”

There was no bitterness in his tone, and yet, something unspoken lingered between you, heavy in the way his fingers tightened around yours for just a second before loosening again. His gaze flickered downward, thoughtful, conflicted.

Zayne parted his lips as if to say something but hesitated. His thumb stilled against your skin, his grip lax, but you could feel the restraint in it, the careful control. Then, finally, he spoke.

“In short, I’m not jealous.”

Sure.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you nudged him lightly. “You know… you can just admit that you were jealous,” you teased, your voice softer now, laced with warmth. “I’d understand if you were.”

Zayne huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I told you, it wouldn’t be fair to be jealous of myself,” he murmured, though the slight tilt of his lips betrayed him.

You arched a brow, fingers still tracing soothing patterns along his skin. “Mhm. Sounds like something a jealous man would say.”

Zayne exhaled, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “Hypothetically, if I admitted I was jealous over a kiss… and the fact that he got to hold you like this…” His fingers skimmed along your arm, deliberate and slow. “How would you make it up to me?”

Your breath hitched, heat creeping up your neck at the implication. “Zayne—”

He hummed, the sound deep and thoughtful. “Just a question,” he said, though the glint in his eyes told you he was enjoying your flustered state far too much.

Zayne’s lips found the curve of your jaw, warm and unhurried, trailing lower until they ghosted over your neck. The kisses were slow, deliberate, as if he were mapping the contours of your skin with nothing but his mouth. He lingered at the hollow of your throat, pressing a kiss there before moving to your shoulder, then up again—never rushing, never straying too far. Each press of his lips felt like an anchor, pulling you back to the present, back to him.

Where Dawnbreaker’s kisses had been desperate, memorizing, Zayne’s were steady, grounding. He wasn’t taking—he was claiming, piece by piece, kiss by kiss. Yet as the moments stretched, a realization slowly dawned on you. He had kissed nearly every inch of your skin—your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—everywhere except your lips.

Your brows furrowed slightly, the thought surfacing only as he dipped his head again, brushing his lips over your pulse. He wasn’t hesitating. He wasn’t teasing. He was deliberately avoiding them.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Are you avoiding my lips on purpose?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Zayne didn’t answer right away. Instead, he smirked, pressing another slow kiss just beneath your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice rich with amusement.

You huffed a small laugh, but the way he lingered there, his breath warm against your skin, made your heart stutter. “What, are you trying to make a point?” you mused, your fingers slipping into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp.

Zayne hummed, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You let him kiss you,” he murmured, his lips brushing just below your jaw again. “So I figured I’d claim my own space.” His arms tightened around you, as if solidifying the truth that you were here—with him.

You exhaled softly, not missing the weight behind his words. He understood, accepted, but still—there was something territorial in the way he touched you now. Not demanding, never forceful, just… certain. And maybe that certainty made your pulse quicken more than anything else.

You tilted your head, mischief flickering in your eyes as you leaned in, aiming for his lips. “Well, technically,” you murmured, brushing close enough that your breath mixed with his, “it was still your lips that kissed me earlier.”

Zayne tensed, his grip on you firm but not stopping you. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—something torn between amusement and exasperation. “That’s not how it works,” he muttered, though his voice was lower now, rougher.

You smiled against the corner of his mouth, deliberately testing his patience. “No?” You moved just enough for your lips to ghost over his, teasing, waiting. “Feels like it to me.”

Zayne let out a quiet sigh, his hands tightening on your waist as if debating whether to indulge you or scold you. Instead, he dipped his head, brushing his lips along your jawline once more—deliberate, slow, avoiding your lips entirely.

You huffed, feigning offense. “You’re really not going to kiss me?”

His mouth curved slightly against your skin, his breath warm as he murmured, “You’ll just have to make it up to me properly.” He pressed a lingering kiss just beneath your ear.

You grinned, tilting your head just enough to nudge his lips closer to your own. “Oh? And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” you mused, deliberately playful. “Because like I said, those were still your lips earlier—so shouldn’t that mean we’re already even?”

Before he could react, you leaned in, stealing a soft kiss from his lips—brief but teasing, just enough to test him. You felt the way he stilled, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his breath hitching against your skin.

Zayne exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as he pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You’re really pushing your luck this morning.” But the way his fingers flexed against your hips betrayed him, his restraint beginning to fray.

Instead of indulging you further, he shifted away, slipping out of bed with effortless ease. The sudden loss of warmth made you shiver, and before you could even protest, he was already on his feet, stretching.

Your irritation flared instantly. “Seriously?” You propped yourself up on your elbows, glaring at him. “You’re just going to walk away after that?”

Zayne only chuckled, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You’re the one playing games,” he mused, completely unbothered. And to make matters worse—or better, depending on how you saw it—he made no effort to cover himself, walking toward the bathroom without a shred of shame. You groaned, torn between frustration and the undeniable heat rising to your cheeks.

Despite your annoyance, you didn’t hesitate to follow him. If he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of a proper response, then you weren’t about to let him off the hook so easily. Stepping out of bed, you walked toward the bathroom without a shred of hesitation—completely bare, just as he was.

When you entered, Zayne was leaning over the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. Droplets clung to his skin, trailing down his neck and over his collarbones, disappearing along the lines of his toned chest. He didn’t react immediately to your presence, but you noticed the slight pause in his movements—the way his shoulders tensed just for a second before he continued as if unaffected.

“You left me alone in bed,” you remarked, leaning against the doorway. Your voice was light, teasing, but there was an underlying challenge in your gaze as you watched him. “That’s unfair, don’t you think?”

Zayne turned to you, his green eyes sharp, unreadable—until the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. “What’s unfair,” he said, voice smooth yet pointed, “is you saying it was still my lips that kissed you… when I didn’t feel a damn thing.”

You blinked, stunned for a moment. Then, against all logic, you felt a surge of amusement bubble up inside you. He was actually jealous. And after all that talk about understanding, too.

Crossing your arms, you tilted your head, torn between exasperation and pride. “Wow,” you mused, barely holding back a grin. “So you are jealous.”

Zayne didn’t dignify your words with a response. Instead, he turned smoothly, stepping toward the shower without so much as a glance in your direction. The sound of the water turning on filled the space, steam beginning to curl into the air as he ran a hand through his hair.

You narrowed your eyes. Oh, he was teasing you. You were sure of it. Walking around completely naked, acting unbothered, and now stepping into the shower like you weren’t standing there, equally bare, right in front of him.

“Really?” you huffed, shifting your weight to one foot. He still didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you. Just casually stepped under the stream of water, his muscles flexing slightly as the heat met his skin. You pursed your lips. Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play it?

With deliberate steps, you crossed the bathroom, your bare feet barely making a sound against the cool tiles. Zayne still didn’t turn, the water cascading over his shoulders, running in rivulets down the curve of his spine. His lack of acknowledgment only fueled your resolve.

The glass panel of the shower had been left slightly ajar, steam spilling out into the bathroom. With a quiet motion, you reached for it, sliding it shut behind you. A faint click echoed in the air, barely audible over the steady rush of water.

Zayne stilled. It was subtle—the slight shift of his shoulders, the way his hands, previously brushing back his wet hair, slowed before falling to his sides. He exhaled, low and measured, before finally speaking. “…You’re persistent.”

You tilted your head, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “You still owe me a kiss,” you murmured, stepping closer, the water hitting your skin in a soothing cascade.

Zayne let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly as if considering your words. His back remained turned to you, but you could see the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his shoulders tensed—like he was already preparing a response, already trying to counter whatever mischief you had planned.

“I don’t recall making that kind of promise,” he said at last, voice calm, even. But you knew better. You knew the flicker of restraint when you saw it.

Zayne exhaled slowly, finally turning to face you, and the shift in the air was immediate. His gaze was steady, unreadable, but there was something beneath the surface—something simmering. “You’re the one who’s supposed to make up for something,” he murmured, voice smooth yet laced with quiet intent.

Before you could counter, he moved. A step forward, then another, until your back met the cool tile, the contrast against your heated skin sending a shiver through you. The water cascaded down his shoulders, droplets clinging to his skin, but all you could focus on was him—on the way he loomed over you, on the weight of his presence, undeniable and consuming.

His hands settled on either side of you, palms pressed against the wall, effectively caging you in. Yet, there was no urgency in his movements, no rush. Just quiet deliberation. Just him watching you, waiting.

Zayne’s gaze flickered down, taking you in, his lips curling into something almost amused, almost knowing. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Let’s leave it at this,” he murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something unreadable.

His fingers brushed against your waist, barely there, but enough to make you aware of the warmth radiating from him. “You should be resting after… last night,” he added, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly—as if he knew exactly what he was implying, and exactly how you would react to it.

The teasing lilt in his voice sent heat rushing to your cheeks. You opened your mouth to protest, but the way his fingers traced a slow, featherlight path along your arm silenced you. He wasn’t wrong. You were still sore from last night, and he damn well knew it.

You tilted your chin up, refusing to back down despite the way your body betrayed you, warmth curling low in your stomach at his words. “Are you really that mad about what I said?” you teased, your fingers skimming lightly over his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Zayne exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening, but his hands didn’t move away. Instead, his thumb ghosted along your hip, a silent warning. “You’re really persistent,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it—just that careful restraint he always carried, the one that frayed at the edges when it came to you.

You leaned in, just enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips, your voice softer now. “Maybe,” you admitted, eyes searching his. “But you still haven’t told me how I should make it up to you.”

You felt his hands grasp the hollow curve of your waist, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

“You can make it up to me,” he paused, as his lips gently pressed against the side of your ear, “By letting me have a taste.”

One hand slid up to your side, calloused fingers skimming over the curve of your breasts before he roughly palmed the mound, squeezing and kneading the supple flesh. His other hand trailed down, over the flare of your hip, the dip of your navel, before his fingers brushed against your already slick folds. Teasing.

You could feel your face flushing, how were you already so wet when he just started touching you?

Zayne’s touch sent shivers racing through your body, your nerves alight with anticipation and need. You gasped as his long, slender finger parted your lower lips, stroking through your dripping slit. He circled your sensitive clit with maddening slowness, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips buck and your head to fall back against the tile with a soft thud.

“Z-Zayne…!”

“Fuck, you’re so wet already.” Zayne groaned, his voice strained. “I can feel how much you want me, even after…” he cut himself off, jaw clenched tight. Then suddenly, you felt a finger plunge inside your hot, tight channel without warning, pumping in and out at a relentless pace.

You cried out, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slick surface of the wall as Zayne pumped his finger inside you with intensity. Your inner walls clenched and fluttered around his invading digit, drawing him deeper as he stroked along your inner front wall, finding that perfect spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Yes, p-please!” you keened, shameless in your pleasure as Zayne worked you closer and closer to the edge. The obscene sound of your arousal filled the steamy shower, mingling with your pants and the pattering of the water against the tile.

He added a second finger, and a third, stretching you wider, filling you fuller as he fucked you hard and fast with his hand. His thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit, pushing you ruthlessly towards your peak. You could feel it building, the coil of tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter until it finally snapped.

“Z-Zayne!!” you screamed, his name echoing off the tiled walls as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your sex clenched and spasmed around his fingers, gushing juices that he continued to pump into you, extending your pleasure.

Zayne groaned, his own hips rocking into yours as he felt your release, his rigid cock throbbing against the side of your hips. He didn’t stop, fingers still pumping into your fluttering sex, drawing out every aftershock until you slumped bonelessly against the wall, trembling and gasping for air.

Finally, he withdrew his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth, his lips wrapping around his slick digits as he sucked your essence with a low moan. His green eyes never left yours as he savored your taste, a wicked gleam in their depths.

“Sweet.” he purred, “But I’m far from satisfied. That was just the start…”

He leaned in close, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Believe me, I plan to take my time.”

With that promise, you had thought he’d finally kiss you, but instead he leans down to kiss your cheek softly. You pouted, “Still not going to kiss me?”

Zayne whispered, “Be patient.”

Okay, fine. You bit your lower lip, a whine bubbling at the back of your throat at his remark. He was still trying to prove a point.

Not letting you think of a reply, Zayne’s hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. He carried you out of the steaming shower, your damp bodies leaving a trail of water droplets on the cool tile floor. With a few strides, he reached the sink counter and set you down on the edge. The smooth marble pressed against your heated skin, a stark contrast that sent a shiver through you, goosebumps rising in its wake.

He stepped back for a moment, taking in the sight of you sprawled out before him, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. His eyes roamed your naked form hungrily, lingering on the juncture of your thighs where you glistened with arousal. He licked his lips, a predatory gleam in his gaze.

Zayne rarely looked at anything like that—and the last time you saw that gaze, it had been directed at a particularly decadent dessert he had never tasted before.

“Fuck, look at you.” Zayne rasped.

He stepped between your splayed legs, hands gripping your inner thighs and pushing them further apart, opening you completely to him. Leaning down, he brushed his lips along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing and nipping a path upwards until he reached the apex of your thighs.

Zayne inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in your heady scent. “You smell so divine, my love.” he growled before he dove forward, burying his face between your legs.

You cried out, “W-Wait! I’m still sensitive—Zayne!”

He ignored your protests, his mouth closed over your sex, tongue delving between your slick folds to lap at your juices. Your back arching off, he groaned against you, the vibrations making your hips jerk and your head fall back.

“Oh-”

You could feel his tongue plunging deep to fuck your clutching channel before pulling back to swirl around your clit. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue against it rapidly until your thighs were shaking and your breath coming in harsh grasps.

“Zayne!” you moaned, one hand fisting his damp hair, holding him against you as he licked and sucked. Your other hand braced against the mirror behind you.

He growled, the sound rumbling through you as he doubled his efforts, fingers joining his tongue as he pumped into you. Your heels dug into his back, urging him closer, silently begging for more.

As if sensing your eagerness, Zayne suddenly pulled away, leaving your quivering body aching for more of his touch. You whined, “What is it now? Are you going to leave me like this?”

Zayne chuckled, amused, “I thought you wanted to make it up to me?”

You glared at him, more on due to desparation, “You’re just punishing me.”

“Shh, love. Be patient alright?”

Before you could muster a reply, his large hands gripped your hips, easily lifting and spinning you around. You found yourself facing away from him, your back pressed against his broad, damp chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your body flush against his, trapping you against the edge of the sink.

His lips brushed your shoulder as he leaned down, breath hot against your skin. “If you’re patient, I’ll finally kiss you alright?” he murmured, voice a low, teasing rumble.

Fuck. You’re in this position because he wouldn’t kiss you. And now, it’s not just a kiss you needed.

You could only nod before you felt Zayne’s hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he rocked against you, his cockhead catching on your entrance with each pass. He did it slowly, maddeningly, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming against him, trying to angle your hips to take him inside.

Zayne chuckled, as if he could feel your body’s reaction to just this.

“Zayne, please…” you whimpered, hips rocking involuntarily, trying to take him in, to end this torment. But he was relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as he held you still, preventing you from taking control.

“Please what, love?” Zayne purred, lips trailing on your nape. “Please what, hmm?”

He punctuated his words with his thick shaft sliding along your soaked folds, coating itself in your arousal. The head caught on your entrance with each pass, and you could feel your walls clenching around nothing.

“Stop teasing,” you whimpered, voice trembling with need. “I want you inside me, now.”

Zayne chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers racing down your spine. “Patience, my love,” he murmured, nipping at your shoulder before soothing the sting with his tongue. “I want to savor this, to make this moment last.”

Zayne’s hands slid around to your front, one cupping your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your nipple. The other hand delved between your thighs, fingers stroking through your slick heat to circle your clit.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” Zayne groaned, watching your face intently in the mirror. “So wet and ready for me…”

You flushed under the scrutiny of his gaze and the words escaping his mouth. This was the first time you’ve ever heard him talk this way, it was a whiplash but it made your body feel hotter than ever.

He suddenly notched himself at your entrance, the broad head of his shaft pushing against your opening as he rolled his hips, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm. Your heart raced, chest heaving with anticipation as you waited for him to fill you completely.

“Beg for it,” Zayne demanded, voice a low, sensual growl. “C-Come on…”

His fingers pinched your clit hard, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your hips jerked, trying to take him inside, but he held you firm, denying you the satisfaction.

“Say it,” Zayne insisted, eyes blazing with lust and dark promise. “Tell me how badly you need me, love.”

You knew he wouldn’t give in until you did, until you voiced your desperate need. So with a shaky breath, you met his gaze in the mirror, your reflection showing a woman consumed by lust and desire.

“Please, Zayne,” you whimpered, voice breaking on a moan as he rolled his hips, pushing just a bit harder against your entrance. “I need you so badly. Just you. Only you.”

Zayne’s eyes darkened with lust at your pleading words, a soft grin spreading across his face. “That’s my good girl,” he purred, voice dripping with approval and dark promise. “So desperate for my cock, aren’t you?”

Without warning, he surged forward, the thick head of his shaft pushing past your slick entrance to stretch you around his considerable girth. You gasped, back arching as you felt every rigid inch of him slowly sinking into your tight heat.

“You’re so tight,” Zayne groaned, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he took his time, making you feel every throbbing pulse and vein of his cock as he filled you.

Your walls stretched and fluttered around him, clenching down on the hard length splitting you open. It was almost too much, the delicious burn of the stretch, the way he made you feel every single inch of his thick, pulsing shaft.

Zayne paused, buried to the hilt inside you, letting you adjust to the size and heat of him. His pelvis pressed against yours, his heavy balls nestled against your clit. You could feel the weight and solidity of him.

“Breathe, love,” Zayne murmured, one hand sliding up your side to cup the underside of your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your nipple. “Take a deep breath and feel every inch of me stretching you…"

You did as he commanded, inhaling deeply and feeling the way your lungs expanded, the way your stomach pushed out slightly. At the same time, your inner walls clenched around him, rippling along his shaft and making him groan.

“Fuck, just like that,” Zayne hissed, head falling forward as he savored the feel of your silky heat gripping him like a vice. “Squeeze my c-cock, Show me how much you love having me inside you.”

He rolled his hips lazily, grinding against you and stirring up your insides. Your arousal gushed around his shaft, easing the way as he began to move. Zayne started slow, pulling out until just the tip remained inside you, before surging back in with a powerful thrust. He set a steady rhythm, each thrust deliberate and measured, letting you feel the drag of his thick cock along your sensitive walls.

His hand slid from your breast to your throat, long fingers curling around your jaw to tilt your head back. He angled your chin up to look at him in the mirror as he fucked you, his eyes blazing into yours.

“That’s it, love. Watch as I claim this sweet cunt, watch as I make it mine,” Zayne murmured, his voice a low, sensual growl. “I want you to see the way your face changes, the way your eyes glaze over with pleasure as I fill you again and again.”

You couldn’t look away, captivated by the erotic sight of his reflection as he rolled his hips, driving his thick shaft in and out of your clutching heat. Your face was flushed, lips parted around soft moans and gasps, your eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lust.

Zayne tightened his grip on your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pressure. His other hand gripped your hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises as he increased his pace, his thrusts growing harder, deeper.

The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the bathroom, mingling with your wanton cries and Zayne’s harsh pants. His hips began to piston faster, each thrust driving his thick cock deeper into your eager body.

“Fuck, right there,” you gasped, eyes widening as your reflection showed a woman lost in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent scream of rapture. “Don’t stop, please-!”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Stop? Oh no, love. I’m just getting started with you.”

To emphasize his point, he punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his pelvis hard against yours. His hand on your throat slid down to wrap around the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him.

He changed his angle slightly which allowed him to fuck you harder, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the bathroom as he claimed you with ruthless intensity.

Zayne’s breath grew ragged against your neck, his chest heaving with exertion as he rutted into you. “Only I can do this t-to you. Not anyone else. Not him.”

His words, rough and gravelly with lust, sent shivers racing down your spine. You could only whimper in response. Tears of pleasure stung your eyes as you stared at your reflection, seeing a woman lost in the throes of passion.

Zayne’s hand slid from your hips to your clit, long fingers finding the sensitive nub and rubbing hard circles around it. Sparks of raw ecstasy shot through you, your hips jerking and grinding back against his in desperate need.

“Come on, love,” Zayne purred darkly, his voice a sinful temptation in your ear. “Come on. Come with me.”

His words, combined with the relentless pounding of his shaft and the merciless stroking of your clit, pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Your heart raced, pounding wildly against your rib cage as you felt the coil inside you winding tighter and tighter.

“Please,” you keened, no longer caring how desperate you sounded. “Please, I need…I need…”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence, your brain short-circuiting as the pleasure crested and crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your sex clenched and spasmed around Zayne’s pistoning shaft, gripping him like a silken vice as you came undone.

“Y-Yes!” Zayne roared, his own release slamming into him as your fluttering walls milked his cock. “Yes, love. J-Just like that.”

His hips jack hammered into yours as he emptied himself inside you, his hot seed flooding your womb in long, thick spurts. You could feel the liquid heat of it painting your insides.

Zayne’s grip on your hips tightened reflexively as he came, he ground his pelvis against yours, stirring his release inside your spasming depths and drawing out your pleasure until you were a boneless, trembling mess.

Finally, with a shudder and a groan, he stilled, his softening cock still nestled deep inside you. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as he tried to regain his composure.

As the last tremors of pleasure faded, Zayne let out a shaky breath, his grip on you firm but reverent. Slowly, carefully, he shifted, guiding you with him until you were facing him. Before you could fully catch your breath, his hands cupped your face, fingers threading into your hair as he finally—finally—captured your lips with his.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t punishing or teasing. It was deep, unhurried, filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He kissed you as if he were making up for every second he had denied you, as if he were branding you with the truth neither of you could deny—this, here, was real.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath still uneven. His thumb brushed over your cheek, his hazel eyes softer now, no longer shadowed with restraint.

“Are you okay, love?” Zayne asked abruptly, concern etched into his features as he pulled back slightly to look at you. His gaze searched yours intently, checking for any sign of discomfort or pain, his touch never straying far—as if making sure you were still his to hold.

His hands gentled on your body, one cupping your cheek tenderly as he brushed sweat-dampened hair away from your face. The other hand slid from your hip to your waist.

Zayne’s expression softened with worry as he noticed the slight wince you couldn’t quite hide, the subtle flinch at his touch. “I’m sorry, love. I got a little carried away there,” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

He eased back further, carefully withdrawing his softening cock from your tender sex. A trickle of his release seeped out after him, and he grimaced, his jaw clenching, looking annoyed with himself for losing control.

“I should have been more careful,” Zayne muttered, helping you off the counter and pulling you into his arms, cradling you against his chest. “The last thing I want is to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, his lips lingering there for a long moment. His hands slid down to the small of your back, holding you close as if he never wanted to let you go.

“I’m sorry, love,” Zayne repeated softly, nuzzling into your hair. “I got lost in my emotions. Please tell me you’re alright. If I hurt you…”

He trailed off, his body tensing with tension and self-reproach.

You looked up at Zayne with a soft, tired smile, your eyes shining with warmth and affection. “I’m fine, really,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from your passionate cries. “You didn’t hurt me, not at all. It was intense, yes, but in the best possible way.”

To emphasize your point, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body flush against his. Despite the slight soreness between your thighs, you relished the feeling of his strong arms around you, holding you close and safe.

Zayne’s shoulders relaxed a fraction at your reassurance, but he still looked uncertain. “You’re sure?” he asked, hazel eyes searching yours intently. “I know I was rough, and I don’t want to ever take things too far and actually cause you pain.”

With that, he scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he carried you out of the bathroom. You looped your arms around his neck, relaxing into his hold as he navigated the short distance to the bedroom.

Zayne gently laid you down on the plush mattress, the cool sheets a refreshing contrast to the heat of your skin. A few moments later, he went back to the bathroom and returned with a warm, damp washcloth, tenderly pressing the cloth to your sensitive folds, cleansing the evidence of your passionate lovemaking, taking his time as he cleaned you before he settled beside you.

You lay tangled together, Zayne resting his head against your chest, listening to the quiet, steady rhythm of your heartbeat. His arms remained wrapped around you, his fingers brushing absently against your skin, but he hadn’t spoken in a while. You could feel the tension in him—not rigid, not overwhelming, but present, lingering beneath the silence.

Your fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns against his back, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the quiet intimacy of this moment. But even as the weight of the morning settled between you, you knew there was something on his mind.

“Zayne,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, urging him to continue. “Just say it.”

He let out a slow breath, his fingers finally shifting, brushing over your wrist before stilling again. “Even though I said I understood,” he admitted, voice quieter now, more uncertain. “Would it change anything if I told you… I don’t want to share you?”

His words were soft but firm, and you felt the way his grip on you tightened—just slightly, not possessive, but honest. Vulnerable.

You hesitated, watching him carefully. “Do you mean…” You swallowed. “Are you talking about him taking control again?”

His gaze flickered up, meeting yours before shifting lower, lingering on where your bodies remained close, skin against skin. “I meant… this,” he said, voice low. “What we shared.”

Realization settled deep in your chest. The kiss—he could accept that, though not without a simmering jealousy that had bled into every touch, every rough, desperate movement between you. He could understand why you had let Dawnbreakerhave that much, why you couldn’t push him away. But anything more…

“I don’t like the idea of sharing you like this,” Zayne murmured, his voice careful, almost reluctant. “Even if he’s me, even if I understand why you let him kiss you…” His thumb traced slow, thoughtful circles against your back, grounding himself as much as you. “I trust you. But I need to say it.”

You exhaled softly, your fingers sliding up to his jaw, tilting his face just slightly so you could see him clearly. “You’re allowed to want that, you know.”

He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to sound… possessive.”

A wry, almost self-deprecating smile ghosted over his lips before he added, “But I let it show in other ways instead. I was too rough—I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t too rough, it’s okay.” A small smile tugged at your lips, something soft, something only meant for him. “And besides, you’re my… boyfriend now. Of course, you’re allowed to feel jealous.”

Even if it was with himself from an alternate universe.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but the tension in his eyes remained, lingering just beneath the surface. Maybe it wouldn’t fade—not yet. Because no matter how much he tried to reason with himself, no matter how well he understood, one truth remained unchanged—Zayne was yours, and you were his.

And Dawnbreaker…

Despite everything, despite the desperation in him, he had known. Even in the fleeting moment he had been given, he had stopped himself. He had known that if he took more, if he crossed that line, it would leave you guilty, and it would hurt Zayne. He had understood—because no matter how different they were, they were still the same man.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, your heart aching in a way you couldn’t quite explain. It was ironic, wasn’t it? That despite the lives that separated them, despite everything they had endured, they still understood each other in a way no one else could. And you, caught between them, understood too.

You reached for Zayne’s hand, threading your fingers through his, squeezing gently. “I wouldn’t,” you told him, your voice steady. “I wouldn’t let it go that far, Zayne.”

His gaze searched yours, looking for any trace of hesitation. But there was none. You meant it. Whatever had passed between you and Dawnbreaker had been fleeting, it was never meant to cross the line that would truly hurt him.

Still, guilt pressed at your chest, and your grip on his hand tightened. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “For kissing him.”

Zayne exhaled, his lips parting slightly before he shook his head. “It’s alright,” he said, voice steady but quiet. “I understand.” There was something almost wistful in the way he said it, as if he had already made peace with it long before this moment. But at the end of the day, no matter how much he accepted it, no matter how rational he tried to be, he was still overcome by his emotions. And you couldn’t fault him for that.

You pressed your palm against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “I love you,” you whispered, letting the words carry all the certainty you felt. “No matter what.”

His breath hitched, but when he exhaled, it was softer, lighter. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he murmured.

part one | part two

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 if you want to check out more of my writings, head on to here — masterlist.

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zepskies · 13 days ago

Text

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in.

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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converging-minds-crk · 10 months ago

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"And yet...you have no idea whats in store for you do you vanilla milk?"

#converging minds #cookie run kingdom #vanillaverse #crk au #pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #pure vanilla crk #shadow milk crk #another little something for you guys while you wait for asks ;)#ooc post

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chubby-bun-bun · 5 months ago

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untitled (part 5)

You rope the busy businessman into enjoying the holiday spirit.

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, fluff, your shot's smoother than stephen curry's

“You set me up,” you accuse, pointing a finger at the culprit before you.

Your midnight-feathered companion merely squawks in your face.

Frowning, you scoop the garnet-eyed traitor into your arms. Try as you might, you can’t resist stroking its feathers, the soft, silky texture effectively subduing your vexation. The bird settles comfortably in your hold, pecking at some lint on your shirt.

Are you still plagued by your embarrassing encounter with the red-eyed Apollo of a man in the park last week?

Absolutely.

Are you being unfair by taking it out on an innocent animal?

You drop your face into your hands with a dejected sigh.

It’s the eve of the Frostlight holiday, and you’ve decided to visit one of the places you hold a lifetime voucher for—a quaint little coffee shop tucked away in a shopping district alley. Aside from wanting to shake off the holiday blues, worsened by the eerie quiet of your undecorated house (save for the tiny Frostlight tree your brother gave you as a gag gift on your fifteenth birthday), you’ve been eager to check out the place after its recent renovations.

You’d been enjoying the shop’s new seasonal latte, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, when the familiar sound of cawing reached your ears. Before you could look for the source, a blur of black feathers descended gracefully onto your tabletop, a tiny red gem bead clutched in its beak.

Normally, your friend’s surprise appearance would brighten your mood. But as the events of last week played out again in your mind, you couldn't help but launch into a one-sided tirade about how your little tag game with the bird had unfolded that night.

“He said his name was Sylus—he was so handsome,” you groan, idly tracing the condensation on your cup. “And such a gentleman, too! And I tripped over him.”

The crow pecks at the stack of tissues on your table.

“But he was bleeding,” you continue, your gaze drifting to your straw, now bent and chewed. “He looked really hurt. I tried to help him, but then he just stood up—like nothing happened!”

It abandons the tissues, opting instead to preen its feathers.

“Do you think it could’ve been his Evol?” you wonder. “If it was, that’s so cool. And really convenient, don’t you think?”

You glance down at your companion, only to find it engrossed in cleaning its glossy plumage, its blatant disregard for your monologue clear.

You huff.

Deciding to leave the bird to its own business, you let your gaze wander to the other shops.

Because it’s the eve of a well-awaited holiday, the shopping district is alive with activity. The booths are adorned with warm white lights, accented by the sparkle of colorful fairy lights. Even from a distance, the aroma of cookies, hot chocolate, and assorted pastries wafts through the air. At the heart of the district where the streets converge stands a towering Frostlight tree, its meticulously arranged decorations glimmering under the festive lights. Decorative wrapped presents are nestled beneath its branches, and a brilliant star crowns the top, casting a warm, radiant glow over the lively scene.

The crowd is a bustling mix: parents paying at booths, teenagers laughing boisterously in groups, children darting around with unchecked energy, pets drawing clusters of admirers… and a familiar, silver-haired man standing by a stall, his towering presence capturing the awe-struck attention of passersby.

You blink.

Before you even realize it, you're on your feet, weaving through the crowd—nearly tripping over a couple of kids—until you finally reach the stall.

Breathless from your short dash, you rise onto your tippy toes and tap him on the shoulder.

He turns around, brows furrowed as he glances left and right, before finally looking down.

“Sylus, hi!” you blurt out, a toothy grin plastered on your face.

You're pleased to catch the surprise flicker in his eyes.

"Sweetie," he greets, the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I was in the area trying this new latte...” you trail off, glancing down, only to realize your hands are empty.

You must’ve left it at the table, along with your little crow.

You look back up at him sheepishly. (You send a half-hearted mental apology to the abandoned drink and bird.)

“New latte, huh?” he says, lips curling up into a smirk.

You realize his eyes are a beautiful, bright scarlet under the light.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” you ask, eyes curiously trailing over his dark button-up dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up neatly, revealing toned forearms, the fabric adorned with slashes of deep red embroidery.

Sylus pauses. “Just… handling some business,” he replies, vaguely gesturing to the stall behind him. Around it, several well-built men in black attire and face masks move about—some standing idle, others murmuring in low voices, and a few weaving in and out of the stall's shadowy depths.

Your gaze shifts past them, landing on the vibrant display of oranges, clementines, pomegranates, figs, and other fruits neatly arranged in wooden crates.

“Oh! You own a fruit business?” you exclaim, your face lighting up with excitement.

You miss the slight grimace crossing his face.

“How lovely!” you say, already fishing for your wallet. “Allow me to support such a wholesome endeavor. I’d like two bags of pomegranates, please.”

A brief silence lingers between him and the nearby men. Then, he chuckles, flicking a finger over his shoulder. Two of them—smaller and seemingly younger than the rest, each sporting identical curls—exchange a quick glance before grabbing paper bags and clumsily filling them with pomegranates.

“Here you go,” one of them says with a bow, handing you his bag.

“The freshest of the season!” the other adds cheerily, offering his own.

You accept the bags graciously, about to hand over your payment, when Sylus raises a hand. “On the house,” he tells you, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he replies, gaze roving over your form with a slight smile. “A holiday gift, if you will.”

You take in how striking he looks beneath the soft glow of the lights, his presence almost ethereal against the lively backdrop.

It’s then you realize you only have one life to live. Life is too short for regrets, and you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. That fortune favors the bold, and that you either go big or you go home.

And so, with a deep inhale to steel your nerves, you seize the moment.

“Sylus, would you like to go get ice cream with me?”

The men behind him perk up. Deeper within the stall, a bound man sits trembling, a gun fitted with a silencer pressed against his temple. He’s being hushed, and the air grows thick with suspense as everyone waits with bated breath for the silver-haired man’s response.

After what seems like eternity, Sylus chuckles, flicking your forehead gently.

“I’d be more than happy to.”

—

You’ve barely spent an hour together, but already, you’ve learned so much about him.

He’s surprisingly chivalrous. You hadn’t expected it, but when you pulled out your wallet to pay for both your ice cream cups, he leaned over, gently swatted your hand away, and handed his card to the cashier.

You looked up at him in protest. “But I was the one who offered to get you ice cream…!”

He merely ruffled your hair, amused, as if you were an unruly feline meowing its head off for not getting the fish on the dinner table.

“I’m not letting you pay. End of discussion.”

Determined to make up for your honor, you dragged him to a weathered claw machine not far from the ice cream stand.

“Fine. But I’m getting you that one,” you declared, pointing at a black-and-red dragon plushie nestled among the other prizes. “You’re not allowed to refuse, okay?”

After a brief scuffle over who got to insert the coin (you lost), you managed to snag the plush on your first try. Triumphantly, you handed it to him, watching as he turned it over in his hands, his fingers gently fiddling with its tiny wings. Your gloating expression faded, though, at the sight of his faint smile, the image strangely sending a dull ache through your chest.

And despite his intimidating appearance, he’s remarkably generous.

When the two of you stepped outside the bustling shopping district for a breather, ice cream cups in hand, a gaggle of children in Frostlight-themed costumes approached. Tambourines and melodicas in hand, they eagerly asked if they could perform for you. Their chaperone stood nearby, wincing apologetically at their loud enthusiasm.

“Do your best,” Sylus told them, leaning against the building wall behind him, eyes gleaming in amusement.

The children hastily formed a crooked pyramid, the instrumentalists awkwardly positioned at the back, before launching into the most gloriously off-key performance you’d ever heard. You struggled to suppress your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, but Sylus regarded them seriously, his head nodding slightly, as if genuinely finding rhythm in their chaotic melody.

When they finished with a burst of giggles, Sylus clapped slowly, laughter dancing in his gaze, before handing over a generous wad of cash. You’ve never heard so many high-pitched “You’re the best, mister!”s all at once.

You’ve been having so much fun—exploring the bustling stalls, petting the pups you come across, checking in on his hardworking fruit stall employees (and happily handing them some of the banana chips you bought), and watching the small fireworks display in the shopping district's adjacent plaza—that you don’t realize how late it’s gotten. Before you know it, you’ve arrived at your house, the neighborhood now quiet and serene, the hum of the city replaced by an almost peaceful stillness.

At your doorstep, you turn to see Sylus leaning casually against his sleek black SUV, his gaze fixed on you. A thought strikes you, and your eyes widen.

“Wait!” you blurt, fumbling for your key. “We never got around to returning each other’s stuff. Let me grab your coat!”

Before you can act, tendrils of black-and-red mist creep along the ground, curling around your feet. Bewildered, you stare at it as it coils upward, encircling you. “What…?”

Despite the way it looks, it feels soft and warm against your skin. Gently, it curls around your wrist, pausing your search for your key, and lifts your chin, guiding your gaze back to him.

“Return it next time,” Sylus tells you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“But won’t you need it?” you ask, distracted by the way the mist dances around you, one tendril brushing your side playfully. You let out a surprised laugh. “Is this your Evol…?”

The mist retreats slowly, as if reluctant to leave. It curls around his feet one last time before dissipating entirely.

“I don’t have your sweater yet,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’d be rude to accept the coat before then.”

“But—”

“Think of it as my excuse to see you again.”

Your words catch in your throat as heat rises to your cheeks.

To appease you, though, he offers to exchange numbers so you can work out the details of your sweater and coat handover. If he notices the way your hands tremble when his fingers brush yours while swapping phones, he doesn’t mention it—though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. With a reluctant wave and a final goodnight, you step inside and close the door behind you.

You lean against it for a moment.

Then, you bolt to your room, dive onto the bed, and scream into your pillow.

When you finally roll onto your back, breathless and grinning like an idiot, the ceiling above you seems brighter, the world lighter. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—like you’re floating, bursting with happiness.

You like him. You really, really like him.

As thoughts of brightly colored ice cream scoops and cuddly dragon plushies swirl in your mind, the weight of the day’s events finally begins to settle over you. You briefly resist, realizing you haven’t even changed out of your clothes or undergone your nightly routine yet, but in the end, you surrender to the comforting pull of slumber.

Just as you drift off, your phone screen glows faintly from your bag.

Good night kitten.

note: tysm for taking time to share your thoughts about the series 🥺 reading through them truly makes me so happy! it's so surreal to know that there are people out there actually looking forward to updates lol!! happy holidays, everyone! 💞

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tag list: @thepotatoislost, @xxfaithlynxx, @browneyedgirl22, @vorfreudevortex, @midiplier, @wisteriaflowersss, @euclase0, @leighsartworks216, @keyiswatching, @goldenbirdiee, @delaythings, @datura109, @iloveboysinred, @everythingistaken00, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @blueberrysquire, @mourning-into-dancing, @bookfreakk, @everywherenothere, @vvhira, @laidenbreecatchall, @kyushii, @lucifer-says-hii, @sylus-crow, @carmelves, @nishayuro

check out my other works!

#ori.writes #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #love and deepspace #sylus fluff

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goldiesgrove · 11 months ago

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Uh oh

#cookie run kingdom #shadow milk cookie #pure vanilla cookie #pure vanilla crk #shadow milk crk #vanillaverse #cookie run #converging minds #crk #cr kingdom #crk au

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unabashegirl · 5 days ago

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Love Island - part 1

AU. Based on the TV show.

Author's note: Hello everyone, I've been meaning to post this on Tumblr. I hope you like this 10 part series as much as my Patreon followers did. This initial chapter is very short but it's on purpose.

⭐️ Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the Love Island villa. Laughter and splashing echoed as the Islanders basked in the afternoon heat, their spirits high. Y/N lounged on a sunbed, half-listening to Tom, her current partner, as he animatedly recounted his latest gym achievements. She forced a smile, nodding occasionally, but her mind drifted. Each day felt like a mirror of the last, a cycle of sunbathing and surface-level conversations that left her craving something deeper.

Then, a sudden commotion pulled her from her thoughts. Georgia, the self-appointed drama queen of the group, leaped up, her phone held high in the air. “I’ve got a text!”

The excitement was palpable as everyone converged around her, eager to hear the news. Y/N's heart raced with anticipation; a new arrival could break the monotony and shake things up in the villa.

With a flourish, Georgia read aloud: “Islanders, get ready to welcome a new boy! Please head to the front of the villa to greet him. #NewBoyAlert”

Cheers erupted, and the Islanders surged toward the entrance, Y/N caught up in the tide of enthusiasm. As they gathered at the door, playful jabs and speculation flew about the new contestant, each guess more outrageous than the last.

When the door swung open, a wave of heat rolled through the villa. In walked Harry, tall and confident, with tousled dark curls that framed his face and tattoos peeking out from under his arms. He was clad only in dark swimming trunks, showcasing his fit physique. The moment he stepped in, it felt as if the air shifted—a palpable energy filled the space.

“Hey, everyone!” he called, his voice warm and inviting. “I’m Harry. I’m 26, a travel photographer, and I’m here looking for someone special.”

As the group responded with cheers and applause, Y/N felt a jolt of excitement at his casual charm. He seemed so at ease, as if he belonged there, and she found herself drawn to his confidence.

“Travel photographer?” Zara chimed in, her tone flirty. “Sounds glamorous! What’s your favorite place you’ve been?”

“Honestly? It’s tough to pick,” he replied, flashing a charming smile that made Y/N’s stomach flip. “But I’d say Greece has its magic. The sunsets there are something else”, He glanced at Y/N as he said this, and for a moment, their eyes locked, sparking an unexpected connection.

As introductions continued, Harry moved down the line, exchanging light banter and laughter. When he reached Y/N, his gaze lingered, a genuine curiosity dancing in his green eyes.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, his tone sincere.

“Y/N,” she replied, feeling her heart race under his attention. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Great to meet you, too, Y/N,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

As the evening wore on, the villa transformed into a cozy gathering spot under the twinkling lights. Y/N found herself outside by the pool, trying to catch her breath from the whirlwind of introductions. The water shimmered invitingly, but her thoughts were consumed by Harry—the way he carried himself, how he seemed genuinely interested in everyone, and that spark in his eyes when they’d connected.

To her surprise, Harry sauntered over, casually lowering himself onto the lounge chair next to her. The warmth of his presence felt comforting, like a breath of fresh air.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, his tone light, but there was a deeper warmth in his voice that made her heart flutter.

“Not at all,” Y/N replied, a smile breaking across her face.

Harry stretched out on the chair, his relaxed posture revealing a confidence that made her feel at ease. “So, what do you make of all this?” he asked, glancing around the villa.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, glancing up at the stars. “But it can get a bit repetitive. I mean, we’re all here looking for something, but sometimes it feels like we’re just... drifting.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I get that. what’s kept you in here so long?”

She looked up, surprised by his directness. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t strike me as the type who’d settle for just anyone. So, I was curious why you’re still here.”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “You get all that just from looking?”

“Maybe,” he replied casually. “Or maybe I’m just observant. Part of the job, you know.”

Their conversation deepened, revealing snippets of their lives. Y/N found herself sharing stories about her childhood, her passion for art, and how she’d dreamed of traveling but had never found the right person to explore with. Harry listened intently, nodding along, his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only person in the world.

“What about you? What made you want to come on the show?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious.

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “Honestly? I wanted to step out of my comfort zone.” He paused, a soft smile forming. “So far. I am very interested”.

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up at his compliment, her heart racing.

As the evening wore on, they exchanged teasing remarks, laughter bubbling between them. With each shared moment, Y/N felt a connection growing—a sense of camaraderie and understanding that she hadn’t felt in a while.

“Well,” Harry said after a while, pushing himself up from the chair, “I guess I’ll see you around”.

“Definitely,” she replied, her smile lingering as he walked away, a sense of excitement coursing through her.

The sun rises on another day in the villa, and it’s not just the temperature heating things up after last night’s new arrival. Our Islanders may have started with some clear choices, but Harry’s arrival has shaken things up... especially for Tom.

The villa was buzzing with morning energy as everyone moved around the kitchen, filling glasses with orange juice and grabbing breakfast. Y/N sat on a lounger, enjoying a quiet moment with her coffee before the day’s inevitable whirlwind of chats. She noticed Tom watching her from across the patio, looking a bit anxious. He made his way over, rubbing his hands together, as if trying to psych himself up.

Tom might have been Mr. Confident last week, but it looks like he’s feeling the heat now that Harry’s in the villa. Will Y/N’s current couple get through this twist unscathed, or will Tom’s nerves get the best of him?

“Morning, Y/N,” Tom greeted, taking a seat beside her. His usual relaxed smile seemed a bit forced today.

“Morning, Tom,” Y/N replied, sipping her coffee and meeting his gaze. She could sense he wanted to say something, and he looked like he was wrestling with the words.

“Listen,” he began, leaning forward. “Last night, with Harry showing up and all... It’s got me thinking. I just wanted to see where your head’s at.” His voice was steady, but she could sense the nervousness under it.

She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “I get it. It’s all moving fast, isn’t it? I mean, I didn’t expect someone like Harry to walk in and shake things up.”

Tom shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking between her and his hands. “Right. He’s... yeah, he’s something. But, uh... I just want to know if you’re, well, interested. In him. Like, romantically.”

She took a moment, carefully choosing her words. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet, Tom. Harry’s interesting, and he’s definitely got that confident energy. But I’m still figuring things out. I mean, you and I have had a great connection.”

Tom relaxed a little, his shoulders loosening as he nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I thought so too. We’ve been getting on really well. I just—well, I know how this place works. It’s all about testing things and seeing if connections are genuine, but…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m getting left behind, you know?”

Y/N reached over, resting a hand on his knee to ease his nerves. “Look, Tom, I’m here to find something real, and I do want to see where we could go. But I also don’t want to close myself off from getting to know Harry. It’s early days, and I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to ignore a potential connection.”

And there we have it, folks. Y/N is caught between Tom’s steady interest and Harry’s unpredictable charm. With Tom hanging on by a thread, will Y/N let go or keep her options open?

Tom’s lips tightened, and he gave a small nod. “Fair enough. I can’t stop you from seeing where things go. I mean, you’re right—it is early days. Just… give me a heads-up if you start to feel like it’s going somewhere else, yeah?”

“Of course,” she assured him, offering him a warm smile. “I’ll always be honest with you, Tom. That’s a promise.”

He smiled, though it looked a bit forced, then let out a sigh, looking back towards the villa. “Right then. Just have to up my game a bit, won’t I?”

Y/N chuckled, nudging him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Just keep being you.”

But will that be enough, Tom? With Harry’s arrival in the villa, we might just see if Tom can hold his own—or if his steady confidence starts to crack.

After Tom walked off, Y/N settled back into her lounger, taking a slow sip of her coffee. The warmth of the morning sun was comforting, and she let herself enjoy the peace, though her mind kept drifting to Harry.

Across the patio, Harry was surrounded by a small group of girls, each one caught up in his easy charm. There was Georgia, always the first to get a word in; her dark hair bounced as she laughed at one of his jokes, flashing him a look that said she was more than intrigued. Beside her was Chloe, who toyed with her braid as she angled closer, her gaze fixed on him, and Lila, who had barely left his side since his arrival. They all hung on his every word, their laughter blending with his deep chuckles.

Y/N watched him, noticing the way he seemed effortlessly at ease, making each of the girls feel like they were the only ones there. He was charming, no doubt, and that little smirk of his told her he knew exactly what he was doing. There was something magnetic about him; he was the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, Harry’s eyes lifted, meeting hers across the patio. The moment their eyes connected, a playful glint flickered in his. His smile softened, turning into that cheeky grin she was beginning to recognize. He said something to the girls that made them all laugh again, and then, with a quick apology, excused himself from the group.

Y/N’s heart gave a little jump as she saw him walking towards her, the confidence in his stride obvious as he crossed the patio. When he reached her, he didn’t sit right away. Instead, he leaned forward, his arms resting on the back of her lounger, his face close enough that she could catch the faint scent of the sea on his skin.

“Morning,” he said, his voice smooth, that smirk never leaving his lips. “Didn’t expect to catch you staring.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Staring? I was just observing… thought I’d get a better sense of what all the fuss is about.”

He chuckled, settling himself on the edge of her lounger without breaking eye contact. “Ah, so you were curious, then. Good to know I’ve got your attention, even if just a little.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “I was just checking to see if you were actually as charming as you think you are.”

He tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “And? What’s the verdict, then?”

She shrugged, pretending to consider it. “I think it’s too early to tell. But I’ll let you know if you manage to impress me.”

Harry leaned back, grinning. “Challenge accepted. I’m a big fan of keeping things interesting. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t come over here to see if I could learn a bit more about you too.”

“Oh, really?” she teased, crossing her arms as she watched him. “So, the big mystery man’s got questions?”

“Maybe one or two.” His gaze softened, the playful edge giving way to a hint of sincerity. “Like, what exactly is a girl like you looking for in here?”

She held his gaze, considering her answer for a moment. “Honestly, someone genuine,” she said, her tone earnest. “It’s easy to get caught up in all the surface stuff, but I’m hoping to find something real. Something that lasts.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Right. Thought I’d take a risk, try something new.” His voice softened, a touch of vulnerability creeping in. “Been a while since I let anyone in.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade. She felt a spark, a warmth that hadn’t been there before, and she knew he felt it too.

“Alright then, Harry the risk-taker,” she said, breaking the silence with a playful smile. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you say.”

Harry’s cheeky grin returned, the playfulness back in his eyes. “Oh, you’ve got no idea what I’m capable of, Y/N.”

Looks like Y/N’s little morning coffee break has turned into something a bit more steamy than she bargained for. With Tom on edge and Harry moving in, she may have her hands full. So, who’s in it for the long haul? Stay tuned.

--> part 2

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