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rainb0ws-h4t · 5 months ago

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Heartslabyul

continuation of my other post cuz I have motivation now. Kinda changed ur personality a bit, URE a boss now

Continuation of this

Tw: stalking, yandere themes , mentions of blood, hate comments online, slight manipulation(?),

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Before you properly formed a friendship with Yuu, you never interacted with him. Not that you wanted to anyway, he was too strict for you and it was clear you two wouldn't get along with each other.

Of course, you two sometimes caught glimpses of each other in the hallways and library, but neither you or Riddle were interested to chat.

You heard stories of him and his overblot, and you did feel slight sympathy for the man. After all, it wouldn't easy overblotting and dealing with the aftermath. You just hoped he'd recover and everything would go back to the normal and mundane school days like before. This was the farthest your nonexistent relationship with Riddle went.

As you and Yuu became closer though, you heard a few passing whispers on how Riddle became prone to lashing out at others more often. Something about Yuu not attending his tea parties again? Although he did make up for it by properly apologizing, it did cause the students of the Heartslabyul dorm to be cautious of him again.

It was a small break in between classes, and you just kinda wanted a few minutes of being by yourself. Absolutely nothing can compare to the comfort of solitude. You were holding a few books from the library, wanting to catch up more on Trein's history lesson.

You were enjoying the peace and quiet until—

"Don't you ever attempt to act this foolishly in my presence again! Off with your head!" The familiar redhead raised his magic pen and summoned a collar that chained itself around the necks of two students. He crossed his arms, "Maybe this will teach you how to behave as a proper human being, rather than some uncivilized bufoon-" He interrupted himself as he caught sight of your figure down the hall.

Noticing his distracted state, the two students scurried off. Riddle's gaze darkened immensely as he marched towards you. You were not sure if his anger was directed to you or someone else. Your head quickly whipped around if anyone else was the cause for his darkened stare. By the time you looked back at him, he was already right in front of you.

"Do you really assume that the Prefect actually holds the slightest bit of interest towards someone like you?" He spoke, tone dripping with malice.

"Excuse me..?"

"You don't even hold a candle to the Prefect, so don't even bother attempting to do any more damage than you already have done." As expected of the housewarden of Heartslabyul, always so stern and strict...

"Why are you speaking for them? It's clear that if the Prefect didn't want to form a friendship with me then they wouldn't have. You're acting as if I'm forcing them to be friends with me."

"Don't speak back to me." His anger flaring up once again. "I am in a much higher position than you are, and I command you to never speak or even be near to the Prefect ever again!"

Your gaze hardens the more he speaks, "Using your position to force someone to never speak to their friend again because someone can't contain their sensitive feelings? And I thought a Housewarden should know better than to abuse their power."

Riddle's face turned to shock as his voice was hitched in his throat, not finding the ability to speak. You took this as a sign to walk away, the power Riddle held was more than anything you could ever achieve. You were lucky he didn't immediately blow up on you.

Riddle was stunned.

He wasn't used to anyone holding their ground against him. Of course, there were times that it did happen (ace—ahem) but this was different. The fact they didn't seem the slightest bit scared of him intrigued him. Their hardened gaze never faltered, and their words remained sharp and steady.

Huh.

Maybe the Prefect was on to something. He was starting to see the appeal. After his anger had cooled and he started going about his regular schedule , the image of you standing your ground against him just never left his mind.

He stalked observed you from afar and was able to see different parts of you that he wanted to explore. That day when you argued with him was only one side of you that you showed to him. Your playful side, serious side, quiet side, and so many more.

His preferences never left the Prefect, but somehow, your enigmatic personality draws him in.

Riddle describes you as a rose. The deep red petals mesmerizing his mind, reminding him of every single part of you that he has yet to explore. His hand would grip the stem tighter, the thorns prickling at his fair skin. The blood would stain his pristine white clothing, but he wouldn't care. If it meant that he gained more time to take in your hypnotizing beauty, then what was there to lose?

CATER DIAMOND

Cater always rubbed you the wrong way.

His smiles never reached his eyes, the boisterous personality he expresses definitely felt off. Everything he did just seemed like an attempt to cover up something.

You never approached him before you and Yuu became close, you doubt you would be able to keep up with his upbeat energy without exhausting yourself. You did, however, stalk his account sometimes when you just felt like it.

There was this one time that Yuu mentioned Cater asking for your Magicam username. You didn't think into it too much because it could've just been him being curious or just for the randomness.

That was until your Magicam account started getting bashed on for absolutely no reason did you start connecting the dots. You had only a few posts that were all from last year and the comments and replies were just hating on you intensely

You couldn't think of anyone else responsible other than Cater. The intervals between his posts were usually 1-2 days long but there was these two posts that had a week long interval. It could've just been a coincidence, but that week was the same week you've been getting all these hate comments.

To confirm your suspicions, you created a burn account and checked Cater's profile again. Safe to say, there were multiple posts containing fake information and unreal images of texts between your account and his. He must've just blocked you from seeing those posts, that must've been the reason why you weren't able to view those on your main account.

The notifications from the haters (as much as you hate to admit) got to you, even if you didnt do anything. The comments stung. You hadn't done any wrong so why did it hurt? This caused you to be more detached from social media, your view of it dimming by each hate comment.

You ultimately made the decision to delete your account, afraid that if you waited any longer and your personal information would get leaked. That and you planned to confront Cater. You normally wouldn't resort to confrontation, but you refused to take the disrespect. Plus, you'd doubt he'd stop without someone stepping up to him.

It was around lunch when you, grim and the prefect sat together. They had to leave for a few minutes for the bathroom. You silently scanned the cafeteria, checking for a familiar ginger male. You noticed him walking right past where you were sitting. Funny how he thought he had the audacity to ignore you when he started an online bash against you for existing.

"Do you think I wouldn't be able to find out?" You asked, back facing Cater as he froze in his steps.

He immediately turned around, that same fake grin plastered on his face like tape. "Oh, heya!" He waved his hand. "Uh.. Were you talking to me?" He questioned, a slight quiver in his eyebrow.

"You're the one who started that online hate train for me, right?" You turned your head to face him.

"W-what are you talking about?"

"Don't act stupid with me. You're much more conniving than you present yourself to be." You stood up, facing him fully.

Cater hesitated to speak, "Sorries! But I'm not sure what you're talking about! But hey, send me a dm if you wanna talk more. Gotta go, peace!" He made a peace sign with his hands, before making an attempt to flee the scene.

Although before he could exit, a loud slap ran loud through the cafeteria. Everyone's eyes immediately locked on the source of the sound.

Cater's eyes widened as his cheek suddenly stung with burning pain. He brought a hand to slowly cup his reddened cheek as his eyes locked on to your serious ones.

"Didn't you hear me? I said don't play stupid with me." He continued to stare. "I wasn't planning to make this dispute a big deal if you had just admitted to me you did it." You took a step closer to him.

"W-wha.."

You raised your hand, readying to slap him again harder.

"(Name)? Hey, what happened?" The prefect spoke, sensing the tense atmosphere. Your raised arm slowly lowered.

"Myah, why's everyone staring at us?" Grim asked as he casted a curious glance at everyone in the room.

With one last look you shot him, you exited the cafeteria immediately with Yuu running after you. Cater still stood there, quiet. His hand still cupping his stinging cheek. His ears ringing as it blocked out the whispers that spread through the space.

___

Cater sat on his bed, phone in hand as he tried to figure out what to post. A few students had already posted about what happened earlier during lunch. Sevens, this was bad... Each letter he type was deleted a few seconds later, and each idea he had was scrapped.

His focus wasn't completely on his screen though. It kept flickering towards... you. You humiliated him in front of many, and almost outed him for what he did online and yet...

He wasn't mad.. no, he was intrigued. At first, he was mad that the prefect slowly gained the confidence to refute his dates and selfie ideas when they started hanging out with you. He thought your influence was the reason his relationship with Yuu slowly fell apart, his insecurities flaring up and blaming you.

One of the main reasons he sent a hate train to bash account.

But ever since he saw you up close, how he wished Yuu could embody every single trait of yours that you held. So maybe then could they be more like you— identical even. But even then that wouldn't be enough. He always thought you were this reserved and quiet kid who would never stand up to anyone unless the situation really called for it.

That entire dispute at the cafeteria changed his whole perspective on you entirely.

Cater started taking selfies with you in the background, some people even thought you and Cater made up. The hate towards you slowly dissapeared, thanks to Cater.

It wasn't long before Cater eventually swayed the internet into thinking that you and him were dating off screen. The rumors started coming in rapidly, after all, Internet celeb Cater Diamond had a partner!

Though, everything was denied by you personally. With you posting a statement that what the internet made you two to be was just a giant misunderstanding, and that you and him were nothing more than just acquaintences. Unfortunately, Cater's voice in the social platform held more power than yours ever will.

As you turned off your phone to focus on walking back to your dorm, a camera shutter suddenly sounds.

TREY CLOVER

Trey was... ordinary you guess. Sure, he was a great vice-housewarden and an amazing baker but nothing about him struck you. Unlike the others, Trey was laid-back and relaxed and never involved himself unless the situation called for it.

So you were confused when Yuu confessed that Trey intimidated them the most in Heartslabyul. You didn't understand though, he seemed nice and you never sensed any strange or even creepy behaviour from him to Yuu.

Yuu was invited to another Unbirthday party by those two freshmen who hung around them constantly. Unfortunately, the prefect wasn't able to refute their persistance.

"I'll go with you." You offered.

"Huh..?" Yuu looked up at you.

"I said I'll go with you. You're uncomfortable going by yourself, right?"

They stared into your eyes for a few seconds, "You'd do that for me?" They muttered.

"Sure, we're friends after all."

With that, you forced (even if you offered) yourself to go to the party with Yuu. You couldn't just leave them by themselves especially when you know how they felt around those boys.

As you walked, you immediately avoided making your appearance known. You'd rather drip dead right there than maintain a civil conversation with Riddle and Cater. Yuu stuck beside you though, seemingly more attached to you than ever. Of course, it was inevitable that Riddle and Cater noticed you two.

You excused yourself for the bathroom after asking Yuu if they'd be fine. You wandered around Heartslabyul, you probably should've asked for directions.... But oh well. As you continued walking around the dorm, you stumbled on a cute kitchen. No one was inside it currently.

Interested, you explored the space. It seemed recently used; with bowls in the sink, the mixers still plugged in, and the oven warm. It was clearly for the party outside and the one who inhabited the kitchen was probably still outside. That means you were alone...

A creek from the door you entered alerted you,

"(Name)?" A familiar dark green haired male entered the kitchen.

"Trey? How'd you know my name?" You asked, not remembering talking to Trey or even telling him your name.

"And how'd you know mine?" A small smile formed in his face.

"Well, Yuu told me about you." You responded.

"Riddle and Cater told me about you too." You observed a slight wariness in him as he spoke. You wondered what Riddle and Cater made you out to be..

Not knowing how to continue the conversation, "So... you bake?" You asked.

"Yeah, I do. My family ran a bakery where I'm from so it's only natural I'd also learn to bake." He replied.

"Do you... do you want help in cleaning the place? It'd probably go faster if you have someone helping ya." You offered, feeling slightly bad that you were leaving Yuu by themselves even longer.

"Huh? You don't have to trouble yourself really. I made the mess and I should clean it up." Trey started moving towards the dirty dishes in the sink.

You moved in front of him to prevent him from getting any closer to the sink. "And I desperately need an excuse to not go back outside at the moment."

Trey appeared surprised for a moment, "You don't plan on moving anytime soon, are you?"

"Yeah." You responded blankly.

Trey smiled, "I guess it would be better with company."

You and Trey spent the next 20 minutes together cleaning the kitchen. It was peaceful, barely any chatter was involved between you two.

As you headed back to the party, you couldn't help but wonder why Trey intimidated Yuu the most. He was nice and a hard worker. Immediately after noticing your presence, Yuu jumped in your arms and kept blabbering about how they were glad you were safe and unharmed.

You're not sure if that's what started it, but Trey has lately been inviting you over to Heartslabyul for baking sessions. You've started enjoying his company even more, his sweet tarts are just a plus.

___

Trey didn't understand Cater and Riddle.

Riddle made you out to be this insolent and misbehaving buffoon that had no place in a prestigous college like NRC. He also did mutter how you should spend more time at Heartslabyul so that you'd be influenced by their traditions.

Cater complained about you. How you almost outed him and humiliated him in the cafeteria. But then he also whined complained about how you kept ignoring him in hallways and his dms!

So it was no surprise that he developed a slightly dimmed view of you as the two continued talking. But he always avoided making assumptions, so he didn't just regard you as a douche right off the bat.

Color him surprised when you turned out to be so nice. You offered to help him clean and initiated a conversation with ease.

Trey felt a sense of pride that the nice side you showed him wasn't being presented to Riddle or Cater. Feeling slightly special that he was able to be friendly with you unlike the aforementioned two. You were so friendly, how could you ever be the same insolent brat Riddle mentioned?

He started inviting you more often than normal, even expecting you to show up without telling you. He wanted— needed to see that soft side of yours. That addicting smile you sent him every time made all the gears in his head stop working.

C'mon, don't you like baking with him?

___

Yuu has been discouraging you to go though, but you've always brushed their warnings off. You convinced yourself that you could always see through someone's facade, no matter how well they conceal their true intentions. It worked on Cater, right?

But.. you find it harder and harder to refuse his invitations. His saddened expression, his disappointed "oh..", and his guilt tripping remarks.

You really should've listened to Yuu.

ACE & DEUCE (it's easier for me to write them tgt)

Ace and Deuce were annoyed how the prefect suddenly distanced themselves from them. They were even more irked when they realized it was because of another person. How can the prefect just abandon them like that? The two were practically the first friends they made here!

In response, the two ambushed the unwilling prefect at random times and dragged them away to hang out together. That was when they first met you.

You and Yuu we're sharing a small conversation between each other, just the two of you under the comforting shade of a tree. The serene atmosphere disturbed by the two goofs who approached you two unwanted and unannounced.

"Prefect, we've been looking for you!" Deuce exclaimed as he stopped right in front of you.

Ace came running behind him, panting. "You couldn't have waited a few seconds for me you jerk?" He remarked as he caught his breath.

Yuu looked at the two boys Infront of them, nervous and fidgety. "Oh.. Ace and Deuce, what are you guys doing here..?"

"Wellll..... Professor Crewel gave me a really complicated project to make up for that test I missed last week.." Ace explained while scratching his head, ultimately leaving out an important detail where he intentionally missed that test cause he knew Professor Crewel would give him an extra hard project to make up for it.

"He's basically asking you to help him! And plus, you haven't hung out with us all day, so maybe this can make up for it!" Deuce eagerly spoke.

Sevens, these two boys are so hopeless... You remember seeing Ace wandering the courtyard the day of Crewel's test, and only conveniently making an appearance after the test ended. They'd go that far just to have an excuse with the prefect. Have they even courted an actual person before?

"You've spent too much time with your friend already, don't ya think?" Ace stated, not asking, stating.

"You guys can always hang out another time, right?" The two were persistent, you'd give them that.

Yuu fiddle with the ends of their blazer, not sure if what they really wanted to say would appease them. "Well.. I'm not sure if-"

"I know you're free today~" Ace tried to play it off as a joke with a laugh, which in return, came out more menacing.

"Stop it." You intervened.

"Huh?"

"Eh?"

The two said in sync.

"The prefect has been feeling sick. I'd rather they avoid coming into contact with chemicals." You lied, hoping they'd buy it. Yuu turned to you in surprise.

"What? But Yuu has been fine the entire day?" Deuce confusedly said.

"You're lying." Ace furrowed his brows.

"I'm not." You replied.

"Okay, prove it." Ace's irritation becoming more palpable by the second.

"Just ask Yuu."

Then all the eyes turned to the prefect, two sides awaiting and wanting completely different answers. They hesitated, but spoke with sureness in their voice. "Yeah.. I've been feeling a bit down casted today. I just didn't want to make it obvious.."

You turned to face Ace again, "See?" The seemed to have hit Ace he wrong way when his fists visibly clenched.

"Then you have to go back to ramshackle and rest immediately! We'll escort you.." Deuce offered, a slight red tinting his cheeks at the last part of his offer.

Ace placed his facade on again, "Yeah! We'll even cook soup for you!"

Yuu's conflict to choose between either you or the two boys was growing by the second. Normally, they'd just go along with what everyone said. That's how they have always been. But that was also before you came into the picture. "I.."

"They're fine with me." You said.

"You can stop speaking for them, y'know." Ace crossed his arms.

"What do you think Yuu?" Deuce asked, still eagerly waiting for Yuu's answer.

But Yuu knew who they'd feel more safe with, "I'm fine with them. You really don't have to trouble yourself with-"

"It's really no problem! I can take care of you the entire time while youre sick!" Deuce invaded their personal space and held their hands in his.

Just as Ace was about to but in, you spoke.

"The two of you either must be blind or just ignorant." You slowly pushed Deuce off of Yuu. "Can't you see that they DON'T wanna go with you two? Seriously, is it really that hard to read the room?"

The two were quiet for a moment.

"Oh yeah? And who are you to be talking for them like you're doin' them a favor?" Ace's expression darkened visibly.

Deuce cracked his knuckles, "For all we know, you're probably the one who's forcing Yuu to stay with them!"

"Right! That must be the reason why they even started hanging out with you!" Ace accused.

"Or have you ever considered the idea that they actually like me?" You asked.

"Oh please, the prefect could never like someone like you!" Ace yelled.

"You're not showing us anything to like about you right now, so I doubt the prefect could hold a positive opinion for you!" Deuce continued.

"Why should I present someone any likeable qualities when I want them to hate me?" You said.

Just as Ace and Deuce were about to retort, another voice barged in.

"Bad and tardy pups. I expect the two of you in my classroom this instant." Professor Crewel stood behind the boys, who instantly turned from mad to shivering.

You sighed in relief as the two boys finally left, glad their suffocating and persisting presence finally exited. You turned to Yuu who seemed to be staring at you with... Admiration?

They quickly shook their head, snapping them out of their trance. "Thanks a lot.. Im not sure what I would've done without you."

"Don't mention it." You smiled at them.

___

Ace dreaded seeing you whenever you were with Yuu. You always gathered all their attention effortlessly, he used to be able to do that... That's why he hated you. Some part of his mind told him that the prefect got bored of him, so that's why he'll try to get them back!

He'd purposely catch you at times whenever you were with Yuu, so that he'd attempt to impress them by humiliating you. Except... He'd always leave as the defeated. He even tried punching you, but he missed when you dodged instantly.

This one-sided rivalry started an addiction.

He had this rush of adrenaline whenever he argued with you, and he chased after that sensation by the second. Ace wasn't even sure if this was even for Yuu anymore. He was lost in whatever spell you casted onto him that fateful day under the tree.

You made him taste something that ignited a spark within his soul, and he'll forever chase after it.

Deuce wasn't the same case... Well, kind've bit not exactly. He wanted the prefect's attention, how did he achieve that however? He stalked observed you. You were the sole reason the prefect started this sudden change of theirs. How you captivated the prefect in such a short amount of time confused him...

In other words, he was jealous. Jealous of how easily you handled him that day. Jealous of how you could fight back without losing your temper. Jealous of how easily you enamoured Yuu. That's why he'll simply observe you from afar and copy your techniques!

But then.. he started wondering how he could impress you as well... He invited the prefect over to his club to originally impress them with how fast he could run. But when he saw you sitting together with the prefect, he started running and running— Heck, the winds were probably struggling to catch up with him— until he reached the end. He beat his old record, but he didn't focus on that.

When he saw that bewildered look in your face, something in him obsessively started planning even more crazier stunts to have you captivated and jaw-hanging as you stared at him.

That's right... keep your attention on him and him only.

___

Finally done <333

Can't say I'm proud I'm just glad I'm finished with this tbh

It might be ooc sorry yalllzzzz 💔

i might write some alternatives to this cuz I some good ideas!!!

People who wanted to be tagged: @fancyhawk45 @brights-place @avalordream @kthehoeforfictionalmen

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iraot · 2 months ago

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Dead On Paper

Pairing: Dawnbreak/Zayne x f!reader Summary: He is hired to kill her, but realized he was born to protect her instead. Genre: Romance, Some Smut, Blood, he's an ASSASSIN GUYS so just... he kills people. Word Count: 17, 896 AO3

A sealed, untraceable burner device chirps once—no vibration, no screen light, just a short mechanical tone sharp enough to pierce the hush of Zayne’s safehouse. He picks it up without hurry, thumbprint unlocking the message buried under four layers of encryption. Coordinates first. Then a face scan, timestamped, taken from a distance with low exposure. She’s walking near a market, head tilted to the sun like someone who’s never felt watched.

Target: a civilian woman. No priors. The file confirms it—no aliases, no history with black-market trades, no contact with arms or laundering circuits. Even her financial records look clean outside of a few late payments, nothing criminal. Her name’s been scrubbed from the brief, redacted by whoever ordered the kill. That’s unusual. Even high-profile jobs rarely erase the subject's name unless there’s heat somewhere.

Zayne narrows his eyes as he decrypts the secondary layer of metadata. The source trails back to a shell entity registered in Singapore—long dissolved on paper but active in deep channels. One of a thousand fake fronts tied to an old laundering tree used by both legacy cartels and the newer syndicate branches that spun off during the post-2008 chaos. He knows the kind. Family dynasties and private enforcers. The kind of people who issue death orders not to eliminate threats, but to humiliate those who failed them.

He reclines back in the steel-framed chair, fingers drumming once on the desk beside him. The image of the woman lingers on the cracked screen—arms full of greenery, face turned just slightly, mouth open in what looks like mid-laughter. Civilian. Young. Alive. And someone wants her very much not to be.

The reward is abnormally high—seven figures for a civilian who’s never touched a gun, never crossed a border under false papers, never whispered a name worth killing over. It makes him pause, green eyes narrowing on the screen like it might flinch under the scrutiny. This isn’t about threat mitigation or cleanup. This is punishment by proxy, and she’s the proxy—collateral born from blood ties to someone who fucked the wrong people and fled before the debt collectors came knocking.

Zayne leans forward, elbows on the metal desk, and reads the fine print again. No time limit. No discretion required. They don’t care how messy it gets. That confirms it—this is about spectacle, not silence. Someone wants her to disappear as a lesson carved into bone, left bleeding in the air as a warning to others who forget who they owe.

He exhales through his nose once, controlled and quiet, and types a single line of reply into the secured channel: I’ll handle it. Four words. Enough to signal acceptance, initiate payment escrow, and launch a countdown no one will trace back to him. But it isn’t final. Not yet. Zayne doesn’t pull triggers on photographs.

He scouts. Confirms. Decides. Always.

Zayne rents the unit under a fake name, cash only, no questions asked. It’s bare inside—concrete walls, no windows, stripped light fixtures. He brings in his own power supply, a collapsible chair, surveillance gear tucked into repurposed moving boxes labeled “kitchen” and “holiday lights.” Across the street, three ordinary-looking orange cones sit angled just right, each one housing high-res lenses wired into a portable server cooled by fans that hum beneath the drone of traffic.

For two weeks, he watches her from behind glass and code, logging everything with sniper precision. She opens the nursery each morning at exactly 6:45AM, sliding the gate open in one smooth motion before disappearing behind a veil of condensation and leaf-shadow. Her routine is seamless. Reliable. She starts her day with chamomile and mint tea in a chipped mug painted with violets, always held in both hands like it centers her.

She plays music through a speaker rigged near the herb section—first soft jazz, low saxophone and brushed percussion, then Spanish ballads after 9AM, lilting and sad. She hums sometimes, unconsciously, her mouth twitching with lyrics she doesn’t say aloud. Her lunch is always packed: boiled egg, vegetables, rice in a reused takeout container. Never any takeout. Never anything prepared by anyone but her.

She doesn’t answer phone calls. The burner she carries stays buried at the bottom of her bag, screen unlit, battery rarely above fifteen percent. Zayne tracks her movements through the rest of her week—short walks, two bus routes, no deviation. Once a week she slips into a hole-in-the-wall bookstore and leaves with worn paperbacks, crumpled bills exchanged with the owner in silence. No credit. No receipts. Just cash.

When her shift ends, she rides her rusted bike home with a basket full of trimmings and dented groceries, her fingernails dark with soil, her posture sagging with work. She greets no one. She never invites anyone in. And behind the nursery, under the old brick archway where vines have begun to grow wild, she kneels with a bowl of tuna for three stray cats—thin things with matted fur that purr when she speaks.

Zayne watches all of this. Records every minute. And finds nothing. No tail, no accomplices. No panic in her steps, no precautions. If she knows someone’s watching her, she hides it perfectly. But he doesn’t think she knows. She looks up sometimes at the sky, eyes wide like someone waiting for a better life to descend gently, green and growing, into her palms.

She’s crouched near a table of succulents, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with potting soil, when a child comes barreling into the nursery. A boy, maybe five or six, wild curls and mismatched socks, clutching a bruised fern like it’s a treasure. He says something—Zayne can’t hear it through the feed, but her laughter rings out anyway, rich and spontaneous. She throws her head back just slightly, eyes crinkling, lips parted in a way that makes it unmistakable: it’s real.

Zayne blinks behind the scope, momentarily still. It takes longer than it should for his breathing to return to its usual rhythm. He shifts his position by instinct, recalibrating for line of sight, but the laugh echoes in his memory like an anomaly. It shouldn’t matter. It bothers him that it does.

She’s a target. That’s the refrain. Simple. Clean. She exists in this file for a reason—because someone, somewhere, decided her continued breathing was a liability. Zayne doesn’t ask why. Not usually. The 'why' makes the hand shake. Makes the bullet miss.

But something isn’t sitting right this time. Her routine is too open, too linear—no dead drops, no burner swaps, no subtle check-ins with strangers or mirrored surfaces. She doesn’t take alternate routes home. She doesn’t scan the street before she locks up at night. She walks like no one’s ever told her to be afraid. Like she doesn’t know that death is parked across the street in a borrowed van watching her finish a conversation with a six-year-old about aloe and water schedules.

She’s not avoiding being tracked. She’s not hiding. She doesn’t even know she’s being watched and that’s what makes it harder.

He enters the house at 2:14AM, lock bypassed in under four seconds, gloves on, eyes already mapping the interior like a living schematic. The place is small—one bedroom, no signs of luxury, no hidden compartments or surveillance. She sleeps in a bed without a headboard, covered by a faded quilt with stitched vines and leaves, the kind that looks handmade. He doesn’t linger. Just moves like smoke through each room until he finds what he’s looking for.

The shoebox is buried in the closet, tucked behind rain boots and a crate of broken ceramics. No lock, no alarm—just taped shut and sealed with old, half-peeled stickers. He opens it with a scalpel. Inside: a stack of unopened letters, official and bland, with seals from places like “Collection Units,” “Asset Adjustment Services,” and “Financial Intercession Groups.” Corporate euphemisms for legalized extortion. Some are printed on thick cardstock, others typed in sterile fonts, but they all have the same tone—pay what they owe, or we’ll extract it elsewhere.

He flips through them until the photographs start. Surveillance shots. A man and a woman—her parents. Stained shirts, glassy eyes, one of them half-smiling in a gas station mirror. Each image is stamped “DELINQUENT” in red ink. Beside it, a breakdown of debt portfolios: gambling, laundering, crypto fraud, unpaid smuggling tolls. One sheet reads $2.3 million outstanding. Another simply says: ASSET RECOVERY: ALL TIED.

Zayne stares at the handwriting below the photo.

Last known location: UNKNOWN.

So they went dark. Cowards who left their daughter as collateral.

She’s not part of the scam. She’s just the remaining name with a heartbeat. On paper, she’s tied into the debts—accidental proxy, inherited without consent. Her only crime is not covering their tracks for them.

He sits on the edge of her couch, documents spread like tarot cards across his lap, and exhales—slow, silent, like something sharp’s being drawn out of his chest. His code is old, quiet, carved into the marrow: no innocents. No children. No ghosts forced to carry the weight of other people’s bad decisions.

No one deserves to die for the sins of absentee, criminal bloodlines and no one gets to hunt her while he’s watching.

The rental sits to the left of her house, a sun-bleached skeleton with warped siding, blistered paint, and a roof that sighs in high wind. Zayne signs the lease as Elias Tan, a name clean enough to pass background checks and common enough to be forgettable. He doesn’t move in all at once—just a few boxes, a mattress, and the quiet thrum of tools unpacked with surgical precision. Each day he fixes something small: a cracked shingle, a leaking gutter, the stubborn back gate that swings open in storm wind.

He starts a garden along the fence line, nothing flashy—just cucumbers, rosemary, a few heirloom beans in salvaged planter boxes. The kind of thing you can ask advice about, even when you don’t need it. The soil is poor, so he tills it by hand, sweat running down the curve of his spine under worn cotton. It gives him something to do that looks honest.

She sees him for the first time on a humid Tuesday morning, dragging a twenty-pound bag of fertilizer across the gravel path, breath hitching at every uneven step. He’s trimming back lemon balm when he glances up. No words at first—just a look, held for a beat too long.

“You need a hand?” he asks, voice even. No smile. No pressure.

She shakes her head, arms locked around the bag. “Got it.”

He nods and steps back, she passes, and they leave it at that. Non-threatening. Just a neighbor with dirt under his nail a man who builds, instead of destroys.

The second time they speak, she catches him mid-morning, crouched beside a weather-beaten citrus tree he’s trying to revive. He’s trimming back curled, browning leaves with surgical snips, expression focused, hands steady. She walks by, slows, and tilts her head with the quiet confidence of someone who knows plants like they’re kin.

“You’re cutting too close to the node,” she says, nodding at the branch in his hand. “You’ll stress the stem.”

He looks up at her, eyes unreadable but attentive. “I thought it was rot.”

“It’s calcium deficiency,” she replies, stepping closer, brushing her thumb across one of the leaves. “Soil’s probably too acidic. Try crushed eggshells.”

He considers this, then asks, “You ever grafted from a lemon onto an orange base?”

That catches her off guard—in a good way. Her face brightens, eyes sparking like someone who didn’t expect to be taken seriously. “Yeah,” she says, grinning. “You’re braver than you look.”

He doesn’t respond, just returns to trimming, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, almost like amusement.

A week later, there’s a knock at his door. He opens it and finds her holding a woven basket filled with tangled sprigs of mint—wild, unruly, fragrant from several feet away.

“For tea,” she says, lifting it toward him. “Or whatever it is you drink after sunset.”

He takes it without hesitation. “I make chili jam,” he offers, stepping aside to retrieve a jar from his kitchen. “Want to try some?”

She perches on the edge of his porch while he unscrews the lid. There are no spoons, so she dips a finger directly into the thick, red mixture and brings it to her lips. She licks once, slow, thoughtful, then gasps quietly.

“Oh, that’s—hot,” she laughs, eyes wide. “But really fucking good.”

He says nothing. Just watches her mouth, the shine on her lower lip, the shape of her laugh as it curls out of her like steam. She talks for another minute or two, but he doesn’t hear much of it. Not really.

That image—her finger, her lips, the moment—lodges in his mind like a trigger half-pulled. He files it away with clinical care, like evidence but he doesn’t delete it.

The burner glows faint blue in the dark, a signal pulled through a quiet channel that only speaks in silence. Zayne uploads a high-resolution image of bloodied clothing—a hoodie similar to the one she wore last Tuesday, torn and stained with carefully applied theater blood. He pins it to GPS coordinates leading to an isolated burn site he used three years ago, a gravel pit ringed with trees and ash that no one patrols. No body. No teeth. Just enough residue to imply a conclusion.

The contract broker responds in under forty minutes. Confirmation flags appear, payment clears, and her profile gets an automated status: TERMINATED. Zayne watches the progress bar complete, then files the job under his real alias, Dawnbreaker—signed, sealed, archived with the others. She’s dead now, on paper. Dead enough that no one with a price list will come looking for her again.

He opens the encrypted archive, scrolls down to her original file, and deletes the biometric images from the kill folder. Gone, as protocol demands. But he copies one—the unedited one, the one where she’s smiling at a pigeon from across the street—and drops it into a buried partition in his personal archive. Just in case, he tells himself. Contingency. Not sentiment.

Still, when the screen fades to black, he doesn’t close the laptop right away.He just sits there, staring into the dark, and for once it doesn’t stare back. –

He learns her schedule like a melody—one note at a time, steady, familiar. Not for strategy or escape routes, not anymore. There’s no ambush in his mind, no scope tracking her from across the street. He memorized her routine the way a man memorizes the tide: because it matters to him, because its rhythm softens something he didn’t know needed softening.

She hums when she waters the plants, low and tuneless, like her thoughts are too full to keep silent. He hears it even from his yard, faint through the breeze, sometimes rising into fragments of a melody he never recognizes. She sways gently as she moves, trailing her fingers along leaf edges, like she’s reassuring them that she’ll be back tomorrow. It’s ritual, not work.

On slow afternoons, she reads pest control manuals with frayed spines and penciled notes in the margins. Half the time she forgets them outside, pages curling in the sun until he quietly gathers them and drops them off by her door. She never asks how they get back there. Just smiles, mutters “thank you, plant gods,” and tucks them under her arm like sacred texts.

When snails invade her violets, she crouches with a flashlight and whispers threats like a tired parent. “You little bastards better not touch my orchids,” she mutters, plucking them off one by one and dropping them gently into a tin. She keeps a kill count on a sticky note taped to the windowsill. He pretends not to smile when he sees it hit twelve.

One evening, she waves him over with dirt-streaked gloves and a furrowed brow. “Spider plant’s got something weird on its leaves,” she says, holding it out like a sick child. “You ever seen spots like this?” He leans in, fingertips grazing the edge of the pot, shoulder brushing hers. He tells her it’s fungal. She tells him she’s relieved it’s not a curse. He doesn’t correct her.

— It's late afternoon when the conversation slips past weather and watering schedules. They’re seated on her back porch, her feet bare and tucked under her, Zayne leaning against the railing with a glass of cold water in one hand. The sun is low, casting long gold stripes through the latticework, dust motes swirling in the light between them. She pulls her hair back absently and asks, “So what do you do, exactly? You’re too methodical for accounting, too quiet for customer service.”

He answers without hesitation, calm and rehearsed. “Freelance logistics. Short-term supply chain stuff. Inventory control.” It’s vague but plausible, the kind of job that sounds both boring and too technical to probe deeper. She nods like it makes sense and doesn’t ask more—not because she believes it entirely, but because she doesn’t want to ruin the quiet by making it heavy.

She’s silent for a moment, eyes scanning the small garden bed in front of them. Then she speaks without looking at him. “My parents disappeared six years ago. Took a bunch of other people’s money with them. Left me the mail, the debt collectors, and a name that doesn’t belong to anyone respectable anymore.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just takes another drink and waits. She exhales slowly, like it costs her something. “I don’t hate them. I did for a while, sure. But mostly I don’t think about them now. It’s like… they were a dream someone else had, and I just woke up in the part where everything’s wrecked.”

He watches her, eyes unreadable but steady. “That’s a heavy inheritance,” he says.

“Yeah.” Her laugh is soft and dry. “Would’ve preferred land or a timeshare. Maybe a haunted watchtower or something. At least that comes with ghosts you can see.”

He doesn’t chuckle, but there’s a shift in his posture, something just shy of warmth. “Most people don’t talk about it like that.”

“Most people try to solve it,” she replies, glancing at him sideways. “Tell me to track them down, sue someone, write a letter, ‘process the trauma.’ You didn’t do any of that. You just… let it sit.”

He shrugs slightly. “Not everything needs fixing.”

She nods, a small smile flickering at the edge of her mouth. “That’s rare. Most men don’t know when to shut up.” He doesn’t say anything to that either. Just watches the way her shoulders loosen when she’s finally said too much and didn’t regret it.

The evening is quiet, heat bleeding off the pavement in slow waves, when she appears at her back door with her arm cradled awkwardly against her chest. She tries to wave him off with her good hand, downplaying it with a weak smile and a casual, “Clumsy me—smashed a pot. Got a little too aggressive with the shelving.” The gash is long, stitched but fresh, the skin around it red and taut, still swollen beneath gauze that’s already soaking through. Zayne says nothing, just nods once, but his eyes never leave the wound.

The cut’s too clean for a terracotta shard—too long, too precise, no drag marks or irregular tears that would come from jagged edges. She was cut with intent, not accident. She moves slower than usual, flinching when she bends, but hides it behind chatty small talk and jokes about tetanus shots. He offers her tea; she declines. Says she’s tired, just needs to sleep it off.

That night, after the neighborhood has gone dark, Zayne pulls a tablet from a false bottom in his tool chest and taps into the nursery’s security feed—something he wired on his second week without telling her. He scans back six hours. There’s a man in the footage, medium height, leather coat, mirrored glasses that don’t reflect the camera. He isn’t browsing. He’s cornering her near the back greenhouse, gesturing wildly while she stands still, arms crossed but shoulders tense.

The feed’s audio is too low for voices, but the body language tells enough—she tries to walk away twice, and both times he blocks her path. She finally pushes past him, hand gripping her forearm tightly, blood already soaking into her sleeve. The man leaves calmly, no rush, no panic, head down. Professional. Former debt collector, Zayne guesses—someone hired to rattle cages, remind her what happens when money owed goes unpaid or unforgotten.

Zayne closes the feed and deletes the last twenty-four hours. Not just the file, but the server metadata. Wiped. Gone. He sits back in the dark of his living room, lit only by the glow of the screen and the soft green flicker of the security router’s heartbeat.

He doesn’t plan revenge. Not yet.

But he writes down the man’s face. And he doesn’t forget.

The trail isn’t hard to follow—not when you know how collectors move, how they drink cheap coffee in laundromats and always overstay their welcome at low-end motels. Zayne pulls surveillance from street cams and ATM clusters, piecing together the man’s route through the city. Credit card pings lead to a port-side warehouse district full of abandoned freight, rusted chains, and stacked shipping containers that haven’t been checked in years. He gets there just after midnight, boots crunching over gravel, gloved fingers tracing the latch of a container with a scent that’s wrong—coppery and humid, like something that’s been left too long.

Inside, the collector is slumped against the back wall, head tilted unnaturally, arms bound with zip ties still cinched tight at the wrists. Blood pools beneath him, sticky and black. His tongue is missing, lips parted as if trying to scream even in death. There are no signs of struggle—just execution. The work is professional, deliberate. Someone wanted him silent, and someone wanted it understood.

Zayne crouches beside the body, eyes scanning the scene without emotion. He didn’t do this. That much is clear. No one kills like him—his method is cleaner, colder, a scalpel where this was a scalping knife. But this wasn’t random. Someone else followed the same scent trail, maybe smelled the same debt. Maybe decided this wasn’t about her anymore. Maybe it never was.

He rises slowly, shutting the container door behind him without leaving a trace. Back outside, the air feels heavier, thicker with something unseen. He doesn’t know who got to the man first.

But he knows this much now: He’s not the only one watching her.

She knocks just past eleven, a soft, almost apologetic tapping against his doorframe. Rain sheets down behind her in cold, silvery lines, her hoodie soaked through, dark curls of wet hair plastered to her temples. Her fingers tremble around her phone, the screen dim and cracked, useless. “Power’s out,” she says, voice small, breath hitching. “And the storm’s freaking me out. I just… didn’t want to sit in the dark by myself.”

Zayne steps aside without a word, letting her pass into the warmth and light of his kitchen. He hands her a towel first, then a dry shirt, heavy with his scent, and turns to the stove without watching her change. She sits quietly while he brews tea, eyes following the motion of his hands, precise and sure. When he opens a drawer for a spoon, she spots the knitting needles tucked neatly beside utility tools, long metal ones with red-painted tips.

“You knit?” she asks, not teasing—just surprised, intrigued.

He doesn’t answer. Just closes the drawer again. She doesn’t press. The silence between them is soft, not awkward, and when he returns with two mugs, she accepts hers with a nod of thanks.

They sit on the couch, close, steam curling up between their hands. Her shoulder brushes his, light but unmistakable, and neither of them moves away. Outside, the storm cracks across the sky like bone splitting. Inside, she doesn’t flinch. She exhales slow, steady, then turns slightly and rests her head back against the cushion beside his. Doesn’t speak.

When she leaves an hour later, wrapped in a dry coat and steadier than when she arrived, she pauses in the doorway and smiles. Not wide. Not performative. Just quiet, real, like something settled. Zayne watches her cross the gravel back to her house, headlights from the streetlight flickering over her path.

He stares at the door for a long time after it closes

Not thinking. Just feeling.

Like something important nearly happened, and might again.

The night air is thick with late-summer damp, cool on sweat-slick skin but not enough to banish the warmth still radiating from the soil. Overhead, string lights stretch between two fences, swaying faintly in the breeze, casting broken amber light across the backyards. Zayne is crouched near the rosemary, the scent sharp on his hands as he trims back a branch with the precision of a surgeon. Across the narrow space, her silhouette shifts among tomato vines and sprawling mint, dirt clinging to her calves, hair tied messily off her neck, the fabric of her shirt sticking slightly at the small of her back.

They’ve been working like this for nearly an hour—no music, no conversation, just the clink of tools, the occasional rustle of plants being turned or watered. It’s quiet, but not sterile. Comfortable. Her presence is a soft hum in the background of his mind, rhythmic and grounding. He’s gotten used to it—her garden gloves tossed onto the fence post, the way she hums tunelessly when she concentrates, the soft curse when she finds aphids again on her basil. It’s not surveillance anymore. He isn’t watching. He’s just…near.

Then her voice slices gently through the quiet.

“Want to see something?”

He looks up, blinking, surprised by the interruption but not displeased. She stands near her porch, wiping her hands on a ragged kitchen towel. There’s dirt under her nails, smudges on her cheeks, and something lighter in her eyes. “The lavender finally came up,” she says, nodding toward a tray sitting under a makeshift UV lamp. “They’re tiny, but they made it. You said once you never bothered starting them from seed.”

He doesn’t remember saying it out loud, but he nods and follows her across the yard. Her porch creaks under their weight as she leads him toward the table where the tray rests, a grid of damp soil and fragile green shoots barely taller than a fingernail. She kneels beside it, gestures for him to come closer, and starts talking—explaining the mix she used, the spray bottle technique, the humidity dome she rigged out of an old cake cover.

As she looks up to speak again, the porch light catches on a streak of dirt across her cheek. Without thinking, Zayne reaches out. His thumb grazes her skin, a slow wipe from just below her eye to the edge of her jaw, lifting the smudge away in one clean stroke. Her breath catches. She doesn’t lean back.

Her eyes lock onto his, wide and startled—not in fear, but in sudden awareness. He’s still close, hand halfway raised, her skin warm where he touched it. She swallows, then says his name—soft, quiet, almost questioning.

“Zayne.”

He says hers in return. Low. Careful. Like it might break something if he isn’t gentle with it.

There’s a pause. The porch is quiet but for the rustle of nearby leaves and the gentle creak of the wind nudging the wood. Then she steps forward, slowly, her fingers brushing against the edge of his shirt as she closes the space between them. She rises onto her toes and presses her lips to his—light, cautious, but not uncertain. It’s not a question. It’s a confession wrapped in silence.

The kiss lingers. Just lips against lips, the soft, warm pressure of something new testing its weight. She tastes like mint and rain, and something delicate and unnamed trembles between them. He doesn’t deepen it. Doesn’t pull her in or press back harder. He simply lifts his hand again, cups her jaw with deliberate tenderness, thumb tracing along her cheekbone in a way that says he could destroy anything that dared harm her—but he won’t ever touch her like glass.

She pulls away first, breathing just a little heavier, her hand still hovering near his chest. She looks at him like she’s not sure what she just did, but doesn’t regret it. Her mouth opens—no words come. Instead, she exhales slowly and nods.

“I should—” she starts, then stops. “Goodnight.”

He answers, quiet but unshaken. “Goodnight.”

She leaves barefoot, dirt still clinging to her soles as she disappears down the steps and across the lawn. She doesn’t run, but she moves quickly, like something might stop her if she stays.

Zayne remains where she left him, hand still faintly warm, jaw tight. When he finally sinks back into the chair near the table, it creaks beneath him. His fists curl on his thighs, fingers digging in, knuckles white. He doesn’t turn off the porch light. He doesn’t sleep, not because of threat but because he can still feel her lips—gentle and unguarded—like a promise he didn’t deserve and couldn’t bear to break.

—

The evenings fall quiet by the time he shows up, arms full of rosemary, garlic scapes, lemon balm clippings wrapped in damp paper towels. She’s already boiling water or roasting something when he knocks, expecting him without ever saying she is. The kitchen is small but warm, the walls honey-colored with steam curling against the windowpanes, and the scent of earth and spice fills every corner. She gives him a wooden bowl to clean the herbs, humming softly as she stirs miso paste into broth or brushes oil over warm flatbread.

They eat at the small table near the back door, the one facing her little herb patch where wind chimes tangle softly in the breeze. Sometimes she asks if the thyme tastes too strong, or if the eggs cooked long enough, but mostly they eat in silence. It’s not awkward. It’s familiar—the kind of quiet that feels earned, like something shared rather than something missing.

She sits closer now, not quite pressed against him, but near enough that her thigh brushes his beneath the table when she shifts her weight. The first time it happens, her knee knocks into his and she doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t move either. Just takes another bite of soup, slow and measured, while their legs remain gently aligned, a quiet point of contact neither acknowledges out loud.

Once, while she’s scraping lentils from the bottom of the pot, she glances over her shoulder and says, “You don’t talk much, do you?”| “Don’t need to,” he replies, eyes steady on her hands.

She grins without looking at him again. “Good. I like that better.” And he understands then—it’s not that she wants company. It’s that she wants someone who doesn’t demand to be seen while she's still learning to be.

It happens just past midnight. Zayne is in the backyard, securing the last of the hose reels and flipping off the porch lights, the moon heavy and yellow behind a veil of slow-moving clouds. The wind picks up in short, sharp bursts, rustling leaves and bending the tomato stakes at his feet. As he turns toward the gate, his gaze catches on the glass of her greenhouse—just a shimmer at first, but then a shape, dark and still, reflected in the pane.

It stands where it shouldn’t—between the rows of hibiscus and lavender, too tall for her, too motionless for wind. The figure’s not moving, but the angle is wrong, the placement off; it’s not inside, it’s behind her greenhouse, lit by nothing but moonlight. He drops into a crouch before he even thinks, sliding a blade from his boot, eyes locked on the shimmer. But by the time he rounds the fence and reaches the spot, it’s gone. The space is empty. Still. No footprints in the mulch. No broken stems. No sound except the soft rattle of string lights overhead.

Zayne doesn’t believe in coincidence. Whoever it was stood there long enough to study her, to memorize angles, movements, maybe wait for a moment when she’d step into that glass room unaware. It wasn’t random—it was recon. Someone watched her like he once did. But not like him. Not to protect. Not to keep.

He doesn’t tell her the next morning. She’s smiling too easily over breakfast, teasing him about overwatering his thyme, and he lets it lie for now. Instead, he spends the afternoon laying ground sensors six inches beneath her rose beds and reprogramming the micro-cameras he once installed for his own surveillance. Now they feed directly to his secured server, pinging alerts to his burner phone. She doesn’t know he’s building a fence of code and eyes around her life. She doesn’t know yet someone else is trying to slip in through the cracks.

The sun is low, slanting in through the kitchen window, catching dust motes and bathing the room in soft orange. She’s cleaning with casual energy, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hair messily twisted on top of her head, humming as she sorts mail and shoves worn dish towels into a drawer. Zayne leans against the counter, watching with that quiet stillness that never quite leaves him, offering to help only once. She waves him off with a laugh and tosses a sponge at his chest.

Then she opens the bottom drawer near the floor and stiffens—just slightly, just enough. Her hand lingers a second too long before she pushes it shut with her hip and says, “That one’s just old bills. Junk I keep meaning to shred.” Her voice is breezy, light, but her eyes don’t meet his as she turns back toward the counter. He makes no move to question her, doesn’t even change expression. But he logs it, like everything else.

When she excuses herself to shower, he moves across the room without a sound. The drawer slides open easily—she didn’t bother to lock it. Inside, the papers are folded, some crumpled, others stiff with age and creased from too many hands. Envelopes marked with return addresses he recognizes from years of contract work: Collection Units, Financial Intercession, Recovery Escalation. No names on the senders. No signatures. Just threats. Demand letters. Photocopied photos of her face, her place of work. She called them bills. But they’re warnings. And they’ve been piling up.

The drawer’s contents spill like a confession—torn envelopes, hastily folded sheets, paper still dusted with the residue of anger. Each one is different in format—some printed on faded company letterhead, others handwritten in thick black marker like a ransom note. No return addresses. No official seals. Just half-legible demands scrawled in frantic script, the kind that smudges when written too fast, too hot with rage to wait for the ink to dry.

Some pages are short, just one or two lines. “You’ll pay what they owe.” “Blood knows where to find blood.” Others are longer, bulleted, spiraling with accusations and threats of “enforcement visits,” thinly veiled beneath legalese. One page simply reads “RUN. IT WON’T HELP.” in red ballpoint, the letters jagged, pressed so hard into the paper it left grooves on the envelope beneath.

Zayne doesn’t react. He sifts through the pile like an archivist, hands careful, eyes scanning each word without giving away a thing. The rage behind them is unmistakable—not the cold precision of hired killers or corporate silence. This is desperate fury, the kind that comes from men whose money’s gone, whose power’s cracked, lashing out at anything left to punish and all of it points back to her. Not because she did anything wrong, but because she’s still visible. Still reachable and someone—more than one—wants to remind her of that.

Zayne returns to his safehouse just before dawn, slipping in through the side entrance beneath the vines. The sky’s beginning to pale, but his thoughts stay anchored in the dark. He powers on the encrypted terminal hidden behind a false panel in the wall, fingers moving with practiced ease through layers of security. He isn’t looking for names. He’s looking for shape—slant, pressure, pattern. The way certain letters lean too hard to the right. The way the lowercase “f” never crosses fully. The handwriting in the threats burned itself into his mind the moment he saw it.

It doesn’t take long. He opens an old dossier from six years back, a failed collection job out of Detroit, and there it is—black and angry across a confession letter, nearly identical. Same pen pressure. Same malformed “r.” The signature at the bottom: Victor Dunn. Former enforcer. Known for using fear before force, humiliation before blood. Tied to the Mendez line—a syndicate with long money and short patience, the same one that sent the kill order on her weeks ago.

Zayne stares at the file, jaw tight. Dunn shouldn’t be active. Last he heard, Dunn had gone underground after botching a protection job and leaving a trail of bodies no one wanted cleaned up. But if he’s resurfaced, if he’s part of the threats then this isn’t coincidence.

It’s legacy.

Vengeance and he’s not the only one circling her at least not anymore.

—

Victor Dunn dies on a Wednesday.

The bar is a low-lit dive on the edge of the industrial quarter, a place where the floor sticks and the jukebox eats quarters. Dunn sits at the far end, nursing cheap bourbon from a cloudy tumbler, the type of man who drinks alone because it makes him feel harder. Zayne walks in unnoticed, hood up, the weight of a flask already resting against his palm. The bartender never sees the sleight of hand—how the bottle Dunn brought in for himself ends up dosed with an odorless sedative laced with synthetic aconite.

The fight starts ten minutes later, as planned—two hired drunks swing at each other just behind Dunn’s stool. Shouting. Glass breaks. Chairs screech. In the commotion, Zayne nudges the bottle an inch closer to his target’s hand, lets the chaos cover the moment Dunn tips the rest of it back and grimaces. It takes eighteen minutes for his throat to swell, his heart to stutter. He’s dead before he hits the floor. To the rest of the room, he just passed out. To the police? Another overdose in a city full of them.

Zayne slips out through the back and walks five blocks before ditching the hoodie in a trash bin. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No security cameras facing the alley. Dunn’s death is ruled as accidental. Case closed in under forty-eight hours.

Zayne doesn’t relax. He watches the digital trail. Waits. And someone else keeps watching her—another set of eyes in the dark, patient, methodical. Whoever they are, they haven’t moved yet. Haven’t struck.

Which means they’re waiting for something.

Not her death.

Her vulnerability.

And Zayne knows now—this isn’t about if they’ll try again.

It’s about when.

The camera feed comes in just after 2:00 a.m.—a whisper of movement pinging Zayne’s encrypted server. The alert is faint, almost subtle, not the kind that would raise alarms for anyone but him. He’s already half-awake, seated at his desk, sharpening a blade he doesn’t need to use tonight. When the motion alert flashes, he taps the key, leans in, and watches.

The footage is black and white, softened with the grain of lowlight exposure, but the figure is clear. A dark sedan idles across the street from her house, tucked just far enough into the alley to avoid the streetlamps. The headlights are off. Engine silent. It wasn’t there five minutes ago. The driver doesn’t exit. He leans forward against the wheel, elbows propped, gaze fixed not on the front door, but the side yard—the greenhouse. Zayne’s chest tightens as he realizes the man isn’t surveying the house. He’s watching her route. He knows her pattern.

Zayne magnifies the feed, enhances the angle. The man’s face is partially obscured by shadow and tinted glass, but he’s clean-shaven, short dark hair, wearing a collared shirt and gloves. Not street muscle. Not a junkie collector. Professional. His posture is too composed. Too deliberate. There’s no fumbling with a phone, no cigarette, no nervous shifting. He’s not casing the house. He’s confirming something.

The car doesn’t idle long. After exactly twenty-three minutes, the headlights flash once—low beam, quick flick, not an accident. The engine murmurs to life, soft as a cat’s breath. By the time Zayne bolts out the back door and crosses three yards in a straight sprint, the car is gone. Not a sound of tires screeching. Not a trace of burned rubber. Just absence, clean and surgical.

He checks the camera playback, frame by frame, until he gets a brief shot of the license plate—centered, perfectly lit by the greenhouse flood light. He runs it through two firewalled databases, both civilian and military. The number pings back: valid registration, leased vehicle, no name attached. Clean. Too clean.

No traffic tickets. No parking violations. No servicing record. The plate’s not fake—it’s sanitized. Zayne leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the blank digital report. That’s worse than fake. It means the plate’s real, but protected. Government issue or black market protected. Which means someone has reach. And they know where to look.

He watches the footage again, this time focusing not on the car, but on the angle. The driver wasn’t just watching the greenhouse. He was watching her window. The one with the chipped paint and the vine pressing against the pane. The one she leaves cracked open at night because she says she sleeps better with fresh air.

Zayne’s fists tighten. He tells himself it could be a coincidence. A passerby. A curious neighbor who parked in the wrong place but he doesn’t believe it. Coincidences don’t sit motionless in the dark for twenty-three minutes and drive off without a headlight blink of confusion.

He doesn’t tell her. Not yet. In the morning, she’ll hand him a sprig of sage, smiling, saying it helps with pests.

Instead, he spends the rest of the night on his laptop and gear, rerouting the greenhouse camera feed to a secondary off-site server. He replaces the standard motion sensor with a military-grade proximity net and walks the perimeter twice in silence. Then he loads two guns—one for open carry, one for his ankle—and sets a third beside the couch where he pretends to sleep. He watches until the sun comes up because someone else is watching her and Zayne doesn’t share.

—

The evening is soft with heat, the kind that lingers even after sunset, wrapping around bare skin like a second shirt. They sit outside on her back patio, tucked beneath the overhang strung with mismatched glass lanterns that cast warm colors across the worn wooden table. The wine is red, rich, sweating in mismatched tumblers that catch the flicker of citronella candles. Zayne sips his slowly, eyes fixed on the curve of her throat as she speaks in half-hushed tones, like the words are fragile, easily shattered if said too loud.

The air smells like grilled zucchini—charred skin, oil, cracked salt—and she nudges a plate toward him without looking. Her hands, usually so steady when repotting basil or coaxing root bulbs from old soil, tremble slightly as she wipes her fork clean with a paper napkin. She doesn’t notice the shake, but he does. His fingers pause on the stem of his glass, silent, alert.

“They knew what they were doing,” she says finally, not looking at him. “They knew how deep they were in, and they still signed everything under my name.” Her voice is calm, but her shoulders are locked tight, posture stiff like she’s bracing for an argument she’s already lost. “Because it’s easier to disappear when you leave someone behind to clean up the wreckage. Easier to vanish when there’s a name on the books who isn’t yours.”

Zayne says nothing. Just watches her, head tilted slightly, green eyes unreadable but focused. The air between them grows heavier, no storm—just tension, memory, the weight of past decisions she had no part in. She takes another sip of wine, this time with both hands, like she’s steadying herself on the glass alone.

“They left like it was a heist. Neat, silent, timed.” She laughs once—sharp, brittle. “But I got the aftershock. Collection calls. Doors kicked in. People who didn’t care that I didn’t even know how deep it went. Just that I was easier to find than they were.”

Zayne shifts, just slightly, leans his forearm on the table and says, low and level, “Do you think they’re still alive?”

She hesitates. For once, her voice falters. “I don’t know. And I’m not sure I care anymore.” Her eyes lift to meet his, and for a moment, she looks older, worn down—not tired from work, but tired of surviving other people’s messes. “If they are… I hope they’re scared. Just a little. Like I was.”

He nods, slow. Doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t tell her they’ll get what they deserve. He just holds her gaze until her breath steadies, until her grip on the fork eases, and the wind carries the scent of burnt herbs off into the dark and in that stillness, she starts breathing like she finally has room.

He doesn’t speak when she finishes. Doesn’t offer apologies or platitudes, doesn’t reach for her hand or murmur something sweet to bridge the quiet. He just watches her—eyes unmoving, green and sharp in the flicker of candlelight, studying her face like it’s a map that leads somewhere dangerous. Every word she’s spoken, every hitch in her breath, every time she swallowed hard before saying something honest, he files it away. Like evidence. Like a puzzle that, if assembled correctly, will reveal where the next hit is coming from.

She looks down at her plate and pretends to be done with the conversation, but he knows she’s still bleeding inside from it. She changes the subject, asks him about companion planting, jokes about the weird bug she found in her kale earlier that morning. He goes along with it, nods when he needs to, offers a few soft, dry answers that won’t pull her back toward the hurt she’s trying to bury under grilled vegetables and red wine. But his mind is already elsewhere—clicking through shadows and data points, building patterns she doesn’t know he’s seeing.

Later that night, when the house is dark and she’s asleep behind closed curtains, he sits in his own kitchen with only the glow of his laptop for company. No lights. No music. Just the soft mechanical hum of the air conditioner and the steady tap of keys beneath his fingers. He reroutes a former fixer—an old contact who owes him silence more than favors—redirects him off his current surveillance gig and toward a new assignment: run traces. Not on her.

On everyone else.

Every property sale within a five-block radius. Every background check that’s touched her name in the last ninety days. Every camera that picked up the black sedan. He doesn’t just want to know who else is watching her. He wants to know how long they’ve been in his orbit. and if someone else is circling her, they’re already living on borrowed time.

It arrives in a plain white envelope with no stamp, no seal, no sender. Just her name written across the front in sharp, slanted letters—bolder than the last ones, as if whoever wrote it didn’t care about hiding anymore. She finds it that morning nestled between junk coupons and the local circular, her fingers pausing mid-sort when her eyes catch the handwriting. Her chest tightens before she even opens it. Some part of her already knows this one is worse.

Inside is a single sheet of glossy paper. No words. No warning. Just an image: her, walking home, head down, grocery bag in one hand, keys in the other. The angle is low, taken from behind a row of hedges. She remembers that day—it was raining lightly, and she paused at the gate to shake water off her shoulders. She never looked back. The timestamp in the corner is from forty-eight hours ago. Whoever took it was close. Watching. Waiting.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t throw the paper away. She stumbles inside, locking the door with trembling fingers, and makes it as far as the kitchen before her knees buckle. The letter crumples in her fist as she slides down against the cabinets, back hitting the cold tile with a soft thud. Her breathing is shallow, uneven, and her eyes won’t focus—she keeps glancing at the door like it might open, like someone might already be standing on the other side.

That’s how Zayne finds her. He doesn’t knock—he hears the change in her pattern from outside, hears the absence of movement where there should be footsteps, humming, her usual distracted energy. When he opens the door and steps into the kitchen, he sees her on the floor, knees pulled up, the paper clenched so tight in her hand it’s creased through the ink. Her eyes snap up to him, wild and wide, and for a second she doesn’t say anything. She just stares.

“I didn’t see them,” she whispers, voice frayed. “They were right there, and I didn’t even feel it.”

Zayne crosses the room slowly, crouches in front of her with a stillness that feels like a held breath. He doesn’t ask questions. Just pries the paper gently from her hand and scans it once.

He memorizes the angle. The distance. The background blur. Then he folds the letter and tucks it into his jacket. He says nothing. But the look in his eyes tells her: someone is going to pay for this.

He doesn’t ask if she wants to get up—he simply acts. In one fluid motion, he leans down, slides an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, and lifts her as if she weighs nothing. She makes a quiet sound in her throat, not quite protest, not quite surrender, her hands clutching at his shirt before she can think better of it. Her face burrows against his collarbone as he carries her into the next room.

The couch creaks softly beneath them as he sits with her still curled against him, his body solid, unmoving, wrapped around her like a wall. He grabs the knit throw folded over the back—gray, soft, worn in places—and pulls it over her shoulders without ever letting her go. She trembles under it, breath ragged, fingers gripping the front of his shirt in tight, stuttering motions. He doesn't speak. Doesn’t shush her. Doesn’t offer hollow words.

He just lets her cry.

His hand comes up once to the back of her head, palm wide and steady, thumb brushing her cheek. He holds her like armor, like gravity, like silence itself. And all the while, his eyes stay open, fixed on the front door—not to watch for danger but to dare it to come through.

It starts small—barely-there touches that could be passed off as accidental. A hand grazing his shoulder as she walks past him in the garden. Her fingers brushing the inside of his elbow when she leans closer to show him the pest bites on a leaf. She laughs more now, and when she does, she’ll rest her palm lightly on his forearm, like it’s instinct, like her body forgets he’s supposed to be a stranger.

Zayne never flinches. He doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t move away either. He allows it, absorbs it, and stores the sensation like a secret kept under his ribs. Her touch is light, never lingering too long—yet somehow, he feels it hours after it’s gone.

When she talks, especially when she’s animated—telling him about a plant’s root system or the nightmare customer who tried to haggle over a bag of soil—he finds his gaze drifting. Not to her eyes. Not to her hands. To her mouth. The curve of it when she smiles. The way she presses her lips together when she’s thinking. He watches, quiet and still, never interrupting and she notices. He knows she does—sees it in the flicker of her glance, the subtle way her teeth catch her bottom lip, the way her words slow, like she’s suddenly more aware of how they leave her but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she speaks softer. Holds his gaze longer. Like she wants him to keep looking.

She finds the box propped against her back door one morning, unmarked except for her name written in clean, deliberate handwriting across the top. No return address, no company logo—just the weight of something personal wrapped in plain brown paper. Her boots crunch lightly over gravel as she picks it up, tucking it under her arm while balancing a tray of seed starts in the other. It’s still early, the dew clinging to every leaf like breath, and the sky hasn’t fully decided if it wants to be blue or gray.

She opens it in the garden, seated on her overturned bucket stool between rows of kale and sunflowers. Inside: a pair of gloves, not the flimsy canvas ones she’s always buying in packs of three, but stitched leather, supple and strong, padded across the palms, designed for real work. They’re her favorite shade of green—the kind that matches the moss creeping up the base of her fence. A folded note sits on top, small, simple, scrawled in his tidy, unassuming hand: “These should last longer.”

Her throat tightens immediately. She blinks fast, head bowed as she turns the gloves over in her lap, running her thumbs across the seams like they might split under her touch. The tears come before she can stop them, sharp and hot. She bows her head lower, lets her hair fall forward to hide her face from no one.

She doesn’t go inside. She doesn’t wipe her cheeks. She just stays there in the garden, knees in the dirt, pretending the wind is too strong today. Pretending it’s the pollen in the air. Not kindness that broke her open.

– It’s early morning when Zayne notices the disturbance—just after sunrise, dew still clinging to the blades of grass, the garden glazed in silver light. He’s doing his usual perimeter check, nothing new expected, just routine. But then he sees it: bootprints, fresh and deep, sunk into the soft mulch along the side of her greenhouse. Not his. Not hers. The spacing’s wrong. The tread is military-issue, not casual—a brand he recognizes from tactical catalogues used by low-visibility ops teams.

The prints stop just beneath the greenhouse window, the one she always opens a crack when the humidity gets too thick inside. He kneels, fingers brushing the edges of the sole mark. There’s no attempt to hide the approach. No backtracking, no scuffing. Whoever it was wanted a clear view—inside the structure, toward her workbench where she drinks her morning tea with her legs curled under her on the stool.

Zayne glances through the pane, and it hits him: from that spot, at that distance, they could see everything. The mug she favors—white with a faded botanical print. The way her shoulders curve as she leans over soil trays. The damp strands of hair that fall along her neck while she works, sweat collecting at the hollow of her throat. Whoever was there stood close enough to see details, not just surveillance patterns.

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the surrounding fence line, the street beyond, the way the shadows fall in angles too familiar now. Someone’s testing proximity—measuring comfort. They weren’t just watching anymore. They were imagining the moment they’d step through the gap and reach for he and that makes this different.

This isn’t recon.

This is intention.

Zayne adjusts his schedule without a word, slipping into a rhythm that most soldiers take years to master—three hours down, three hours up, cycling through the night like a machine with a heartbeat. He builds his waking hours around hers, always keeping her within reach, eyes on the monitor even when she’s asleep. When she’s awake, he’s calm, present, making tea or trimming basil. But the moment she closes her door for the night, he becomes something else—watcher, hunter, guardian with no uniform but instinct.

One evening while she’s inside humming along to a jazz record, he climbs the side of her house in silence. Gloves on. Tools tucked into a roll at his belt. The eaves give just enough shadow to conceal his work, and within minutes he’s mounted a pinhole camera barely wider than a screw head, tucked into the weathered fascia above her back porch. It syncs directly to his private relay, filtered through a triple-layer proxy chain. No sound. Just a live feed. Just enough.

She never notices. Not the shift in air when he slides past her window, not the faint scrape of metal against wood. She trusts him. Enough to lean on him, laugh with him, fall asleep knowing he’s next door. And he hates how easy that trust comes, how effortless it is to exploit but he keeps the feed up anyway.

Because her safety isn’t a luxury anymore. It’s a line in the sand.

And he’s already killed for it.

—

The sky outside is bruised purple, the last edges of daylight fading into shadow, and the kitchen smells faintly of rosemary and something sweet she baked earlier—he doesn’t know what, didn’t ask. Zayne stands by the table, fingers brushing the spine of the manila folder he set there minutes ago, unopened. A small USB drive rests on top, matte black, unmarked. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move toward her. Just waits until she finally looks up from her tea and catches the seriousness in his posture.

“What’s that?” she asks, her brow furrowed, her voice hesitant like she’s bracing for bad news.

He gestures once, a slight incline of his chin. “It’s a new name,” he says, voice low but steady. “Driver’s license, social number. Birth certificate. Clean record. There's a bank account with a work history already attached—quiet, believable, enough in it to not raise flags.”

She stares at the packet like it might bite. “Zayne… what is this?”

He doesn’t blink. “In case you ever want to leave everything behind,” he replies. “Walk away. Start somewhere else. Some people get to choose. You haven’t had that in a long time.”

Silence falls between them, soft but sharp around the edges. Her fingers toy with the rim of her mug, eyes locked on the papers like they carry weight she can’t lift. “You think I should run?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says, and for once, there’s something warmer under his tone. Not soft, exactly. But protective. “I think you should have the option. I think you deserve to choose what happens to you next.”

She doesn’t answer. She just stands and walks the two steps between them, then presses her arms around him—not polite, not casual, but full-bodied and immediate, like she’s anchoring herself to something solid before the floor can fall out again. Her face buries against his chest, and he stands still for a second, surprised. Then his arms wrap around her, slow but firm, like drawing a line between her and everything that still wants to claim her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against him and he doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t have to.

—

The broker’s flat is a third-story walk-up tucked between a shuttered liquor store and a dog grooming parlor with flickering neon. It smells of stale coffee and burnt wires, the kind of place people choose when they don’t want to be found. Zayne gets in without a sound—lock picked, gun holstered, no mask, no hesitation. The broker doesn’t even look up until Zayne’s already inside, standing by the window, the glint of a syringe caught in the room’s weak yellow light.

“Zayne?” the man croaks, half-rising from the chair. His laptop is open, cursor blinking over a series of encrypted message logs. He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, grabs the back of the man’s neck, and drives the needle in cleanly behind his ear. The body slumps. No struggle. No sound. Just a heartbeat that fades and never returns.

Zayne glances at the laptop, fingers already working over the keyboard. Not for records of the original contract—he’d already erased those weeks ago. He’s looking for names. Echoes. Anyone else who accessed the job file after it was marked “complete.” What he finds sends a cold ripple through his spine: a mirrored access code. External. Burned through an anonymizer but still traceable in the backend metadata.

There’s a name. A digital fingerprint. A secondary inquiry logged by someone who had clearance—but not from the same family. Different domain. Different scent. The man in the black sedan. The one at the greenhouse.

Not working for the same people. Not following orders. Acting alone.

Zayne wipes the terminal clean, removes the drive, and closes the laptop with slow, surgical care. The body goes into the back of a van he parks behind a condemned warehouse two blocks over. That night, it’s buried six feet under an abandoned greenhouse outside the city, compost shoveled in thick layers over the grave.

He scatters lily bulbs across the soil. By spring, they’ll bloom blood-red.

There are no loose ends now, except for one and Zayne has a name, a name, a face, and a promise: No one else touches her.

Not ever.

—

The blanket they lie on is old, worn soft by time, with its corners curled and stitching coming loose in places. She’d pulled it from the hall closet earlier that evening, laughing that it smelled like rosemary and mildew, but it had served its purpose well—spread across the patch of grass beneath the oak, away from the porch lights, half-wrapped in shadow. The air is cooler now, touched by the first hint of autumn, and the grass beneath them carries the damp memory of the day's heat, breathing up through the weave of the fabric. Above, the sky is wide and open, a dark indigo ocean scattered with stars that blink slowly, half-hidden by shifting branches that cast long, reaching silhouettes across their legs.

They’re both stretched out in parallel, shoulders just shy of brushing, but the space between them feels electric—charged, not by nerves, but by awareness. No phones buzz, no music hums softly from a speaker. There is only the steady, organic chorus of the night: cicadas rasping in waves from the treeline, the soft whisper of wind through the tall grass, the occasional rustle of leaves disturbed by some unseen thing. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn't demand conversation, only companionship, a kind of stillness neither of them had known in other lives, and they lie there suspended in it, neither moving, neither speaking, but completely present.

Zayne rests with his hands folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded, not quite closed, his breathing deep and even. To an outsider he might appear relaxed, lost in the stars like she is—but beneath his skin, every sound still registers with sniper clarity, every leaf that shifts too sharply, every break in the rhythm of the wind. His mind never fully softens, even here. But her presence at his side makes the edge duller, the silence less like a battlefield and more like a held breath he doesn't mind waiting through.

She’s quiet for a long time, fingers tangled loosely in the fraying edge of the blanket, eyes fixed upward with a look that doesn’t quite belong to the moment—distant, wide, searching. And then she speaks, barely louder than the wind, her voice steady but pulled from somewhere vulnerable.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, light but impossible to ignore, like the scent of something blooming after dark—unexpected and intimate. She doesn’t glance at him after she says it, doesn’t gauge his reaction. Her eyes remain fixed on the stars, as if it’s safer to address them than face whatever might be in his expression. Like saying it aloud was hard enough without inviting confirmation or denial. Her breath catches slightly at the end, not quite a hitch, but a subtle tension in her chest as she waits—maybe not for an answer, but for the weight of having said it to settle somewhere inside her.

Zayne doesn't answer, at least not with words. He doesn’t shift to meet her gaze, doesn’t offer the easy comfort of reciprocation. But after a long pause, he moves his hand from behind his head and reaches across the space between them, finding her hand with a certainty that is quiet but unmistakable. His fingers thread between hers—not tentative, not testing, but firm, as if this gesture alone is his reply. Not a promise. Not a confession. But something with gravity.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or speak again. Her grip tightens slowly, gently, like she’d been waiting for something to anchor her. Her thumb brushes over his knuckles once, a silent thank-you, and though the words still echo softly between them, neither of them breaks the quiet.

And under the endless dark sky, with their hands linked and hearts laid bare in the hush of cicadas and shifting wind, neither of them moves, because whatever this is, it’s real now and neither of them is ready to let go.

–

The storm rolls in heavy, all color stripped from the sky and replaced with bruised clouds that churn and flash with the promise of something violent. Rain comes in sheets, sudden and unforgiving, hammering rooftops and rattling downspouts with a wild rhythm that turns the air electric. Zayne hears it long before the knock—feels the shift in pressure, the air thickening, the scent of ozone and soil rising through the floorboards like a warning. But it’s her silhouette in the window that tenses his shoulders, the shape of her framed in shadow and lightning.

She’s barefoot when he opens the door, toes wet and mud-speckled on the porch, the hem of her thin cotton dress clinging to her knees. Her hair is damp, curls plastered against her cheek and forehead, cheeks flushed and mouth slightly open, chest rising with the rush of running through rain. She doesn’t step inside immediately—just stands there grinning, half breathless, like this is all one big dare she hasn’t decided if she regrets.

“Tea,” she says, voice pitched with amusement, as if the word excuses everything. Her smile is crooked, teasing, but there’s something in her eyes that betrays her—something uncertain, raw, wanting. The kind of look you don’t wear for a drink. The kind of look you give someone you don’t want to leave alone anymore.

He doesn’t ask why she came. Doesn’t tell her she’s wet, doesn’t hand her a towel. He just steps aside, lets her in, and shuts the door behind her with the same quiet finality he reserves for chambering a round.

They don’t bother with the kettle because what she really came for has nothing to do with tea.

The door has barely latched behind them when she turns, still flushed from the run through the storm, rain dripping from her lashes, chest heaving beneath the cling of soaked fabric. Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for him but hasn’t given herself permission—until she does. A hand rises, hesitant, then decisive, touching his chest just above his sternum, and she leans in without ceremony. The kiss is soft at first, trembling with restraint, a question wrapped in heat. She tastes like rain and something sweeter—like surrender held between teeth.

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. The moment her lips part against his, he steps into the space between them, crowding her back until she hits the wall, hands sliding firmly to her waist like she belongs beneath his grip. His mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, answering the question she didn’t dare ask with something elemental and sure. His breath is hot against her temple when he breaks for air, the kind of exhale that shudders through him like restraint cracking at the edges.

She gasps when he lifts her—shocked more by how easily he does it than the movement itself—her legs instinctively winding around his hips, bare thighs tightening at his sides. His hands are under her now, one bracing the small of her back, the other cupping beneath her thigh as he carries her across the room like she weighs nothing, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment she first smiled at him over seed trays and spilled tea. Rain hammers against the windows, thunder shaking the panes, but inside the world has gone narrow and burning.

He sets her on the kitchen counter, the cold marble making her arch with a startled sound that dies against his mouth. His body presses into hers, solid, overwhelming, and her fingers dive into his hair like she needs to anchor herself to something real or drown in it.

And Zayne? Zayne feels like he’s not kissing her—he’s claiming her. With his mouth, his hands, his breath and she lets him.

The counter is slick with condensation from her skin and the rain still clinging to her dress, and he doesn’t rush—he doesn’t need to. Zayne kisses her like it’s been etched into him, mouth dragging slow and deliberate along the curve of her jaw, then down her throat where he lingers, tasting her pulse. His hands work at the thin fabric clinging to her, sliding it up inch by inch, exposing her like an offering, like she’s something to be unwrapped not with urgency, but with reverence. When he pulls the dress over her head, he does it with the precision of someone unwrapping something sacred, not hurried, not rough—just steady, determined, sure.

She’s already trembling, the cold of the air mingling with the heat rising in her, her legs parting instinctively as he lowers her onto the cool countertop. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just slides his hands down the sides of her thighs, fingers drawing invisible lines, mapping every shiver like it’s telling him something. His mouth finds her collarbone, her sternum, the dip of her navel—and then lower, lower, until she’s gasping just from the proximity of his breath.

When he kisses the inside of her thigh, her body jerks, tension melting into something deeper, needier. He doesn’t go straight to where she wants him. He teases—devours the soft skin at the bend of her leg, tongue tracing fire that only delays the inevitable. And when he finally moves between her, when his tongue finds her—slow, firm, consuming—her breath hitches, then breaks.

She lets out a sound that isn’t a moan, not at first, but a whimper, a soft, shocked exhale like she wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to be wanted like this. Her fingers dive into his hair, gripping tight, hips lifting against his mouth as if her body is trying to keep pace with what he’s doing to her. Her voice fractures with each flick of his tongue, each deep stroke, each pause where he watches her with dark, focused eyes before continuing.

Outside, thunder rolls like a heartbeat, but inside—she’s the storm, when she comes, it’s not a scream—it’s a surrender. A low, shuddering cry pulled from her very center, her thighs locked around his head, her hands shaking, his name lost somewhere in the breath she can't quite catch. And Zayne? He keeps going. Until he’s sure she won’t forget that this—his mouth, his hands, his hunger—belongs to no one else but her.

Her breath is still uneven, chest rising in shallow pulls, skin flushed from where his mouth left a trail of devotion across her body. Her fingers twitch where they rest on his shoulders, gripping the cotton of his shirt like she’s afraid to let go, like she’s not ready to lose the weight of him against her. He kisses her again—not her mouth this time, but her ribs, her hip, the inside of her wrist—each one quieter, more reverent, like punctuation in a language only they understand. And then he’s above her, between her, his gaze locked on hers with a kind of focus that borders on unholy.

He slides into her slowly, deliberately, with a groan that catches in his throat and dies against the warm skin of her neck. Her body arches into his, welcoming, trembling, wrapping around him as if she’s known this weight her whole life but never had the name for it until now. His thrusts aren’t fast, aren’t greedy—they’re measured, deep, a rhythm built on the unspoken. Each one presses the breath from her lungs, not from force, but from how close he feels—how real.

He doesn’t whisper dirty promises. Doesn’t say her name over and over like a chant.

He’s quiet—achingly so—but everything he doesn’t say is in the way he holds her, the way he presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes like this is the only place in the world he can be still. He isn’t trying to leave a mark. He isn’t trying to conquer.

He’s just… there. Fully. Undeniably.

Inside her in a way that feels less like sex and more like something old, something foundational. As if, in this moment, with her wrapped around him and her hands buried in his hair, he's saying without speaking: You’re mine. Even if you never know it. Even if you never say it back.

You already are.

She moans softly into his neck, the sound muffled by skin and storm, her fingers sliding from his shoulders to his back, nails dragging just enough to feel him shudder. Her legs tighten around his waist, holding him to her like she’s afraid he might slip through her fingers, like if she lets go the moment might dissolve. But Zayne doesn’t move fast—doesn’t chase it. He stays inside her, steady, his hips rolling with the kind of control that makes her fall apart all over again with every deliberate thrust.

Each movement sinks deep, unhurried, like he’s carving her into memory. There’s no rush in his touch—just reverence, heat, weight. His hand finds hers above her head, fingers threading through tightly, anchoring them both. She opens her eyes and sees him watching her—really watching—and something in her chest cracks open, wide and silent, like this isn’t just a man holding her. It’s him staying. Rooted.

Their bodies move together like they've done this a thousand times in some other life. He shifts just slightly, hips angling different, and her gasp punches out like it surprises her. Her back arches, and he swallows her next sound with a kiss, slow and deep, like the rhythm of his body inside hers. His other hand is on her waist, thumb brushing her skin, grounding her in a moment that feels impossible—too full, too real.

She whispers something—maybe his name, maybe nothing at all—into the shell of his ear, and it makes him tremble. Not from lust, not from control slipping, but because she wants him like this. Sees him. Without question. Without fear.

He groans again, lower this time, buried against her throat, body tightening with the weight of what he’s feeling but can’t let out. His release comes quietly, teeth clenched, muscles locked, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want the moment to leave him. He stays inside her afterward, still hard, still trembling faintly, his face tucked into the crook of her neck, their breath tangling in slow, uneven waves.

Neither of them speaks.

She just runs her fingers through his hair, soft and absent, the same way she touches seedlings before she sets them into fresh earth. And Zayne breathes with her—in sync, shared, like he’s been chasing silence all his life and finally found a version of it he doesn’t want to escape from.

—

She thinks it’s a whim—an idea born over too many late dinners and the restless quiet that settles over them after midnight. Just a weekend trip, she says with a half-smile, somewhere green where they can drink tea outside and pretend the world doesn’t exist. She talks about wildflowers and maybe picking up a packet of heirloom seeds if they find a roadside market. Zayne nods, offers to drive, listens to her dream out loud like it wasn’t already carved into the next steps he’d laid weeks ago.

Long before she brought it up, he’d already selected the house—a two-bedroom cottage tucked into a grove off a dirt road no one travels without intention. He booked it under a shell name four identities deep, a registration that doesn’t trace to anything real. The payment was routed through a layered system of burned cards and buried crypto accounts, untraceable, disposable. While she packs clothes and gathers jars of herbs, he sits at his terminal wiping her forwarding address from three databases, planting a redirect in its place: an empty apartment in another city, already rigged to show false movement on security footage.

He doesn’t tell her what he’s doing. He doesn’t need to. Her hands are busy folding sweaters into a canvas duffel, her mind already halfway to the scent of loamy earth and morning dew. She trusts him—implicitly, without hesitation—and that’s something Zayne doesn’t take lightly. He watches her from the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, memorizing the soft hum in her throat as she packs, the way she tucks one sock into another like ritual.

When they leave just after dawn, her eyes are bright with the thrill of escape, her window rolled down to let the wind mess her hair. She doesn't ask why he takes the longer route. She just rests her hand on his knee and starts pointing out birds on fence posts, talking about names for a garden they haven’t even walked through yet. Zayne keeps his hand on the wheel, his other curled loosely around hers, and behind his calm silence, he’s already watching the road in layers—routes in, routes out, no cameras, no tails because this isn’t a break.

It’s the extraction and he’ll make sure she never has to return to what they just left behind.

The road stretches out like silk ribbon unwinding beneath the tires, long and quiet, lined with pine and low-slung fog. The sun hasn’t broken fully yet—just a pink bruise on the edge of the sky—and the cabin is filled with the steady hum of the engine, the occasional shuffle of her shifting in her seat. She sleeps curled toward the window, cheek pressed to her shoulder, breath soft and even. He keeps one hand steady on the wheel, but the other drifts—light brushes against her thigh, small, absent touches that ground him more than he’ll ever admit.

She murmurs in her sleep once, the sound slurred, soft. His name. Not his alias. His name. The real one she doesn’t know she knows. His fingers pause where they rest, a breath catching somewhere beneath his ribs. He doesn’t react outwardly, but in his mind the syllables echo—Zayne—and he files it away, precise and quiet, like tucking a blade into a belt. Not for violence. But for proof. That even in dreams, she’s reaching for him.

The moment they pass the crooked county line sign, he hits the first trigger. GPS signal reroutes through a spoofed beacon on a highway two states south. He doesn’t slow down. Just tilts his phone screen once, confirms the signal bounce, then opens the secondary server tethered to the signal relay. Purge begins. Encrypted logs are scrubbed. IP pings rerouted. Facial recognition masks uploaded to rerun loops of her entering false locations—libraries, coffee shops, train stations—all automated ghosts that will confuse any tracker with less than government-grade clearance.

Then he plants the breadcrumbs. Three separate data points: a credit card ping in Chicago, a burner number attached to a cabin rental in Oregon, and a fake pharmacy script logged under her new name in Nevada. Each one clean, shallow, intentional. Not enough to catch, just enough to chase.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift his expression. Just drives, knuckles pale, eyes calm, the woman beside him sleeping like there’s nothing left in the world trying to find her. And if Zayne has done his job right, there isn’t.

The town unfolds slowly, like a secret kept between hills and tree lines, tucked too deep into the folds of the land to show up on anything but paper maps or memory. Cell reception is thin. Gas stations have mechanical pumps. The post office shares a roof with the general store, and everyone waves at everyone whether they know them or not. The signs are hand-painted and chipped, boasting names like “Pine & Petal” and “Cassie’s Feed & Fix,” and the only currency more stable than cash is reputation—earned through presence, not paperwork.

The nursery is just past the edge of town, where the gravel road curves between two weeping willows. The sign out front sways gently in the breeze, its paint faded and soft, the script curling around a hand-painted sunflower. On her first day, Zayne walks her there, not because she needs help finding it—but because he needs to see it. Needs to know what kind of people she’ll be surrounded by, what kind of ground she’ll be standing on when he isn’t right beside her.

She meets the owner—a stout, sun-tanned woman with a voice like velvet and dirt under every fingernail—and within five minutes, they’re laughing like old friends. Zayne watches from the corner of the greenhouse as she unpacks starter trays with practiced ease, her fingers quick and sure. He listens as she tells a half-true story about growing up surrounded by bad decisions, about how the only thing that made sense back then was soil. “People ruin things,” she says, smiling softly, “but plants just… try to live. Even in the wrong place.”

The owner nods. Offers her the job before she finishes the sentence.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. Just slips away before she can look for him, leaving her with a clipboard, a watering schedule, and the first real piece of peace she’s been allowed in years. He walks back home the long way—through the woods, eyes scanning shadows—not looking for threats. Just making sure there aren’t any.

The path home winds along a dirt road lined with blackberry brambles and old fencing, the boards warped by sun and time. She walks beside him with her hands in the pockets of her dress, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely are, the tension that usually knots between her shoulder blades finally smoothed out. The late afternoon light catches on her cheeks, and there’s a smudge of soil across her jaw that she hasn’t noticed. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, her voice is lighter, like it no longer has to push through static just to be heard.

She smiles, the kind that isn't polished or guarded, just open, and tilts her head toward him as they near the cottage. “I forgot what it feels like,” she says, half-laughing, half in awe. “To breathe with both lungs. Like I’m not waiting for the next hit.” She doesn’t cry. But her eyes shine like she might, if she wasn’t so busy memorizing how safety feels on her tongue.

Zayne doesn’t respond. Not with words. He watches her, nods once, and reaches ahead to open the front door before she can. It’s not ceremony—it’s ritual now, the smallest act of shelter. Inside, he takes off his boots, washes his hands, and begins pulling ingredients from the pantry. Onions. Rice. Stock. His movements are fluid, practiced. He doesn’t say it, but everything in how he dices, simmers, stirs says: you’re home now.

She hums as she waters the rosemary in the windowsill. Not to fill the space. Just because she can.

He builds it behind their cottage, just beyond the blackberry hedge where the grass grows thick and the ground is soft from years of being left alone. The greenhouse rises slowly, beam by beam, frame by frame, salvaged lumber hauled from an old barn a few miles out—wood worn smooth with age but still strong. He doesn’t use power tools, doesn’t rush the process. Each cut is deliberate, measured with a craftsman’s eye and the kind of care he never shows when he's breaking bones or snapping triggers. His knuckles split more than once from splinters and hammer strikes, blood drying in thin lines across his skin.

He never wears gloves. He wants the ache.

Wants the realness of it.

She comes outside in the mid-mornings when the light is gold and clean, balancing a mason jar of cold water with lemon slices and a little mint plucked from the porch planter. She leans against the half-finished frame, watching him work with amusement softening every edge of her voice.

“You’re going to burn like a fool,” she says, smirking as she catches sight of his reddening shoulders and the sweat beading along his neck.

He glances up at her, shrugs once without breaking rhythm, and keeps hammering, jaw set in that quiet way of his that means I’d rather blister than be soft. She rolls her eyes and sets the jar down beside his tool kit anyway.

He’s halfway through anchoring one of the side panels when the hammer slips, catching his thumb with a vicious crack. The hiss he lets out is low and bitten off, more pain than he usually allows to show, and he presses his mouth tight to the back of his hand as if to seal it in. She startles at first, then covers her mouth with her soil-streaked fingers and laughs—full, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that leaves her slightly doubled over. “That,” she says between giggles, “was dramatic.” Her grin is so wide it lights her whole face.

He turns to her, breath still tight, but that laugh hits something inside him hard—softer than bone but just as permanent. He doesn’t speak. Just steps forward and kisses her without warning, without plan. His hands are rough and still stained with sawdust, his mouth insistent, hungry in the quiet way only he can be. It isn’t a thank you. It’s a vow. Built beam by beam with everything he doesn’t say.

The frame is finished by dusk, clear panels slotting into place like held breath finally exhaled. The inside smells of sawdust and warm earth, of work and beginnings. The soil in the beds is freshly turned, dark and damp, rich with compost he mixed by hand. There’s no ceremony when she steps inside barefoot, hem of her dress brushing the floorboards, trowel in hand. Just a quiet kind of reverence as she kneels in the corner where the light falls best at sunset, and presses the roots of the first cutting into the earth.

Lavender, of course—soft and stubborn, fragrant even when bruised. She hums to herself as she pats the soil around it, fingers stained with the same dirt she’s been working into her new life. The leaves shiver slightly under her breath, like they know they’ve been placed somewhere safe. When she looks up at him, there’s a smudge of soil on her cheek and peace in her smile.

Zayne steps forward, silent as always, and takes the watering can without a word. The spout tilts, a slow, steady pour soaking into the roots, the water catching light like glass. He uses his right hand—the same one that had held a gun only weeks ago, finger steady, gaze cold, ending the last man who knew what her name used to be. That hand, now dappled with dirt and dew, moves with surprising care.

She watches him with quiet wonder, like she knows but doesn’t speak it and in the hush of the new greenhouse, among seedlings and shadows, he waters the first bloom of the life they’ve stolen back together. Not as a soldier. Not as a killer but as a man learning how to grow something he never meant to keep.

They’re sitting on the porch steps, the evening sun filtering gold through the trees, casting long shadows across the overgrown path leading back to the road. She’s barefoot, toes curled against the wood, sipping from a chipped glass of red wine she keeps swirling like it might reveal something at the bottom. The air is quiet, slow-moving, a hush that’s become routine between them—comfortable, unspoken, full of weight. He’s beside her, one hand resting against her thigh, thumb stroking slow arcs over the fabric of her dress.

She speaks softly, like she’s not sure it’s worth mentioning. “There was a man at the nursery today. Older. Said the violets looked like they’d been raised on patience.” She chuckles once, but it fades quickly. “Then he asked if I’d always worked with my hands. Said it like he already knew the answer.”

Zayne freezes. Completely. His wine glass hovers midair, motionless, the red liquid catching the light like blood on glass. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Every sense in him sharpens, collapses inward to the single name he’d memorized and buried: Rian Sorn. Not Caleb. Rian. Older brother. The last enforcer. Disavowed from his house after their father’s death but known for keeping blood promises long past when they were due.

“Had that strange smile,” she continues, absently. “You know the kind. Not friendly. Not creepy. Just… like he knew me. Like he was waiting to be remembered.”

Zayne slowly lowers the glass, sets it on the step without looking. His pulse doesn’t quicken—it concentrates. Thoughts click into place behind his eyes like a scope narrowing, cold and silent. He nods once, just enough for her to stop talking, and then gently shifts the conversation to something else—soil pH, basil rot, anything—because she can’t know what’s coming. Not yet but in his mind, he’s already reaching for the old tools. The knives he hasn’t touched since the last death. The burner phone no one knows he reactivated because if Rian Sorn is here, he didn’t come for flowers.

He came to finish the contract Zayne already buried and this time, Zayne doesn’t intend to leave a body anyone can find.

Rian Sorn isn’t like the others—he doesn’t work for contracts, doesn’t answer to syndicates, doesn’t need a reason beyond the weight of unfinished blood. He’s the kind of man who kills out of inheritance, not obligation. His name never appears in records; there’s no heat trail, no payment logs, no messages. Only results. Silent disappearances. Houses burned down with no arson trace. Entire bloodlines snuffed out under the guise of accidents. Ritual violence—methodical, clean, personal. And if he’s close enough to make small talk about violets, then he’s already mapped the house, the exits, the blind spots. He already knows where she sleeps.

Zayne moves differently that night. There’s no panic, no rushing—just a complete shift in rhythm, like gears locking into place. He walks the property twice, barefoot, ears tuned to every creak of wind, every bird that doesn’t sing. Inside, he checks the locks—not once, but twice, fingers brushing along bolt edges, making sure the screws haven’t been tampered with. He flips the window latches. Secures the basement access. Even resets the motion detectors, narrowing the radius to just beyond the treeline.

In the quiet of the bedroom, she’s already asleep, curled on her side in the dip she’s worn into the mattress beside his. Her breathing is slow, lips parted slightly, one hand resting across his pillow. He watches her in the dark for a long moment, reading every line of her body like scripture—where she’s most vulnerable, where she trusts without thinking. Where he’d bleed the world dry to keep her untouched.

The knife he hides beneath the bed isn’t the folding kind tonight—it’s longer, sharper, a single-edged Karambit wrapped in oil cloth. He sharpens it slowly at the kitchen table while the kettle whistles and the lights stay off. Then he places it within reach, exact angle, practiced muscle memory. When he finally lays down, it’s not to rest. It’s to wait.

He doesn’t sleep not until the sky begins to pale. Not until he’s sure Rian hasn’t come to claim what Zayne has already marked as his.

Zayne picks up the trail in silence, without fanfare, relying not on devices or drones but on the patterns that live in muscle memory. He doesn’t need GPS when he knows how a predator moves—doesn’t need a name when he has behavior. Caleb—or Rian, he knows now—has been cautious, skilled, leaving no digital trace, but he’s not invisible. Zayne catches the first break when he spots the faint shimmer of heat in a parking lot near the edge of town—an exhaust signature too fresh for how still the car looks, parked at a blind curve near the woods. The thermal haze rises in waves from the tailpipe, subtle, nearly lost in the afternoon glare. It’s a trick he learned in Prague, when heat was the only language you could trust and every breath might get you killed.

That night, Zayne uses one of the few remaining contacts he hasn’t burned—an old fixer who owes him for a job that saved her life and took someone else's. The message is simple, clean: a digital tip-off that the girl is using an alias and just got spotted in New Mexico. Zayne even attaches a blurred photo—low resolution, plausible enough, timestamped for twenty minutes in the future and pinged through a burner signal off a modified dashcam.

The bait is too perfect to ignore, and the timing is surgical. Rian, meticulous and hungry for closure, takes it. By the time he moves—quick but not rushed, confident enough to fall for the misdirection—Zayne is already one step ahead. The false sighting routes him toward the old nursery’s delivery zone, an overgrown backlot once used for storing soil, pallets, broken tools. It's a dead space now, no witnesses, no cameras, a fence with a single weak link that only someone tracking a trail would push through.

Zayne waits in the shadow of the half-collapsed greenhouse, crouched behind a rusted steel rack, heartbeat steady, knife ready, eyes fixed on the path. The wind stirs loose paper and pollen. The dirt here smells like memory and rot. And when Rian steps into the clearing—silent, curious, reaching for the last breadcrumb—Zayne moves because this is where it ends. Not in bloodlines.

Not in threats, but in a grave no one will dig but him.

The clearing is silent but tense, every insect gone still, the branches holding their breath. Zayne doesn’t give a warning—there’s no sharp callout, no monologue. Just movement, explosive and lethal, as he lunges from the greenhouse’s ruined frame like a blade in motion. His boots skid across packed dirt as he closes the distance in three quick strides. Rian barely registers the shape bearing down on him before instinct kicks in, knife flashing out from beneath his jacket, but it’s too late—Zayne is already on him.

Their bodies collide with a bone-jarring crack, momentum carrying them both sideways into the delivery shed’s rusted wall. Zayne drives a knee into Rian’s ribs, catching the wind out of him, then follows with an elbow to the temple that makes the other man grunt and stagger. Rian recovers fast, trained—he swings low with the knife, a practiced arc aimed for Zayne’s thigh. Zayne twists, the blade grazing cloth, not skin, and responds with a brutal hook that snaps Rian’s head back. There’s no choreography here—this is dirty, close, every blow meant to maim or drop.

Rian spits blood, face curling into a grin that’s half malice, half respect. “Knew it’d be you,” he growls through grit teeth. Zayne says nothing. Just slams his forearm into Rian’s throat, knocking him into a stack of plastic pots that scatter with a crash.

They wrestle into the mulch beds, slipping in compost, the smell of fertilizer sharp in the air. Rian lands one solid punch to Zayne’s jaw—makes his vision blur white at the edges—but Zayne absorbs it, turns the pain inward, and redirects the force with a twist of his hips. His knife comes up, low and brutal, slicing across Rian’s abdomen in a single, controlled stroke—hip to sternum. The sound isn’t dramatic. Just wet. Final.

Rian staggers backward, clutching his guts like they’ll stay in place by sheer will. His legs buckle. He drops to his knees in the dirt, fingers twitching in the mulch, trying to rise again even as blood pools beneath him. He gasps—chokes once—then folds forward, face pressing into soil.

Zayne watches, chest rising slow, calm. His hand doesn’t shake. His breath doesn’t falter. He looks down on the dying man like a gardener pulling weeds by the root. No rage. No gloating.

Just precision.

Just necessary removal and when Rian’s final breath rattles out through blood and spit, Zayne kneels. He grips the body by the collar and begins dragging it into the dark edge of the clearing—toward the shallow pit already carved beneath the compost tarp, because this isn’t vengeance.

It’s maintenance

The wind shifts just enough to carry the sound of something wrong—metal scraping, a grunt swallowed by mulch, the final wet thud of a body hitting ground. She sets down the seed trays she was sorting, suddenly breathless, the hairs on her arms lifting like static. No one called her name. Nothing in the air says danger aloud. But she moves anyway, slow but certain, down the overgrown side path that leads to the back of the old nursery where she was told not to go.

Her boots crunch over shattered pots and torn landscape fabric, the scent of blood sharp and out of place in the sun-warmed dirt. When she rounds the corner of the collapsed greenhouse frame, her breath catches—but she doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t collapse. Doesn’t run. Zayne is there, crouched low beside the body like a storm paused mid-movement. His shirt is torn across one shoulder, blood slick down his arms to the elbows, one hand still clutched around the hilt of a blade so red it glistens.

He looks up, and in that moment, he doesn’t look like the man who fixes her sink or makes her tea or knows how she likes her toast just barely burnt. He looks like something older, carved from ash and oath, shaped by violence in the quiet way war is—not fire, but pressure. His eyes are not pleading, not defensive. Just watching. Waiting.

Her gaze shifts from the body to his face, then to the blood on his hands. She doesn’t ask who the man was. Doesn’t ask what he did. She knows. She’s always known and instead of breaking under the truth, she simply breathes it in.

“You did that for me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, but carved from something unshakable. It isn’t a question. It’s a truth, spoken like a thread pulled taut and tied.

He says nothing. He couldn’t explain it if he tried. He just looks at her with the weight of everything he’s done—for her, to keep her, to build a life neither of them believed they’d survive long enough to live. There’s something unspoken in his expression, burning low and furious, like he’d do it all again and not blink and then she does the only thing that matters.

She steps into the bloodstained quiet, past the corpse, past the fear, past the violence, places her hand on his face, and holds him. Not like a man who’s broken.

But like one worth saving.

The porch is quiet beneath them, the night air soft and threaded with the scent of soil and cut grass. The moon hangs heavy and full above the treeline, its light glinting off the rim of her mug as she cradles it in both hands. The tea has long gone cold, but she hasn’t let it go, just rests it on her knees like a keepsake she’s not ready to part with. Her eyes are half-lidded, the exhaustion of the day tucked just behind her quiet, steady breathing. She hasn't spoken in a while, and he hasn't filled the silence—he never does. Some part of him knows silence is a kind of safety, too.

Zayne sits beside her, legs braced apart, elbows resting on his knees. His hands are scrubbed raw, fingertips still faintly pink from the cleaning they took after Rian. The scars across his knuckles are old but tight tonight, skin stretched and healing slow. There’s a kind of stillness to him that’s different from calm. Like he’s holding his breath somewhere under his ribs, waiting for something to finish settling in the air around them.

Without ceremony, without pause, he pulls something from his pocket. Not the usual folded paper, not a new ID packet. Just a small, square box—worn at the corners like it’s been in his coat too long. He holds it in his palm for a second before handing it over, gaze fixed not on her but the shadows moving just beyond the porchlight.

“This isn’t backup,” he says, voice low. “It’s not about running. It’s not a new name or a file to burn.” He glances at her now, just once, eyes fierce with something he rarely lets show. “It’s a future. If you want it.”

She looks down at the box in her hands, not moving, not breathing, then opens it with fingers slow and careful. Inside: a ring. Simple. Silver. Worn like his hands, forged for use, not flash. But beautiful, in the way something becomes beautiful when it’s meant.

Her throat tightens. Not from surprise. From understanding. From the weight of everything he’s never said until now. “You had this?” she whispers, voice cracking like the night itself.

He nods once. “A while.” Then, softer: “I didn’t want to offer it until I knew I could protect what it meant.”

She says nothing at first. Just reaches out and places the box down beside her, then shifts and leans fully into him, head against his shoulder, hand slipping down to find his. She squeezes. Hard. Like grounding herself to the moment so it doesn’t vanish.

“You really think we get that?” she murmurs. “A future?”

He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again—sharp, green, unblinking.

“Since you,” he says. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t have to, just laces their fingers together and stays pressed to his side until the moon slips west and the mug in her lap is cold and forgotten.

And Zayne, for once, lets himself hope.

The ceremony is unceremonious in the way only the truest things are. No audience. No rehearsed lines. Just a morning that begins like any other—with coffee that she forgets on the windowsill, and him quietly ironing his one good shirt at the kitchen table, jaw tight with concentration as he avoids the patch that never quite sits flat. Her dress is simple, linen the color of rain-bleached stone, and her hands still carry the soft scent of mint and clay from the greenhouse—because even on the day she marries him, she couldn't resist tending her seedlings.

They walk out together just past noon, barefoot in the grass still wet from the morning’s dew. The old oak at the edge of the property stands like a sentinel, its branches heavy with age, framing the clearing where bees hum low around wildflowers in accidental rows. There’s no music, just birdsong and wind and the sound of her breath hitching when he takes her hand. He’s not holding a script. There is no officiant. Just them, and the silence of something sacred blooming without spectacle.

They stand beneath the tree and say nothing for a long while. No promises out loud. No recited declarations. Just the look they share—a gaze full of every night they spent surviving, every morning they chose to stay. When it’s time, Zayne doesn’t say “I do” like he’s reciting a ritual. He says it low, quiet, voice grounded like the soil beneath them.

Like he’s not just agreeing to love her but swearing to root himself beside her. To grow something together that no one—not ghosts, not debt, not blood—can dig up again. She doesn’t cry. Just steps forward, slips a small sprig of rosemary into the loop of his belt where a blade once rested.

“For remembrance,” she murmurs, fingertips brushing his waist.

He catches her hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses her palm like it’s the center of the world, like it’s already his and in that patch of wild grass and wind, they are married—not by law, not by witness, but by the earth itself.

The cottage is warm with a kind of hush that feels earned, stone walls holding the heat of the fire flickering low in the hearth. The logs crack softly, throwing ribbons of orange across the wooden floor, across the bed they made themselves earlier that day—simple sheets, thick wool blanket, lavender tied with twine above the headboard, perfuming the room like memory. Rain whispers against the windows in gentle pulses, steady, private. The storm isn’t wild. It’s intimate. Like it came only to witness this.

She steps away from him without a word, untying the sash at her waist with slow, sure fingers. The linen dress slips from her shoulders, puddling around her ankles as she stands in the firelight—bare, unhurried, her skin kissed gold by the flicker of flame. She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t shy away from the way he’s looking at her. She just watches him watching her, the shadows moving across her collarbones, the slight swell of her breath. And when she climbs into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, she does it like ritual, like every inch of her already knows where to go.

His breath catches the moment she sinks down onto him, a soft, broken sound exhaled against her throat. Her hands brace against his shoulders, steadying herself as she takes all of him in one slow, aching stroke. He groans, low and guttural, pressing his forehead to her chest as his hands slide up the smooth length of her back, then down again to grip her hips with the kind of strength that says I will never let you go. Not in this life. Not in any.

She begins to move—slow rolls of her hips, deep and deliberate—and he doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t take control. He just watches. Watches the way her mouth parts, the way her lashes flutter, the way she bites back soft, strangled sounds when he shifts just right inside her. Each thrust is measured, more pressure than pace, his hands guiding, grounding her. She whimpers his name, voice thin with pleasure, full of trust.

And then he says hers.

The first time.

Rough and reverent, like something pulled from the bottom of his chest—something he never dared give voice to until now. Like it’s not just her name. It’s his home. tags: @blessdunrest @starmocha

#zayne x reader #zayne x freader #zayne ficrec

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devotedfem · 2 months ago

Text

«Alice in wonderland»

Synopsis: You were so bored you could die, but then a white rabbit caught your attention, you chased it until you fell into a rabbit hole. The rabbit turned into a cute man with doe eyes, saying odd things like; you came back, late to Jimin's tea party, the mad hatter that was waiting for you.

Jikook x f. Reader

5.5K words.

Genre: Alice in wonderland au | yander-ish.

Tags: Inspired by Alice in wonderland, captivity, naive reader, polyamory relationship, obsessive behavior, dark Jimin and Jungkook, they are whipped for reader, bunny hybrid Jungkook, mad hatter Jimin, delusional Jikook, fantasy, re-telling, plot twist, smut, dubious consent.

From the series masterlist; Hush.

Navigation Masterlist.

Permanent taglist.

You were sitting under a tree in the backyard of your aunt's country house, trying so, so hard to pay attention to her words, but failing when a butterfly flies near your aunt with its beautiful blue wings taking your attention away.

“Y/n, would you please pay attention to your lesson?” She sighed deeply, arching a brow and stopping reading aloud the history book.

You smiled at her sheepishly, feeling guilty for being caught not paying attention. It’s just that the book was painfully boring and long, you felt like aging while listening to tedious old stories.

“Sorry auntie, but how can you expect me to pay attention to a book with no pictures in it. The stories are so boring, at least there should be a picture!” You exclaimed feeling frustrated. It’s not like you didn’t want to pay attention to your lesson, it is just that it was hard for you to listen to something so boring.

Your aunt sighed again, shaking her head at your words as if she was dealing with a petulant child.

“Y/n, you’re a grown woman now, you can’t live in a fantasy world forever reading fairy tales. You have the privilege of having an education as a woman, don’t waste it.”

And her words cut deep enough to shut your mouth. She was right, you were now of age, in the perfect stage for marry. But your aunt was kind enough to help you to get an education first. She was ahead of her time and you admire her for that, so the last thing you want it’s to disappoint her.

“Sorry,” you muttered softly, hugging your knees towards your chest.

Guilt flashed your aunts’ eyes, but she kept reading to you the history book without another word.

You stayed quiet listening to her voice telling you stories about dumb and greedy wars, and gradually your eyes closed falling into a deep nap, resting against the tree drunk, unbothered to the world around you. You dreamed about a world that it was just yours, where everything works in the opposite way to the real one, ruled by nonsense and silly laws.

What it is, wouldn’t be there, and what it isn’t, would be there.

And then a thud noise snapped you abruptly out of your sleep. Your frowned and blinked confused at being awaken from a deep slumber, noticing that you were alone in the backyard, still resting against the tree.

And suddenly, a beautiful and fluffy white rabbit wearing a mini waistcoat, stands before you, holding a clock and looking straight at you. You couldn’t believe your eyes; you were completely shocked. Maybe… you were still dreaming…?

“I’m late! late! Late!” It speaks in distress, pointing and shaking its watch. He sounded like a male rabbit.

You gasped and widened your eyes taken aback. Animals don’t speak, that was absolutely impossible, but you have just witnessed the impossible in that moment. And when you pinched your arm to make sure you weren’t dreaming, the white rabbit fled away without giving you the opportunity to ask him questions.

You immediately ran after the rabbit, following him through the woods that were near your aunt’s house. The animal was annoyingly quick, but that didn’t stop you from trying to chase after him.

And then you watched how the fluffy animal entered a rabbit-hole, disappearing from your sight. You got curious, kneeling near the border of the hole, holding yourself by settling your hands on the edges to stare down into the deep void.

And then you slipped, falling right into it. You go down quickly, screaming when the opening of the rabbit-hole above you turned into a blue dot until it disappeared completely and became a pitch-black sky.

But then, suddenly, you were going down in a very unnatural slow way. You frowned, floating in the air and feeling light as a feather as you fell. In the dark tunnel appeared objects out of nowhere, things like books and jars filled the mud walls. You grabbed one book thrilled by curiosity, forgetting immediately your fear from seconds ago, widening your eyes impressed by al the impossible things happening around you. You gasped when a piano came from below, leaving aside the book to play the instrument, but you couldn't do much besides play a key because you kept falling down.

You dropped from the slow spell, falling abruptly onto an arm-chair full of leaves cushioning your fall. You shook the leaves out of your dress, watching your surroundings with uncertainty.

“Where on earth I am?” you muttered to yourself, staring at the odd hallway ahead of you.

For a moment you thought you died when you fell into the rabbit-hole, thinking that maybe this was a kind of limbo between life and death. But some fluffy animal pulled you out of your racing thoughts.

“Wait!” You screamed at the rabbit, but he ignored you, running away faster.

You ran after the rabbit, coming into a round hall with many doors. The animal was nowhere to be seen, you supposed that it might entered one of the many doors, so you tried to open them, but they were all locked.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” You asked in a loud tone, but the only thing that greet you was the echo of your own voice. Your chest sting with fear, you felt trapped.

But then you saw a table with a small key sitting on top of it. You picked it up with a grin, happy to be out of that strange hall. You tried the key on a few doors, but it didn’t open them, too small for their locks, but then you tried it on a mouse-size door, and it fit, opening the little door that shows a huge garden at the other side.

But how would you go through it if you’re too big to fit in? You wanted to cry from frustration, walking towards the table to throw the key on it. But now there was a bottle that says “DRINK ME” that appeared out of nowhere, you frowned watching your surroundings for anyone who put it there, but you were alone. You shrugged, drinking the liquid until the last drop, gasping with fear when you started to shrink to the size of a mouse, the table stood huge and large above you, and your dress was now too big for you to use, you tore a piece off to use it as a new dress.

Thankfully, the key dropped from the table when you knocked it while shrinking, falling to your side on the floor. You picked it up and used it to open the small door, stepping through it and being greet by a fantastical and whimsical world, everything looked so bizarre but so oddly beautiful, it was otherworldly, it was magical just as you imagined a fantasy world would look like.

The garden has tall flowers that loomed over you, speaking and talking between themselves, wearing human faces. They were gossiping about you as if you weren’t there listening to them.

“She’s so different,” said one red flower, looking down at you with contempt.

“She has grown up so well! Jimin and Jungkook will be happy to see her!” Said another one.

You frowned confused, what were they talking about?

“Excuse me, where am I? I’m looking for-“

“I don’t think she’s the real y/n, this girl must be another person,” said the red one, making you widen your eyes.

You asked them questions, but they ignored you.

Thankfully, in front of you appeared a pair of twins, they looked a little bit uncanny but human enough for you to trust them.

“Hi! I’m y/n, I’m looking for a white rabbit, have you seen it?” You asked them, and they looked to each other with a devilish grin, making your stomach churn.

“Is it really her?”

“Nope, ‘don’t think so, the real y/n wasn’t this dumb.”

“Hey,” you said crossing your arms, feeling uncomfortable by everyone here speaking about you in such way.

“Are you following a rabbit?” Asked the twin from the right, you nodded at him.

“Why?” Asked the other.

“Just because,” you replied, starting to walk away, but they followed you.

“You’re going backwards! That’s not the direction, here, forward is backward, and backward is forward, hello is goodbye, and goodbye is hello,” explained one of the twins, spinning your mind with confusion.

“Uhm, I’ll keep that in mind, thank you. I must be going. Goodbye, I mean, hello?” You said hesitating, but the twin nodded, waving a hand at you and staying behind with his brother.

“The rabbit’s name is Jungkook! He’s tall and has huge eyes!” One of the twins yelled at you from behind before you lost sight of them.

You walked for a long time, until your legs got tired. You were so confused of which direction you should take. In this world the right path took you to the left, and the left to the right. It was all so confusing.

And then you watch it, the rabbit from before now looked like a human man. And how did you know it was him? Because he was dressed just like the rabbit, and the tall man has cute doe and large eyes, walking in circles and watching his clock with worry. You ran towards him.

“Hi! I mean, goodbye! I was looking for you, you were the rabbit from the meadow of the upper world!” You greeted him with a smile, but he only frowned at you.

He was so handsome that it took your breath away for a second, but his knitted brows made you feel unease, maybe it was a mistake following a stranger down here.

“Goodbye? Who are you and what are you talking about?”

You grimaced with a blush, the twins were just teasing you, who in their right mind says goodbye when greeting someone? You felt dumb.

“I’m y/n, I followed you here from the upper world, when you were a… rabbit,” you muttered softly.

His doe eyes widened, and something intense and dark flashed on them, but it disappeared as fast as it came.

“Oh, I never thought you would come back. We’ve been, I mean, Jimin has been waiting for you. Come with me.” He didn’t even ask you before gripping your wrist to pull you away with him, almost dragging you. If you didn’t know better you would say that he holds you as if he was scare that you would run away, but why would you do that?

Also, he must be confusing you with another y/n just like the twins and the flowers did, because you never came to this place before.

Jungkook brought you to the backyard of an old and weird house, there it was a large table with a worn-out looking tea set on top of it, the tea party looks gloomy, the tablecloth seemed threadbare and the wooden chairs were almost rotten. A pretty man with a big red hat was sag in a chair at the head of the table, staring into space with a lost gaze.

Jungkook’s grip on your wrist tighten a little, making you frown.

“Jimin, she’s here, our, I mean, your y/n,” Jungkook announced between teeth, with his heavy and serious gaze fixated on Jimin.

The odd man named Jimin bolts upright immediately, standing up from the chair and walking towards you with large steps. You shrink a little into Jungkook, feeling intimidated by the intense and crazed eyes of the man approaching you. He stood inches in front of you, invading your personal space and staring intently at you with a bright smile, so different from his gloomy mood from seconds ago.

“Is… is it really you, y/n? Did you really come back to us?” He gushed with a shaky voice, looking stunned by your mere presence, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Yes, I’m y/n, although I don’t remember coming here before,” you muttered, averting Jimin intense eyes.

He gripped your chin to make you look up at him. Adoration flashed his dark eyes.

“It’s okay my moon, we can make you remember,” he said with a devilish grin. He grabbed your other hand to pull you away from Jungkook, but the latter didn’t let you go, looking at Jimin with a stern and warning gaze instead.

“Calm down Jimin, don’t scare her away. She just arrived here,”

Jimin clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on your had, but that creepy expression goes away immediately, being replaced by a bright and teasing smile.

“Oh come on Jungkookie, don’t be a party pooper. I just want to catch her up on all the things she missed when she was away. Do you want to join my tea party?” He asked you softly, looking a little vulnerable this time, as if he was afraid of your rejection. You felt sorry for him, so you nodded and let him drag you away from Jungkook.

Jimin sat again at the head of the table, and you were about to sit on a chair next to him but he didn’t let you, gripping your wrist to pull you towards him and sit you on his lap instead. You shriek taken aback by his blatant and shameless gesture, who does he think he is to sit you on his lap? He’s just a stranger you just met!

“Hey!” You yelp, trying to stand up but Jimin’s tight grip on your waist didn’t let you.

“Jimin!” Jungkook’s strident yell made you flinch, even though his anger wasn’t directed at you. “What the fuck are you doing?” He asked this time more calmly, taking notice of your frightened state. But Jimin pay him no mind, looking at your dress with curiosity instead.

“She used to sit on my lap all the time, we’re just catching up, I have no ill intention,” he replied nonchalant, playing with the fabric of your improvised dress.

You frowned and parted your lips offended, you don’t remember doing such thing with him, and even if that was true, he should’ve asked you first.

“Excuse me? I don’t remember doing such improper thing with anyone, you’re so rude and shameless-“ you were interrupted by his giggle.

“I don’t remember you being this decorous, aren’t you so cute and silly?” he beamed at you, and you were distracted by his sweet and bright smile for a second, it made his eyes turn into crescent moons. But you shook those thoughts away.

“And I don’t remember you at all, so could you please let go of me?” You said between teeth.

Jimin’s smile fell, and irritation flashed his gaze.

“Wouldn’t you like to remember though? To know the wonders of this world? If so, then stay still,” he whispered the last words into your ear like a warn. You gulped with fear, glancing at Jungkook with dread sinking in your stomach, but the latter said nothing, crossing his arms and looking at Jimin with murderous eyes.

“If you don’t leave her alone right now Jimin, I swear to god I’ll have you choking on your cold tea,” he threatened with dark eyes fixated on him. You flinched again; you didn’t like the tension growing between them.

But Jimin looked collected, not affected at all by the threat.

“Oh really? Are you willing to lose her again? To bring back our grief and mourning?” Those words were enough to disarm Jungkook, whose eyes flashed with deep hurt, he inhaled sharp as if Jimin’s words were a weapon aimed at his hurt.

You watched with shock how Jungkook sat right next to you two, saying nothing and averting your eyes, drinking the tea he was going to use to drown Jimin a moment ago. You wanted to laugh bitterly to his face, did he really give up by just words?

Your mind was racing with thousands of questions. What did Jimin mean by all that? Why do they think that they already know you when that was not true? You’ve never been here, and never met them before. And what does Jimin mean by grief and mourning? If it was true that you knew them and you were having amnesia, then it doesn’t make sense to use the word mourn, because you never died.

Nothing makes sense, and you felt like having a headache.

“Hey hey, none of that my moon. It’s time for the tea party not to overthink,” he said softly, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb, “also, where did you get this dress? It’s so unique, I like it.” Your cheeks heated by his compliment, feeling self-conscious of your clothes.

“I made it myself with what was left of my dress,” you muttered without giving further explanations, drained by all that was happening.

Jimin hummed, playing with the fabric again, he almost looked mesmerized by your dress.

“It’s just like you, rare but pretty.”

You cleared your throat, uncomfortable by his words. You squirm a little on his lap, stopping at Jimin’s sharp intake of breath.

“Careful there, my moon,” he whispered near your neck, with his hot breath brushing your skin and making you shiver. His hands gripped tightly your waist to stop you from moving, you didn’t understand at all what you did wrong, but Jimin sounded affected so you stayed still.

You look up and notice Jealousy flashing Jungkook’s eyes, his shoulders looked tense and the grip on his tea cup seemed tight. Why does he look so angry all the time? Jimin also notices, giggling at the latter.

“Don’t be like that bunny boy, she’s also yours.”

You widened your eyes, gasping at his audacity.

“I am my own person!”

“Of course my moon, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jimin said gently, looking at you with puppy eyes, calming you down a bit.

You crossed your arms, looking straight ahead, ignoring them like a petulant child.

Jimin started to telling you about all the things you missed out from wonderland, like how he planned to take down the reign of the evil queen of hearts just because she hurt you once, and how he learned to customize new hats. All while Jungkook refill your cup of tea, giving you sweet treats from the table. The tea didn’t taste bad, the sunlight was warm, and Jimin’s voice was surprisingly soft enough to make you feel comfortable on his lap. Jungkook’s pretty eyes never stayed away from you, studying your expressions as if he wanted to make sure you feel comfortable all the time.

It was nice, it made you forget for a moment that you needed to head back home.

“Uhm, Jimin I need to come back home, but I promise to visit you again, I want to hear more about this world,” you said gently, and you weren’t lying, you wanted to come back but you knew deep down that you shouldn’t, because this man even though is charismatic, is also mad.

A mad hatter.

Jimin’s grip on your waist tightened until it bruised, making you wheeze in pain. Jungkook’s eyes widened with genuine fear at your words.

“No.” Jungkook’s trembling voice took you by surprise, you frowned at him, and he looked embarrassed, clearing his throat and averting your gaze. “I mean, it’s too late, we’re worry that you get hurt again. And I know you don’t remember, but believe me when I say that is for your own good, wonderland it’s dangerous at night.”

His words were enough to make you shrink into Jimin’s chest, who happily kept you into his chest, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“He’s right my moon. Jungkookie can walk you tomorrow to the hall that leads to the rabbit hole. We just want you to be safe,” he whispered gently into your ear, his words were sugar coated, sweet enough to convince you.

“Fine,” you sighed, only because you genuinely don’t know your way back to the rabbit hole. And no matter how much you wanted to run away, they were the only people you can “trust” for now.

You sleep that night in Jimin’s and Jungkook’s house, their place was a cozy cottage, full of tea cups and carrots hidden under the rut. Talking animals such as hares surrounded their home, watching you with their little heads tilted, you noticed the curiosity in their eyes.

They took you to a room at the back of the house, which according to them it was already yours before you disappeared from wonderland. You started to doubt yourself, believing that maybe you were here before and you just forgot about this world. But you knew that wasn’t true, because the clothes in the closet didn’t belong to you, they just weren’t something you would wear. The stuff, the books, the things in this room; none of it belonged to you.

And you were now more than sure that you weren’t the person they thought you were. If that makes sense.

The issue was, that you didn’t stay just for a night, you stayed there with them for a week. At morning they always offered you to see a part of wonderland, distracting you from going to the rabbit hole. One day they brought you to a huge caterpillar that looks wise and that throwed smoke to your face, watching you with surprise, saying stuff like; is it really you?

You wanted to say no so bad, but you didn’t want to make Jimin and Jungkook feel bad. You got used to them, to Jimin’s silly behavior and Jungkook’s protective gaze. You started to have fun every time Jimin customize you a new dress, with his brows knitted in concentration when he was sewing your clothes.

He made you a pretty dress one afternoon, this one was blue and it reached below your knees, what caught your attention was the white apron, which according to Jimin made the dress look even prettier.

You noticed Jungkook’s gaze darkening when you wore the dress, and you felt uncomfortable under their intense stares. Why were they looking at you like that? But you forgot about that when Jimin took you to another tea party, this time with new and funny people that made you laugh a lot.

You were under a spell of wonders and fun, not worrying about coming back to your home. Until one night.

You watched a strange cat emerging from thin air at your window, making you gasp and widen your eyes in shock. Who was that cat? You opened the window, watching how the animal was floating and twirling in the air, with a mischievous Cheshire grin curling on its mouth.

“Aren’t you a surprise? I didn’t know the dead could come back,” it teased with a devil glint in its eyes.

Your stomach churned with dread and your heart pounded in your chest. You didn’t like its words.

“What?” You whispered with a trembling voice.

The cat’s grin widened.

“I can see that you’re not y/n, at least not Jungkook’s and Jimin’s. You’re her impersonator, you look like her, you’re named like her, but you’re not her,” he spoke the last words darkly, its grin looking sinister now.

You gulped your fear down, feeling like all of your doubts and fears had come true.

“What- what happened to her? How did she die?” You clenched your fists, fighting with the urge to run away.

“They killed her, not directly, but with their obsession. They scared her away, making her stumble upon the red Queen who cut off her head.”

Your heart stopped at the cat’s words, your head spined and you felt dizzy with the sudden urge to throw up. You always knew they acted weird around you, but you didn’t know the reason behind of their odd behavior, you didn’t know how deep their obsession run.

You have to get out of that house, right now.

You didn’t glance back at the cat, opening softly the door of your room, watching your surrounds with your senses heightened. When you were sure that no one was around and that the boys were sleeping, you step out of the room, with your feet bringing you silently to the front door of the cottage. Your heart was pounding and your hands trembling when you tried to turn the knob door, but it didn’t bulge.

The door was locked.

You inhaled sharp, closing your eyes to calm yourself down. You need to find the key.

“Going somewhere?” Jungkook’s deep voice make you shriek in horror; you turned around with a hand over your chest.

“You scared me,” you said instead, trying so hard to not avert your scared eyes.

Act normal.

Jungkook arched a brow, humming and walking towards you with slow steps, watching you intently.

“Where were you going at this hour? We already told that it’s dangerous out there at night.”

“I just wanted some fresh air, I wasn’t going far from here,” you simply said, trying to act nonchalant, hiding your trembling hand behind your back. Jungkook noticed.

“Fresh air?” He asked lowly, clenching his jaw and standing inches away from your body, looking down at you with anger flashing his doe eyes. “You wanted to escape, don’t lie to me.” His voice trembled with rage, and his eyes looked crazed, scaring you.

“I- no, that’s not true! I was hoping for you to take me to the hall the day after tomorrow anyway, I don’t miss home, I am always bored back there,” you muttered, trying to calm your pounding heart.

Jungkook gripped your shoulders, something dark and terrifying flashed his eyes. His breath was getting labored, and you could hear his own heart pounding wildly in his chest.

“I promise not to be like Jimin, I told myself that I will mourn you- her - ‘till the day I die. I prayed to God to bring y/n back from the dead. But then, you didn’t come back as the same person, you… you wear her face, her voice and you share the same name, but you’re not her, aren’t you?” His voice broke at the last words, staring at you with despair and grief. His bottom lip wobbled and his doe eyes swelled with tears.

You felt bad for him, so, so bad.

“I’m so sorry for your lost Jungkookie, I- I really am, but I’m not her honey. You should honor her memory by letting me go, by letting her rest,” you whispered softly, putting your hands over his and stroking them gently, looking up into his eyes with empathy. You grew fond of him over the past days, so you felt really sorry for him.

Tears streamed from his eyes at your words, and you wiped them away with your thumb, making Jungkook close his eyes and rest his cheek on your palm, opening them to watch you with deep emotion.

“You’re right, I should take you to the hall before Jimin notice, because he will lose his mind, more than he has,” he said letting go of you, opening the door and waiting for you to get out.

You smiled at him grateful, feeling relieved that at least Jungkook was being rational about this situation. The real danger was Jimin, not him.

It was silent when you two were walking, and Jungkook filled the quiet with his voice.

“I really miss her.”

You curled down your lips, feeling bad for him again.

“Can I, can I ask you how long has it been since she… passed away? If you don’t want to that’s okay,” you said carefully.

He didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, and you thought that he wouldn’t answer you, but he did.

“20 years.”

You stopped walking, widening your eyes.

“What?”

“Time in wonderland works different from the upper world,” he simply said, not stopping his walk. You followed him behind.

The time passed and you still didn’t see the door that leads to the hall, the one that was close to the speaking flowers.

“Are we close?” You asked, hugging yourself at the cold.

Jungkook only hummed at your words, staring into space with a lost gaze.

“Did you know that the other y/n was in wonderland just for two days?” He said out of the blue, you shook your head but he didn’t look at you. “But it was enough to fall for her. I thought I’d forget her face and voice, until you came, all pretty and bubbly. You remind me of her, but you’re different, and you stayed longer too. You’re sweet and innocent, keeping us company and never leaving our side even though we didn’t give you space, I love that about you.” His eyes were blank and empty, and his voice was thick with emotion, making you frown with unease.

“What are you talking about? And how long it’ll take us to get to the hall? I don’t remember it being this far,” you said walking slower, studying Jungkook like a hawk.

He just shrugged.

“What I’m saying is that we fell for you too, you think that this is just our grief talking for us, but is not. You were here longer than her, you were- are - tender and sweeter than her. Jimin is already obsessed with you. We never had company that stayed with us so long, except you.”

He turned around sharply, making you stumble into his wide chest. His gaze was dark and fixated on you like a predator, making you shiver with primal fear.

“Jungkook, you don’t know what you’re saying, I’m not her!”

“I know! That’s why we want you, we won’t let you go after what happened to her, we want you as much and more than we ever wanted her!” He yelled with his crazed eyes and his vein popping on his neck.

He was losing his mind.

“You’re crazy,” you whispered with a trembling voice.

He smirked.

“So are you, we all crazy here,” he sneers, holding and trapping your body against his chest before you could run away.

You squirm in his grasp, screaming, biting his shoulder, crying for help and kicking your legs, but it was pointless. His iron grip on your body didn’t ease at all, standing tall and strong as a rock holding you against his chest with his buff arms, constricting you like a piton snake. You cried so much you ended up hoarse, at some point you felt Jungkook’s hand stroking softly your hair but you ignored him, distracted by the sound of steps behind you.

Your stomach turned with fear and dread by the voice of Jimin.

“Good job Jungkookie, I knew you wouldn’t do the same mistake with this y/n. Let’s bring her back to our home, shall we?” Jimin’s voice sounded too calm and relaxed for your liking, turning your blood ice with primal fear. The flight and fight instincts pounding through your veins.

Jimin was the calm before the storm.

They dragged you to the cottage, forcing you into a chair and tying your wrists and ankles with a thick rope. You look up at them with hatred, feeling hurt and betrayed by Jungkook. The latter averted your eyes, standing behind Jimin.

Jimin dragged another chair across the floor to straddle it, facing you and resting his arms on the backrest without taking his piercing gaze away from you, pinning you under his stare like a predator ready to pounce. You squirm feeling intimidated by his dark eyes boring into you.

“I think we should punish her by keeping her tied up for many, many days. All pretty and bound for us to play as we please, what do you think Jungkookie? Should we?” He asked Jungkook while looking straight into your eyes.

“You can do whatever you want but don’t hurt her,” muttered the traitor.

Jimin smiled like the Cheshire cat.

“Then let’s teach our girl some manners, running away like that from your host is so rude. You’ll learn how to treat us right, how to love us as we love you.” Jimin’s voice was thick with dark emotion, leaning forward to look at you with crazed and angry eyes. His knuckles turned white by how hard he was gripping the backrest of the chair. “Untie her and bring her to our room Jungkookie.” Were his words before Jungkook did as he said, lifting you to carry you to their room as if you weight nothing.

In your way to Jimin and Jungkook room, you watched the Cheshire cat floating outside the window, smirking at you and mouthing the words; I told you.

You were so fucked up, trapped in this world with two delusional men.

But there will be always another day and another chance to escape, you just hope you don’t end up like the other y/n, but maybe that fate is better than to end trapped under their house, for the eternity.

You can read the +18 continuation on Patreon.

Taglist:

@demonshauntingthedoves @pynkgothicka @deluluisdasolulu @uniquecutie-puffs @Marrylouise @livingformintyoongi @captainhoook @asillysimp @devilzliaison @zephyrdawn @kvstjwonnie @yoongilovescats @bammbi-jeon127 @jerdafuck @cutequeen00 @nothingsreal420 @ririkookiemonster-archives @cannotalwaysbenight @loumin908 @polarnightmyg @acherry04 @lizziekitty @catlove83 @itlover8000 @shailari

#bangtan fanfic #bts x reader #yandere bts #bts imagines #bangtan fic #bts x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #jimin #jimin x reader #jimin bts #bts fanfic

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airosuiren · 3 months ago

Text

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝕭𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕴𝖈𝖊

A?N: OKAY OKAY OKAY—deep breaths, besties!! THIS is the chapter. The one where everything changes. The tension? The slow burn? The LOOKS?? 👀 The SCAR REVEAL?? I’ve been vibrating with excitement waiting to write this. Jun-seo is finally stepping into the light, and [Y/N]? She’s not just surviving anymore—she’s leading. This chapter is about mutual recognition, quiet devotion, and finally—finally—receiving the love she was denied for so long. Also: the Han siblings being aggressively obsessed with her? 10/10 no notes. Ji-yoon out here physically removing people from her orbit like an unhinged bouncer in a nightclub? ICON. This is for the girls who were overlooked, the boys who hid their hearts, and anyone who’s ever been underestimated. Let's go. 💥

Character sheet (READ THIS BEFORE THE FIC)

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 4, 𝔈𝔭𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

Han Jun-seo watched her from a distance. Always from a distance.

He told himself it was for her safety. That if she saw the ugliness of his scars, the brutality of his past, she would turn cold. Fearful. Like the others.

But she never recoiled. Not even once.

He began leaving gifts. Small, personal things. A brush for her calligraphy. A silk scarf to protect her throat from the winter wind. A first edition of a book she had mentioned only once. He never left a note, never stayed to watch her open them. But the curve of her lips when she found them was enough.

[Y/N] noticed him, too. The way he avoided her gaze. The long pauses outside their shared door. The slight tremble in his hands when he poured her tea.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was afraid.

She didn’t confront him. Not yet. Instead, she grew into herself. Every day with the Han family, with the spirits, she learned.

Mi-kyung taught her how to command respect without raising her voice. Dae-shik refined her palate and her instincts. Ji-hwan whispered secrets of the estate, of the family, of their unspoken rivalries.

Min-jae taught her where to hide a blade. Tae-won taught her how to use it.

With each lesson, [Y/N] stood taller. She learned to speak with confidence, to walk with purpose. The elders took notice. The younger children—So-min, Ji-ho, Ji-yoon—grew possessive. Protective.

So-min once sabotaged a business rival who called [Y/N] “forgettable.” Ji-ho replaced the staff member who forgot to bring her tea. Ji-yoon dragged a disrespectful guest out of the room by the collar.

[Y/N] became their sister. Their sun. Their reason.

On her twentieth birthday, everything changed.

Jun-seo returned early. For once, he didn’t hide.

[Y/N] was in their room, brushing her hair when the door opened and he stepped in. Maskless.

She turned. Saw the scar that cut from his brow to his lip. Deep, raw history written across his face.

Jun-seo waited.

[Y/N] stood and crossed the room.

“You have beautiful eyes,” she said. “I was always curious.”

He exhaled. Shaky. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.” She touched his cheek. “You loved me in silence. I saw it. And now I see you.”

She kissed the scar. And then all the others.

That night, they shared more than a bed. They shared each other. Every bruise, every secret, every longing thought.

After that, [Y/N] stopped hesitating.

She commanded. She corrected. She laughed. She thrived.

And the Han family fell deeply, hopelessly in love with her.

She was no longer a guest. She was their queen.

And across the sea, the Batfamily watched in silence. Jealousy simmering. Regret thick in their throats.

Their ghost had become a flame.

And she would not be theirs so easily again.

A/N: HOLY EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE, BATMAN—WE MADE IT. 😭🔥 Are you breathing? Am I breathing? Who knows??? Let’s review: 🖤 Jun-seo: took off the mask, opened his heart, became a puddle of emotional goo. 👑 [Y/N]: kissed his scars, became a queen, radiated main character energy. 👀 The Han family: full simp mode. FULL. 🌊 The Batfam: drowning in regret (as they SHOULD). This chapter was the emotional payoff we’ve all been craving—the recognition, the intimacy, the POWER. [Y/N] is no longer in the shadows. She’s the center. The crown. The future. I’m so proud of her I could cry. Actually, I am crying. Don’t look at me. Next chapter? The Waynes are about to get a front-row seat to everything they threw away—and what it’s become without them. TELL ME: Who’s your favorite Han simp and why is it Jun-seo??? 🥹💍 See you in the next emotional rollercoaster!! —Your teary, cheering, obsessively writing author 💘✨

Taglist: @kittzu, @trashlanternfish360, @ottjhe, @moonieper, @feral-childs-word, @tinybrie,@xomarryamox, @fawnqueenbrowsing, @wpdarlingpan, @leeiasure, @xzmickeyzx, @enchantingarcadecreatio, @trashlanternfish360, @nixxiev, @eclipse-msoul, @plsfckmedxddy, @viilan, @rattyrattyratty, @texas-fox, @1abi, @niamcarlin,@tomoyaki, @silken-moons, @sirenetheblogger, @itsberrydreemurstuff.

Let me know if I missed anyone!

Wait for Part 3!!

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445376 · 3 months ago

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she/her and (name) used when referring to the reader. i do not know what compelled me to write this, and i think i might be sorry for writing it.

"do you ever drink water?"

levi opens his eyes to the sound of her voice, just to question whether the insomnia that haunts him every night was so easily whisked away under her delicate touch, to the point he'd fallen asleep and conjured that question himself.

he tilts his head back to gaze upon her blank expression, so deep in contemplation — about whether he drinks water, the thing humans need in order to survive — until their eyes meet. she smiles warm and adoringly, like there is nothing in the universe more deserving of her love than him. she leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, one that lingers even when she stands to full height again, thumbs still working circles into his shoulders to ease every instance of tension.

(but, does he drink water?)

"yes, i drink water," levi says quite flatly, much like a disappointed father. that tone of his that indicates "this is a fact. accept it, and shut up" with no room for speculation.

her mouth forms an 'o', as if his confirmation is the single-most revolutionary discovery to ever be amongst humanity. as if this piece of information could have entire books dedicated to it. there'd be history lessons spent solely on sharing this information with every new generation to come.

"you gonna ask if i've ever taken a shit, next?"

"absolutely not." a mortified grimace makes its way to her face. "i'm already aware of that, levi. have my lookouts outside the walls been so minor that you've forgotten?" she cups his face and squishes the plush of his cheeks, hovering her face just above his so there is no mistake in what she says. "i'm the reason your last memory isn't one of taking a dump in a forest...!"

levi, at the very least, snorts a laugh — well it's more like a quiet breath out his nose, but that's basically levi-speak for "that's the funniest thing i've ever heard and actually my sole reason to continue fighting, and you're so hot. have i ever said that? i love you, darling light of my life" but that's neither here nor there — and the small sound is enough to cheer up his darling light of his life, enough that she releases his face.

"i see," he deadpans, "but you've never seen me drink water."

"no, actually. never." with her elbows propped against the back of his chair, she whispers her next words like they're a crime punishable by death, and only he can be trusted to keep her confession — along with her life �� safe and hidden from the public. "i have never witnessed you drink water."

and levi, well, he knows for a fact he doesn't not drink water. and it's stupid to acknowledge the time this conversation has even been allowed to happen, that it wasn't shut down after one singular, logical thought. it's as if the sensible braincells that make up his functioning thoughts have forgotten how to speak, and instead exist only to bounce up and down, chanting in unison, "yippee! attention from (name)!" and do nothing of their usual duties.

"i do." it's simple, straight to the point. though levi is still wracking his brain trying to recall the last time he did, he can only hope she doesn't press for more proof than that.

"when?" she asks, as if solely to spite him and spit on his hopes. "tea doesn't count. we're talking plain water only."

between the two, it's like a staring contest. eyes locked, an unspoken challenge. paired with one raised brow, her eyes say "you sure?" and his, so steely and full of resolve, speak back to her "damn sure". but neither back down. and the rules of a staring contest must be lost on them, ignored even, because they both blink whenever they need to, and not a lot of staring seems to be happening.

"i do," levi states again. but the repetition serves no points to his defence, rather solidifying his lack of case. in a small twist, however, this could be proof that the legendary captain really didn't need water to thrive on the battlefield; a beast worth a thousand soldiers, whilst needing the water of none.

the only downside to befall this revelation, as incredible a find as it may be, is that no artist could replicate the true depth of his pretty face. the man in the history books would be handsome, no doubt capturing the hearts of many generations to come. but— no mortal hand could possess the skill to capture his essence. but that was okay, because levi was a very, very taken man. the humans of the future would be born in a world without the fear of titans, but born too late to witness the great captain in all his glory. the future sounded lame.

"you don't sound so certain, captain." she seems triumphant to a sickening degree. using his title with that proud little smile on her face, it's a deplorable tactic to throw him off whatever thought process he'd been looped in. and it works. but, then comes a gasp that wipes that look off her face in an instant. "you do! oh...you drink water during training."

of course he does. and during those expeditions she mentioned earlier, too.

"you know, levi, i was really worried that i'd never seen you drink water," she confesses. he feels a weird twinge in his chest — the same sensation that flourishes whenever she says she loves him, or he sees the "i've spotted my levi!" smile appear at the mere sight of him. she sighs, coming forth to wrap him in a loose embrace. "really had me worried i'd done something seriously wrong to be banished from watching your hydration rituals."

levi doesn't ask why exactly that was the first conclusion to be drawn, nor why she asked about his water intake at all. he only settles into her arms, breathing a sigh of relief as finally, by some miracle, his braincells function again.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #am i allowed to apologise for disappearing for 11 months??#i will do it again unfortunately

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batboyblog · 5 months ago

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I have this low level fantasy, how that all the shit is happening and Trump signed the mega transphobia EO, and is sending ICE to elementary schools and arresting Americans, and tried to take away birth right citizenship, and force all the public health and medical research of the US government to shut down and his getting rid of black history month and so on and so forth.

I have this fantasy that the young people who fell for anti-Democrat propaganda will learn a life long lesson that even if the Democrat running for office isn't their favorite cup of tea, it sure beats being forced to drink liquid shit.

of course sadly I know in my heart most of them will learn nothing and will either not know about this stuff because TikTok is now controlled by Trump allies and won't spoon feed them stories about Trump's evil, or if they do know about it they'll be so brainwashed they'll claim that Democrats would have gotten rid of the trans rights they passed or they'll be mad that Democrats didn't stop it through witchcraft or something. And when all else fails "they need to earn my vote" they did earn it by saying they wouldn't brutally victimize people while the fascist party said they would, duh.

#politics #political #US politics #American politics #Trump #vote blue

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licorice-and-rum · 9 months ago

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My response to some "critics" about Babel

Okay, I'm gonna start by saying this: English is not my first language so I may commit some spelling and grammar mistakes here but I felt like I just had to write this down, especially because of the negative reviews this book has that just… didn't get it.

Don't get me wrong, of course you're allowed to not like this book, I recognize that it's most certainly not gonna be everyone's cup of tea but some of the people here just didn't get what this book was all about. Babel isn't a fantasy like ACOTAR, or HP, or whatever (in the sense that, for those, the story guides the message while Babel is the contrary): like many classical books, Babel was written to make a point, it's a romance, sure, but it was written to argue for something - the necessity of violence.

So, first of all: Babel is a historical fantasy, it talks about colonialism, racism, sexism, and other matters with no qualms, no embellishing to make it digestible, no allegories or metaphors because this isn't the point. Kuang's "lack of nuance" as someone here pointed out is very deliberate and extremely important for the story because the points she wants to make are always lost in nuance (just think how many people go on misinterpreting Star Wars, Hunger Games, or even anti-system songs like The Wall ffs), and the message is too important to get lost in allegories.

Second, as to the story, many people seem to think what she's pointing out is obvious "ur dur colonialism is bad, we get it". No, you clearly don't. There's a profound difference between getting it and actually comprehending it to an elemental level. Robin's travel to Canton illustrates that perfectly: he knew that colonialism was bad, he knew it was violent but he didn't comprehend it until he was forced to face it happening in front of him - to people who could've been easily him. More than that, because that was when he finally connected the theory with the reality, it became palpable to him.

It's not enough to get it, you have to actually stay attuned to it, to feel the flow of its violence throughout the world because then, and only then, I'll realize you can't be complacent, you can't turn your head from it. And Babel is an attempt, however tiny, of showing this to you. Of telling you "Look, you're ignoring it, the discomfort you felt reading this is your conscience telling you you relate to that". So no, I refuse to accept that Kuang should have been more nuanced: she was as clear as she could because she knows people say they get it but they don't, not really.

Third, the magical system is just chef's kiss. I've seen many people complaining about it but the thing is: the silver working is not about having magic in the world, it's about creating a palpable, material place where Kuang could center her attention as she talked about the economic aspect of colonialism. That's because colonial power is not centered in one place or thing, it is scattered all around but you can't hardly make a point like Babel's if you have your characters fighting off colonialism in all corners of the world. Like the Capital in the Hunger Games, Babel is a material place that symbolizes something.

Moreover, the silver working symbolizes the Industrial Revolution and its need for the advance of colonialism. More than that, silver-working is about capital, it's about technology to generate more profit, quicker, for a specific class that doesn't care who they have to kill to continue, doesn't care whether it is good or bad for the common folk.

Fourth, many people pointed out how academic Kuang's writing style felt during Babel and they're right, it is indeed very identifiable. I'm sure I even commented something along the lines of "it feels like I'm having the best History lesson of all time". But I'm going to challenge people who say things against the notion that the historical description of Kuang was unnecessary: every time Kuang chose to give the readers historical context has served somehow to the narrative.

I remember early on in the book when Robin was still a teen walking through London and reading anything he could put his hands on, and then we get two paragraphs of historical and political context for the time, then Robin comments that he didn't understand why this mattered so much. That paragraph served so much, both because it made us know a little more about Robin and because it served to make us understand the profound environmental change England was going through at the time.

And every time she did this, it served for something. Again, Babel is a historical fantasy, it is supposed to make you think about the point Kuang is trying to make but you won't understand it if you don't know the context of which Robin and the other characters in the book are coming from. It was a time of decision: either England would consolidate itself as an almost all-powerful oppressor, or it could go down… if the oppressed people - who share a common enemy - understood their responsibility to do something.

The strikes of the English working class, the violent acts of rioters, the advancement in technology, the possibility of the Opium War, the colonialism… it's all important. It's important because it allows us to understand the deep connection between it all. It allows us to understand who profits off of it, and who doesn't; who is able to understand and who isn't. It's why Letty is upper-class. It's why Abel isn't.

It's not as simple as some people think to understand colonialism, the flows through which one thing is tied to another. Why do people ask "How does this affect me?" when we point out deeply unfair things like unpaid maternity leave (I actually saw an American once saying she "wouldn't want her tax money to go to someone who didn't plan through"), like the fact people starve when we have the ability to feed a world and a half, of that Palestine is going through ethnic cleansing? Because they are unable to understand how closely their lives are tied to other peoples they have never met and probably never will.

Kuang's message is not "colonialism is bad", she's saying "These are all the forms through which colonialism is bad to everyone but a few, do something about it", she's saying "Every single one of your struggles is tied together in more ways than you even understand. A person in Haiti, in China, in India, in the other side of the world, has more to do with you than these white rich people, fight with them, stand with them."

Fifth, I can't believe I gotta say this but I'm not going to even bother with you if you think this book is somehow "anti-white": just get over your main character syndrome. We're talking about a historical fantasy set in England in the epitome of colonialism through the eyes of a person of color. Of course, most white people are gonna be bad, get over yourself ffs!

The actual entitlement to the protagonism white people have is maddening. As a white woman (in Brazil, at least), I'm ashamed of some comments here. It's not because white people in this book are majorly racist (which, according to the setting is 100% accurate) that Kuang is talking about you (although, if you're so bothered by it, it's probably about you anyway). This is a book about the experience of people of color under the oppression of colonialism: white people are the problem!

You can't just expect someone to write about colonialism and not talk majorly about race. White people reap all the privileges of this system and not just that, they are responsible for it, and all the crying about being the bad guys is just insufferable (they're actually so right about having to console Letty once she learns about the racism they suffer).

Be f*ing accountable for your privileges, take responsibility for your internalized racism, and be accountable for the system that privileges you. It doesn't matter that it wasn't your fault, that you didn't set up the system, you still benefit from it anyway so get a grip. This story isn't about you at all, it isn't about how some white people fought against slavery or oppression, it isn't about you.

Let's be very clear about this: most white people who fought against slavery did so to serve their own interests, exactly as Kuang points out. This doesn't mean none of them were good people who actually believed slavery was bad but we're talking of a time when racism and racial discrimination weren't even discussed seriously. Most white people, even the ones against slavery would have a deeply ingrained racism in them, so get real.

More than that, though: if those people who actually have no shame in saying Babel is "anti-white" had actually read the book through, they would know that some white people actually help and are good people in the story.

Anyway, Babel is so good, it's so painfully real and so passionately well-written. You can feel Kuang's love for her people, the struggles of what it means to love something but still not be a part of it, the deep understanding of how the world works, and how intricately every single thing in our lives is.

I just felt so heard (as a person from a third-world country) reading Babel, like someone was telling me all this rage and indignation I feel is justified, it's valid. I just treasured it so much, how I identified with Robin's need for security contrasting with his indignation for the price of it; with the rage Griffin carried around him, sharpened and well-directed even in its volition; with the love Victoire had to learn to have for her country and its story; with all the pain I was able to share with someone who understood it.

It's an honor to allow words to change me so fundamentally. It's humbling to realize I'm not alone, that my actions and my feelings are shared by other people. It is really precious, you know, to be able to become a better person than I was before because of a book.

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sapphicandgraphic · 13 days ago

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Teacher’s Pet - Unfinished Business

Summary: Your past comes knocking in the form of Melina Vostokoff. Agatha helps you handle some unfinished business in this angsty hurt/comfort one-shot.

Warnings: Melina means well but reader experiences chemical subjugation oops! Mentions of mind control, brainwashing, choking…I think that’s it?

Word count: 5K+

For weeks after you arrived, you kept mostly to yourself, hidden away in a bedroom down the hall from Agatha’s. She rarely saw you outside of meals and the daily hour of practical study when you watched her brew or cast.

Otherwise, you were consumed by a minor mountain of assigned reading—mostly texts on the theory and history of spellcraft. Agatha had expected some resistance to this lesson plan. But you didn’t make a fuss, disappearing for hours at a time like a reclusive teenager, only coming downstairs when she reminded you to eat. Occasionally she saw you brewing tea, nose stuck in a book as you idly stirred the spoon, heavy with honey.

Then the weather changed and you started to emerge.

The first warm day in May, Agatha found you sitting at the kitchen table. A shaft of morning light framed you like a high-backed throne. You glanced up at her, lips quirked in a shy smile.

“Morning,” you said, eyes half-lidded in the gauzy glow.

It struck her suddenly that you were beautiful. Or maybe handsome was a better word, considering the serious set of your dark brows, the firm line of your jaw. But then there was the matter of your mouth—those full, pink lips. Agatha cleared her throat.

“Morning, pet.”

She busied herself at the kettle, putting those thoughts firmly out of her head.

Then an hour later she saw you in the living room, curled up on the far end of the sofa, positioned squarely in the sun path. She couldn’t resist teasing you.

“Two sightings in one day?”

Your mouth twisted to the side in another shy smile.

And later on she spotted you on the back porch, book propped against your knee, Senōr Scratchy sprawled beside you in the warmth of the glowing afternoon. Your eyes were closed, your breathing deep and even.

So maybe you weren’t a recluse. Maybe you were just…recovering, recharging. From what she didn’t know yet. But like a plant after the harsh winter months, you were finally ready to bloom, turning your petals toward the light.

Agatha had felt it then. The stirring of something fond, something soft for you.

She said nothing. But the next time you slipped out to sit on the porch, a large wicker loveseat had been placed on the lawn. You smiled, glancing around. The other witch was nowhere to be seen, of course.

In the weeks that followed, what began as an uneasy peace turned into something warm, domestic, almost quaint. Passed cups of coffee in the pre-dawn light. Murmured good nights as you both retired to bed.

You were guarded, still more than a little unsure of each other. But something was catalyzing between you in the quiet mornings, the peaceful evenings. It felt like…home.

And you should have known better than to trust it.

Your past caught up with you on the second floor of the local library. Agatha had assigned you some reading on lunar magic, and you were standing in the dusty stacks, charting moon cycles for the next six months.

She approached softly, with the kind of stealth that came second-nature to her after so many years spying and lying to survive. A fraction of a second before she spoke, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Hello, little dragon.”

She looked different than you remembered—less luster in her smile, a dimness in her dark, walnut-brown eyes. But there was no mistaking that voice.

The book you were holding slipped from your hands, pages fluttering like broken wings as it fell to the floor.

You breathed her name, throat tight with longing and heartbreak and outrage.

“Melina.”

You staggered backward. She opened her mouth, but you didn’t give her a chance to speak, flying down the stairs, out into the streets. You ran hard and fast, feet slapping the pavement, arms pumping up and down.

Your lungs were burning by the time you made it back to the house and stepped through the front door, latching it behind you—as if that would do any good.

Melina was the most clever, conniving woman you’d ever met. If she wanted to get in, she would. In fact, she had probably already been here.

The thought made your stomach swoop unpleasantly. Your eyes darted around, suddenly on high alert.

“Agatha?”

You pushed yourself away from the door, peeking into the empty kitchen, then the living room. There was no sign of the other woman. You called her name again, this time with more urgency as you opened the door to the basement.

Still nothing.

Now your heart was hammering with a different kind of adrenaline—the icy cold clutch of fear. Agatha was powerful, strong. But if Melina had caught her off guard…

You rounded the corner, jogging toward the stairs.

How could Melina be here, in this sleepy little town? What did she want? Where was Agatha?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your head snapped up. Agatha had materialized from somewhere in the house, leaning against the bannister. You launched yourself into her arms without thinking.

“Easy, pet!” She caught you around the waist, steadying you. “What’s all this?”

You sagged against her momentarily, enjoying the solid feel of her body, the smell of tea leaves and spearmint that clung to her long dark tresses. It occurred to you suddenly that in all the weeks you’d lived here, you’d never really touched Agatha. Save for the few times your fingers had brushed at the brewing table, passing her ingredients. But not a proper embrace like this. It was…nice. She was warmer, softer than you imagined. Not that you had imagined….

You shook your head, disentangling yourself from her.

“Sorry,” you said, heart rate returning to normal. “I just…”

She arched an eyebrow at you, awaiting an explanation. You opened your mouth, suddenly uncertain where to begin, unwilling to drag the other woman into the terrible, tangled mess of your past.

“Well?” She tapped her long impatient fingers on the bannister, fixing you with a look of concern edging toward suspicion.

“It’s nothing,” you said, scrubbing a hand over your face. “Just wanted to say…thank you, for opening your home to me. I’ve been…really happy here.”

Agatha studied you for several long seconds, frown deepening. “Now you’re really scaring me.”

You laughed, rubbing the back of your neck self-consciously as you maneuvered around her on the stairs toward your room, careful to avoid her curious gaze.

She watched you go, eyebrows drawn together in an elegant expression of doubt. “You sure you’re alright?”

You turned at the landing. Something tender and fierce cracked open in your chest at her words. Agatha was looking at you like more than just a drifter…like someone who mattered.

“Yeah,” you said. “Thanks.”

You closed the door to your room and immediately began pacing beside the bed, trying to formulate a plan of action.

First things first, protect Agatha. At all costs. You wanted to be sure that the shadow of your past never darkened her doorstep. Perhaps you could reason with Melina, find out what she wanted and then send her on her way.

It turns out you needn’t have bothered strategizing. As usual, Melina had already made your decision for you.

A piece of paper fluttered on your desk, caught in the breeze from the open window. You frowned. Hadn’t you left that window shut? You stared at the scrap of paper, comprehension dawning.

Picking it up with trembling fingers, you read the message that had been scribbled in neat sloping letters:

Midnight. Graveyard. Come alone.

————————

Agatha was curled up beside the fireplace, rather adorably dwarfed by the massive leather-bound book in her lap.

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner.

“And where are you going?” She regarded you cooly over the top of the pages as you descended the stairs with a practiced nonchalance.

“Three guesses,” you said, pretending to check your reflection in the mirror, adjusting the collar of your shirt, brushing back your hair. But your eyes darted toward the other woman, watching her expression for any reaction.

She caught your gaze and glared. “I don’t like games, pet.”

You shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

You pulled on a coat, patting the breast pocket and withdrawing a pack of smokes.

You frowned. Only a few left.

“It’s almost midnight,” she pointed out, watching you place a cigarette between your lips, fiddling with your lighter. It was a weathered and worn thing, with several dents and scratches marring the silver relief on the side.

“I have to take care of something,” you said, aiming for casual. You just had to follow Melina’s instructions. With any luck, Agatha would never know she’d been here at all.

“How mysterious.” The older witch made an elaborate show of turning a page in her book, looking for all the world like nothing could interest her less.

“Don’t wait up.” You smiled softly at her, then disappeared out the front door.

Agatha pursed her lips, trying to focus on her reading. You’d been gone all of five minutes when she closed the book, standing up and peering into the fire.

You weren’t breaking any rules by leaving. You were free to come and go as you pleased.

And yet…

She didn’t like you wandering around on your own in the dark. You were a powerful witch, but young, reckless. And something was going on, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

Her eyes flickered with the reflection of the flames. With a growl of frustratio, she stalked toward the front door, grabbed her traveling cloak, and fell into pursuit.

————————

There was only one graveyard in town. It was small, no more than a few acres, positioned directly behind the church. The border pressed up against the woodland, a dark wall of pine trees and shadows that you’d ventured into several times with Agatha, but never alone. Never at night.

You leaned against one of the stone monuments beside a family mausoleum. Above you, two angels were wrapped together in an agonized embrace, faces twisted in despair.

You flipped the collar of your jacket up against the chill breeze and pulled a deep drag off your cigarette.

“You promised me no more smoking, little dragon.”

Her voice in your ear was like velvet. You closed your eyes, barely suppressing a shiver.

“We promised each other a lot of things,” you said softly, turning to face her.

Melina swayed toward you, her expression unreadable in the moonlight. She looked just as beautiful now as the day you met her, stumbling upon her farm in the dead of winter. You’d been hopelessly drawn in by her sweet smile, her warm fire, her soft touch.

You wiped your eyes which had suddenly blurred with tears at the memory of simpler times, of a home that had broken your heart. Melina extended a hand, cupping your jaw. You wanted to yell, to push her aside, to fall into her arms. Instead you just stood there, mesmerized by the feeling of her thumb tracing a gentle path across your cheek, brushing away the damp tracks.

“I missed you too, milaya.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you leaned into her for touch for a second, allowing yourself to believe those words.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, trying not to sound so lost, so broken open by the sight of the other woman.

“I thought this would be obvious,” she shrugged. “I came to bring you back where you belong…with me.”

Her words gutted you.

“I don’t belong to you,” you said. “Not anymore.”

She stilled.

“Is this about the witch?” She asked suddenly, changing tactics. “She is quite attractive, I’ll give you that. But then you always had good taste.”

And she had the audacity to wink at you. Never mind the flutter you felt in your stomach, the painful swoop of longing and arousal and need.

“It has nothing to do with that,” you protested hotly. “She can teach me about my magic. And I’m…I’m happy here.”

Melina seemed to consider this, eyes searching your face.

“But she doesn’t care about you,” Melina said, underscoring her point with a rough pinch to your cheek.

“Oh and you do?” You sneered, finally wrenching yourself away. “All those months we spent together, I was nothing but a lab rat!”

You saw Melina flinch. “That’s not true.”

“You were drugging me!” The words exploded out of your mouth like a gunshot, their echo ringing around the empty graveyard. “Brainwashing me like one of your experiments, controlling me, putting thoughts in my head.”

You wondered if she would deny it.

Melina crossed her arms. “I did it to protect you.”

You paused. As much as you wanted to hate the other woman, it was tempting to believe there was some justifiable reason for her actions.

And you’d never given her a chance to explain, had run away from the farm as soon as you realized what was going on. It had taken nearly all your strength to break free from the serum. By the time you got to America, you were just beginning to fully come out of the fog.

“To protect me from what?”

Melina finally snapped. “From yourself!”

You blinked.

“You were so lost when you came to me,” she explained, and you could see the pain in her eyes as she remembered those early days. “I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t do something…dangerous. So yes, I used the serum as a way you keep you safe from harming yourself, when I had to leave you alone. It was merely a…precaution.”

You considered this.

“Chemical subjugation is quite a precaution,” you said flatly, not ready to forgive her. Not sure you ever could. So she had protected you…and ruined everything else.

“It was real,” she whispered, as if following your train of thought. Melina pulled you toward her, cupping your face in her hands. “Everything we had was real.”

You felt your heart stutter in your chest. “How can I ever be sure of that? How can I ever believe you again?”

“Let me show you,” she said, desperation shining in her big brown eyes. “Come home.”

She laced her fingers between yours and squeezed softly. Reflexively you returned the pressure, dragging your thumb over her knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice thick with regret. “But I can’t. I don’t…I don’t trust you anymore.”

Melina sighed, resting her forehead against yours.

“I was hoping you would be reasonable,” she said. “But when has that ever been the case, hmm? My little dragon.”

She moved so quickly you barely had time to flinch.

“What are you do-“ you grunted in pain as the syringe sank into your neck.

Melina looked apologetic. “Sorry, detka,” she murmured. “You’ll thank me one day.”

You fisted the fabric of her shirt in both hands, attempting to shove her away. But you found your movements sluggish, clumsy as the serum flooded your nervous system.

It was like an old familiar program booting up in your brain. You wanted to scream, to rage, but there was an overriding command that drowned out all the rest of them. Obey.

You stumbled backwards, desperately trying to summon your magic. A ball of energy appeared in your palm, pale and silvery.

Melina looked impressed, surprised you were even able to manage that much considering the chemical cocktail singing through your bloodstream.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” she said, sounding unafraid.

“Don’t make me do this,” you said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to —.”

“I’ve made some refinements since you’ve been gone.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You can’t attack me.”

You directed your hands at the other woman. But nothing happened. The light in your hands dimmed as all hope drained away. She turned, beckoning with one finger.

“Come,” she called over her shoulder.

But still, you stood your ground. It was the thought of Agatha that kept you upright, fighting with every fiber of your being. The image of her sitting up in that ridiculous armchair by the fireplace, waiting for you. What would she think if you never came home? Would she blame herself?

A little frown of confusion played across Melina’s features as she glanced back, watching you resist. Sweat beaded on your brow, your muscles taut and trembling. Her eyes widened in surprise when you spoke. It shouldn’t have been possible…

“At least let me say goodbye to her,” you forced the words out through gritted teeth, the effort colossal.

Melina seemed to consider this request for a moment, then shook her head. “No. We have a plane to catch.”

You cried out in frustration, in agony.

“Do as I say,” she coaxed in that voice you loved, in that voice you hated. A shiver wracked its way through your body. “Don’t hurt yourself, little dragon.”

As if on cue, you felt a trickle of warm blood streaming from your nose. Fighting her like this was shredding your insides. It felt like your brain was on fire.

“Melina,” you sobbed, finally taking one wretched, uneven step forward. Tears streamed down your face. “Please.”

The dark-eyed woman frowned. She hated hurting you.

“It will all be better when we get home,” she said. “Now come to me.”

You felt your body drawn forward, legs moving without your consent, carrying you toward the other woman. But then—

“Are you deaf?” A familiar voice drawled, bouncing around the gravestones. “She said no.”

You looked left and right. Melina squared her shoulders, scanning the shadows as well.

Agatha appeared in a cloud of purple mist. She was hovering a few feet off the ground, cloak rippling behind her. She looked terrifying, magnificent, otherworldly. You cried her name in relief.

“Alright, pet?” She scanned you quickly, and you thought you saw a flicker of something tender. But then her attention was back on Melina, eyes flinty and cold.

“So this is the one you choose,” Melina said, not bothering to conceal the hurt in her voice. “Very dramatic, very American. What can she offer you, teach you that I cannot?”

Agatha smirked. “Some manners, for a start. Around here, we let women make their own decisions.”

With a wave of her hand, she threw Melina into the air. The scientist hit the ground hard, but rolled gracefully and somehow landed on her feet. She wiped a trickle of blood off her forehead, a dark glimmer of rage in her eyes.

“You think you are only one with magic trick?”

You realized what was about to happen and tried to warn Agatha. But then the Russian called your name in a deep, commanding voice and your entire world shrank to her lips, her mouth, the utter simplicity of her next irrefutable words.

“Stop breathing.”

You felt your body comply almost instantly. It was like your lungs were a machine and the plug had been pulled from the wall. Your chest stilled, abandoning the breath you’d been inhaling.

“Now then,” Melina said calmly, dusting dirt from her coat. “Let’s discuss our options.”

You clutched at your throat, opening your mouth to gulp at the air. Agatha quickly summoned her magic, preparing to attack Melina once more.

“Let her go.”

“Ah, ah, careful now,” Melina cautioned. “If I don’t verbally counter the command in the next two minutes, she suffocates. And I can’t do that if I’m…indisposed.”

You made a soft choking nose, real panic setting in. Agatha teleported to your side, catching you around the waist as you sank to your knees.

“You’re alright,” she murmured, feeling helpless. You gripped her arm, writhing in discomfort as your lungs screamed for air. “You’re alright.”

The Russian watched this interaction through narrowed eyes. She observed the way Agatha held you, soothed you. And she waited, patiently, calculating exactly how many seconds you had left.

Agatha glanced up at Melina, eyes stormy with rage.

“Stop this,” the witch said in a rough, jagged voice. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

Melina smiled. Finally, she stalked forward, kneeling on your other side. Agatha stiffened, tightening her grip on your hips, waiting to see what the other woman would do.

“Always so stubborn, my little dragon.” Melina placed a hand on your face. The lack of oxygen was making your head fuzzy, a dull roaring in your ears. “Go to sleep now, that’s it.”

“You’re killing her!” Agatha shouted, voice cracking with fear, eyes wide and wild with barely restrained panic. It was the last thing you heard, the last thing you saw before the darkness took you under.

As soon as your eyes rolled back, Melina reversed the command with a murmur, ensuring you could breathe again. Then she looked up into Agatha’s face.

“So it’s true,” Melina said, observing the other woman. “She’s yours.”

Her tone was conciliatory, like she was forfeiting a game of chess.

“She isn’t a prize to be won,” snarled Agatha, still clutching your body tight enough to bruise.

“No indeed, she’s made her choice,” Melina agreed sadly. “My brave, brave girl.”

She pushed your hair back then stood, looking down at the pair of you. Agatha might have been another one of the statues in the cemetery, a dark angel cradling her fallen charge.

“And now you need to make yours.”

Agatha flexed her fingers to keep from wrapping them around the other woman’s throat. “And what choice is that?”

“To keep her safe, to protect her,” Melina said the words like a prayer—sacred, holy.

Agatha swallowed, glancing down at your slackened features, your slightly parted lips. The sound of your labored breathing echoed around the quiet graveyard.

“If this is your idea of protection,” Agatha said. “I’d hate to get on your bad side.”

Melina had the decency to glance away, briefly chastised.

“Question my methods but never my motives,” she said. “What I do, I do from love.“

Agatha stiffened. “Love,” she repeated harshly. “Is that what you call it?”

Melina didn’t back down. “I need to know you will keep her safe,” she hissed. “She’s special, more powerful than she knows. And she’s been hurt. Badly. By her family, by…by me.”

Agatha could see the words cost her something to admit. And not for the first time, her curiosity was piqued about your past. What desperate circumstances had brought you to the doorstep of the infamous Agatha Harkness, the covenless witch?

“These wounds run deep,” Melina continued. “She’ll need someone by her side. For guidance. Counsel. Comfort.”

They stared at each other, each sizing the other up, each refusing to back down. Two apex predators circling, snarling. And between them, a cub.

“Do we understand each other?” Melina asked.

Finally, Agatha inclined her head.

“Say it,” the Russian whispered, eyes glittering in the moonlight.

Agatha glanced down at you, swallowing the lump in her throat. “She belongs to me.”

Melina exhaled, shoulders softening. She approached one last time, reaching into her pocket. Agatha drew back, casting a protective shield.

“Relax,” Melina said dryly, withdrawing a glass vial and offering it to Agatha. “The counteragent.”

She considered Melina, mistrust in every fiber of her being. But she lowered the shield, reached for the vial.

“And understand this, witch,” Melina said, refusing to release her grip on the small glass tube until Agatha had looked her in the eye. “If you hurt her, there’s no curse you can cast, no spell you can weave that will keep you safe from me.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Agatha’s face.

“Likewise,” she growled, snatching the vial out of Melina’s hand and administering it immediately. You stirred, inhaling the red mist and coughing weakly.

With a final, longing look at your face, the Russian turned and disappeared into the night.

—————-

You blinked, awareness coming back slowly. The first thing you realized was that you were exhausted, more tired than you’d ever been in your life. The second thing you realized was that someone was holding you, warm arms encircling your waist, long fingers clutching your hip.

“She belongs to me.”

Agatha?

The words sounded far away, but you could feel the rumble of her voice against your chest.

The claim made you smile. Or it would have, if you were fully awake and not tired down to your very bones. As it was, the edges of your lips faintly quirked upward. But who was she talking to? You drifted off again.

“The counteragent.”

This new voice also sounded familiar. It filtered into your foggy brain, taking a few minutes to click.

Melina. You inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open. The moon had finally broken through the clouds, casting a bright silvery glow on the ground.

“There you are.”

Your vision swam, but you were able to focus on Agatha’s face. She looked worried.

“Hi,” you said softly, glancing around. “Did we win?”

“The battle, if not the war.”

You coughed. “Why does my mouth taste like anti-freeze?”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, wagering a guess. “The antidote?”

“Blech,” you said, smacking your lips. “Needs a flavor enhancer.”

“Well unfortunately your little friend is gone,” Agatha smirked. “So you’ll have to share your feedback via mail.”

“‘Kay.” You smiled, feeling dizzy. “My head hurts.”

“A side effect of whatever she drugged you with,” Agatha murmured, eyes sweeping over your face with renewed concern. “What else?”

You tried to sit up, but Agatha held you in place.

“Wait,” she said, running her hands over your shoulders, your chest, your ribs. Her eyes fluttered closed, like she was listening for something.

“What are you doing?” Not that you were complaining. The gentle pressure of her fingertips was far from unwelcome.

“Looking for internal injuries.” She pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “You pushed your magic to its limits tonight.”

“Is that what this is?” You slumped against her, snuggling into her body heat. “Feels like I got hit by a train.”

Agatha didn’t laugh. “You could have done serious damage with that little stunt.”

“Stunt?” You repeated faintly, too tired to be properly outraged at this mischaracterization. “She was trying to kidnap me, I had to do something!”

Agatha hummed, leaning back. She reached out, wiping the blood from your upper lip.

“What’s the prognosis?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ll live.”

“Good,” you sighed. “Now let’s go home.”

She pulled you to your feet, watching every movement like a hawk. You were unsteady, swaying a little. Agatha looped an arm around your waist.

“Tell me, pet,” she said as you limped toward the cemetery gates together. “You have a thing for brunettes?”

Your eyebrows shot up. Agatha elaborated.

“First, you and the Russian…” she said. “Now you and me.”

You and me. The words sparked something warm and lovely in your chest. You licked your lips, giving a shrug. “It’s a long story.”

She gave you a sideways look. “We’ve got time.”

A reluctant smile danced across your features, and the sound of your soft laughter echoed in the graveyard.

“Alright then.” You paused, patting your breast pocket. “I’ll give you the abridged version.”

You shook the last cigarette out of your pack, flicked the lighter against your pants, then brought it to your lips.

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had magical powers,” you began, taking a long drag. “She was very lonely for many years, and very misunderstood…”

“Doesn’t sound like a story with a happy ending,” Agatha murmured, helping you navigate an uneven part of the path that had been broken by roots. You looked over, considering her in the pale moonlight. She caught your gaze and stilled for a moment.

“What?” She asked gruffly.

You offered her the cigarette. Agatha gave you a reproachful look, then plucked it from your fingers, taking a small irritated puff. You grinned.

“We’ll see about that happy ending,” you said softly, turning to continue onward. “We’ll see.”

#agatha harkness x apprentice!reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness #melina vostokoff #agatha harkness fanfic #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you

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sheep-from-rad · 5 months ago

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[[Disclaimer]]: this fic is not meant to offend anyone who practices. Thank you. Also most headcanons I wrote here are the ones that I know. Lastly, in addition to the previous sentence, my knowledge might not be the same as what other people do. Not every practice is the same and thus should not be generalized. Thank you again :D

dividers by: @adornedwithlight

. . . Okay but imagine a Witch! Yuu getting transported/isekai-d to Twisted Wonderland instead

Witch! Yuu who spends breaks and vacant periods studying about the new world in the library. From time to time Professor Trein will join them for tea and discussions. I like to think that Professor Trein and maybe even Lilia will personally take Witch! Yuu into a mentorship. Yuu learns about the magic and history of Twisted Wonderland and they share knowledge about their own world. I can also see Malleus and Riddle joining this. Not every practitioner chooses to work with deities, angels, or infernals (because like I said, every practice is unique) but discussing them with these people will be really fun. Fun like eye opening and fun like existential crisis inducing.

Witch! Yuu who was met by a raised eyebrow from Master Crewel when they started using moonwater on their potion. Master Crewel initially hesitated but their potion came out great and the effect is even greater. Soon enough after being told to remain after class, Crewel now makes and tests moonwater on other potions. Vil who learnt that moonwater is good for skin had also started using it on his routine, using it for morning and night face wash. Moonwater also became a debate to Octavinelle members especially by Azul and Jade. The idea of living inside a powerful source of magic and not harnessing it properly, Azul felt like he was cheated and felt like he just lost imaginary madols.

Witch! Yuu who bonds a lot with Sam. The two can spend hours trying the decks and providing free readings to the customers (and pitching them to buy the deck). It started as a small gimmick due to the oversupply of cards but now it has become a permanent addition to the shop and Witch! Yuu gets at least 15% cut to each card sale and store discount.

Witch! Yuu who aces their biology lessons because of their knowledge of herbs. They have traded notes with the other first years and were even approached by higher year students who have hard time memorizing. Ace jokingly tried Witch!Yuu to make those paid tutorial notes but Witch! Yuu doesn’t want to dethrone Azul’s business. The land around Ramshackle turned out to be rich enough to have herbs and vegetables buried around it. Ruggie gets his fair share of harvest too, in exchange for a watering job. Whenever there’s a leftover in the harvest, Witch!Yuu makes tea brews for their friends, personalized for their needs.

Witch! Yuu who has Cater on their top contact because he provides them with the monthly moon phases and astrological phenomenon around Twisted Wonderland. Cater too had to ask permission from Riddle every week so him and the Witch! Yuu can meet at the NRC observatory for moon gazing and stargazing sessions. The weekly moon gazing and Witch! Yuu’s company made Cater’s self-talk kinder and he also gained more following because of the beautiful night sky pictures he posts every week.

Witch! Yuu who tags along with Jade on his mountain hiking trips. Jade is mostly there to pick up new mushrooms while Witch! Yuu is out there to pick up bones and crystals. Sam has a sale of those in this shop but there’s a certain excitement in picking your own stuff, immersing yourself in nature, and it also helps them familiarize and map out places in Twisted wonderland. Jade may or may not have tried pursuing them to join the Octavinelle group.

Witch! Yuu who buried a protection jar to places where overblot happened (minus dwarves’ mine). Witch! Yuu doesn’t know if Crowley ever looks back to the places where each incident happened so they took it upon themselves to make a move. Heartslabyul’s protection jar is buried under the rose hedge. Savanaclaw’s protection jar is buried under the benches (they can’t put it right on the field because it can break and that’s dangerous for the players). Octavinelle’s protection jar is hidden inside the vault, Witch! Yuu gave it to them after the incident.

Scarabia’s jar is hidden inside the treasure room. No one really goes there so it’s safe. If ever someone tries to go there, the Magic carpet is tasked to either hide it or take it away and fly away. Pomefiore gets two jar: One for the overblot location (Coliseum) and one for Pomefiore dorm. The coliseum’s jar is hidden in some unknown location behind the stage and the Pomefiore’s jar is buried in the woods. It’s hard to slip back into Ignihyde’s dorm without alerting anyone which is why their jar is on Ortho’s safekeeping. Diasomnia gets two jars as well. One is buried in the castle basement and one is given to Lilia.

Witch! Yuu created one for Ramshackle as well. They gave it to the ghosts for safekeeping. Witch! Yuu hopes that it keeps Grim safe even when they have already left Twisted Wonderland.

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vee-crytraps · 5 months ago

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Hiii vee! Just out of curiosity... what do you think each batboys ideal way to ask bb to be their valentine ? Hope you have a wonderful rest of your day <3

Hi!!! Omg this is such a cute question!! Looong post but hope you like! <3 Happy belated Valentines Day to all!

Dick Suave. Shameless. Thoughtful. You don't really pay that much attention to Dick's presence in the manor. There's no point of perking up like a bored puppy when you see that flash of striking blue and inky black, stretched across the strong chest that was the unfortunate source of your earliest 'tinglings'. Entraced in your upside down doomscrolling session on the sofa, you don't even notice the frown that tugs the corners of his lips when you fail to greet him with your usual enthusiasm. Or at all, really. He clears his throat once, and then twice- which finally gets you to drop your phone and right yourself. "Hi." "Hey," he grins, setting a duffel bag at your feet. "Sooo, you're gonna wanna get dressed. And...I kinda can't tell you why." You don't know what you're expecting- but it isn't the Rouge Astronomers Gown and a matching domino mask. "Dick-" "Please, little wing?" You have literally no idea why you're wearing noise dampening earplugs, or how no one saw two distinctly dressed figures grappling into the rafters of Gotham Square Garden- but you do know what it's like to see Juno performed live, soaking up the vibrations of Nightwing's own humming as you lean into his chest. "Will you?" "Huh?" The whites of your mask convey confusion, and then understanding. "Oh." You snort, glancing back down to the dancing Sabrina Carpenter. "What? Let you make me Juno?" "No," he laughs, and you can feel his arm tuck you closer into him as the other fishes for a heart shaped card. "My puns aren't that bad." BB Mine? "You sure about that, Nightwing?" Jason Jason in my head has the capacity to be an old school romantic (even more of a romantic than Dick) but he doesn't have the confidence to do something as overt as he'd like. Jason's desire to look cool and his history of comparing his game to Dick's makes for a storm of overcompensating via nonchalance. But it's super obvious because the romance still comes through in the end. So he'd: - ask BB if she was free 'on Friday' (Valentines Day) - if she wanted to go to 'this bookstore opening' (it's a romance only bookstore such like Lovestruck in Boston). - if she's hungry, they can 'grab something to eat' (it's a picnic. He made the ice tea pink) You'd lay together tucked away in a corner of Robinson Park, full on little treats and pastries and ice tea. You'd share his earbuds, the short wires forcing you into close proximity as you listen to an audiobook together. "Jay?" "Mm." "Is this a date?" "...Do you want it to be a date?" "Jace." "Princess." "Be my Valentine?" You ask, prodding a finger right over his heart. "Is that all I'm worth to you, BB? No card? No Hoizer? No heart shaped- ow!" He groans dramatically as you shove him, and the playfighting that ensues ends with him allowing you to pin him. "Well, if you're gonna beat it out of me," he sighs. "Yeah, sure. I'll be your Valentine." Tim "Whose the lucky guy?" Silas asks as he pushes off the gates marking the entrance to the academy. Students huddle together, whispering behind their hands and doing full 180s to glimpse you in the courtyard. Arm thrown around your shoulders, Silas guides you to your locker. It's stickerbombed with motifs of glitterfied conversation hearts toting classic phrases like 'Luv U', 'XOXO' and 'UR Cute'. There's no note on your locker. You side-eye Silas, who raises his hands in full surrender.

"Learned my lesson last time." He announces, but not to you. He's glancing at Damien, who leans against his own locker looking more displeased than with his usual resting Bat face. The final straw is when you open your locker, shutting your eyes out of reflex as an air cannon full of rose petals and glitter kindly decorates you and a few curious peers. You don't even have to look at your phone to know whose calling.

Fishing the vibrating device from your blazer, you scowl as the screen goes pink, save for some text. BE MINE? -TIM YES | NO (will brick ur phone </3) Damien You think next year, you're gonna ask Bruce if Jason was left out of the Christmas cards by choice. When he first started wearing the bat again, he'd vehemently denied any non-life threatening get togethers with extreme prejudice, but it's been years. Maybe all he needed was another push. You'd hate to think you all have been excluding Jason all these years on an assumption. As Dick, Tim and Bruce help the photographer finish the last of the set up, Damian hands you Ace's brush. You two have been tasked to be the animal wranglers this year (and every year), which involves making sure the handsome black dogs not only look their best, but are pumped full of enough treats not to mind the excessive repositioning. "Do you still check your google calendar?" Damien asks, running Titus' brush down the dog's neck. "Uh, yeah. Why?" "I need some...assistance. With an engagement." "Vague. When?" "Nine weeks from now. You'll recieve a reminder a few hours beforehand."

#v.ask #v.snippet #damian wayne x reader #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #Tim drake x reader #glb!

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0silver0dreams0 · 6 months ago

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"Whispers of Devotion"

Pt. III

Yandere House of the dragon x ModernReborn!Reader

Summarized: Gradually, as time passes, the girl she once was begins to transform into a woman. Those around her take notice, and the actions of those in her life start to bear consequences. As tensions rise, rivalries deepen, and complex feelings begin to intertwine.

Warning: hatred, love macking, mutual masturbation, clues of incest, forbidden love and stalking.

<< Pt. 2 — masterlist — Pt. 4 >>

When will they finally leave you alone? Letter after letter after letter. They just don’t understand—you don’t want them anymore. Jacaerys, Rhaenyra, Daemon, even that insufferable boy Lucerys. You burned their letters in the fireplace without hesitation. You don’t care about them; you only wish for their suffering and demise, imagining it vividly before see them with your eyes. But you force yourself to set those thoughts aside. They are a distraction, and distractions displease your mother. Every minute of your day is accounted for, each task meticulously planned to maintain the illusion of perfection. If you falter—if you make a single misstep—Alicent will not forgive you. She will punish you, lock you in your chambers for hours, sometimes days, leaving you isolated with nothing but your thoughts.

You live to please her. To earn her approval. To become the daughter she expects you to be.

8:00 - Etiquette lessons 9:00 - Dance lessons 10:00 - Bath 11:00 - History lessons 12:00 - Go to the Great Sept with Alicent 13:00 - Have tea with Alicent 14:00 - Valyrian lessons 15:00 - Lunch with your family 16:00 - Watch Aemond train and encourage him 17:00 - Talk to Alicent about everything that happened during the day 18:00 - Sneak into the kitchen to eat something 19:00 - Pray Alicent doesn’t notice you ate something 20:00 - Read 21:00 - Prepare for bed 22:00 - Sleep

It’s almost noon, which means it’s time to accompany Alicent to the Great Sept. Yet, as the clock ticks closer to the hour, temptation claws at you. There’s a small gap in your schedule, just enough time for a stolen moment. You glance around to ensure no one is watching before slipping away to the gardens.

He’s waiting for you, leaning casually against a stone column, his armour glinting faintly in the sunlight, he was there, with his brown eyes, his blonde hair, Ser Alaric. The sight of him brings a rush of warmth to your chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says softly, though the smile on his face betrays his words. “I could say the same to you,” you tease, stepping closer. “But I’m glad you are.” He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours—a touch so fleeting it almost feels like a dream. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Princess. If your brother finds out…”

You tense at the mention of Aemond. He must never know about this, about you and Alaric. Aemond’s protectiveness would turn violent in an instant, and you dread to think what he might do.

“He won’t find out,” you assure him, though your voice is quieter than you intended. “I won’t let him.” Alaric studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he nods. “Just be careful. For both our sakes.”

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps makes you both freeze. Your heart leaps into your throat as you whip around to see Aemond standing at the edge of the garden, his sharp gaze fixed on you.

“(your name),” he calls out, his tone neutral but his eye narrowing slightly. “What are you doing here?” You force a smile, stepping away from Alaric as casually as you can. “I had a bit of free time before prayer. I thought I’d take a walk.”

“And you, Ser Alaric?” Aemond’s voice hardens as he shifts his attention to the knight. “I was ensuring the Princess’s safety,” Alaric replies smoothly, bowing his head. Aemond’s gaze lingers on him for a moment before turning back to you. “Mother is waiting. You should go.”

You nod quickly, glancing at Alaric one last time before following Aemond.

When you arrive at the Sept, Alicent is already there, her gaze darkening the moment it lands on you.

"You’re late," she says, her tone sharp and clipped. “I apologize, Mother. I—” “I’ve no interest in your excuses.” She steps closer, her expression cold and unyielding. “You’ve been acting irresponsibly of late—sneaking off like a petulant child. I won’t allow it any longer.” Her voice is calm but cuts through you with the precision of a blade.

“After prayers, you will return to your chambers,” she continues, each word deliberate. “And you will remain there until I decide otherwise. Perhaps solitude will instil the discipline you so clearly lack.”

You open your mouth to object, but her piercing glare stops you mid-breath. Any protest dies on your lips.

The prayers are long and stifling, each moment stretching painfully under the weight of her disapproval. When they finally conclude, Alicent herself escorts you back to your chambers, her grip firm as though she fears you might slip away.

The heavy door shuts behind you with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

Left alone, you search your bed, hoping the books you’d hidden earlier might still be there. They aren’t. In fact, none of your hidden belongings remain. Realisation dawns—she must have discovered them. That’s why she was so angry.

With no distractions to occupy your mind, you lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe sleep will offer a reprieve. But the hours drag on, the silence pressing against you like an iron weight. Just as the last light of day fades, a soft knock breaks the stillness, startling you.

“Aemond?” you call out hesitantly.

The door creaks open, and your brother steps inside, a tray of food in hand and a book tucked under his arm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, though relief rushes through you.

“And leave you to starve?” he replies simply. He sets the tray down on your desk before sitting beside you on the bed. “Mother can be harsh, but she forgets—you're human, not an extension of her will.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a tentative bite of the bread he brought. “But if she finds out, she’ll punish me even more.”

“I’ll speak with Father,” he says, his voice calm but resolute. “Perhaps he’ll see that Mother has gone too far.”

Your fingers graze the book he hands you, and for the first time in hours, a faint smile graces your lips. “You’re always looking out for me,” you say softly.

Aemond’s gaze lingers, his voice low but steady. “They don’t see you for who you are. To Mother, you’re a pawn; to them, a symbol. But I see you.”

Your breath hitches, his words stirring something deep within you. Before you can reply, he gently brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“I know how she treats you,” he continues, his tone measured but intense. “Always demanding, always expecting. But you don’t have to bear it alone. I’ll always be here.”

“Aemond…” you begin, unsure of what to say, but he interrupts with a faint smile. “Rest. If she troubles you again tomorrow, come to me—or Father. I’ll handle it.”

Without waiting for a response, he rises, his movements deliberate. At the door, he pauses, glancing back with a rare softness in his eyes.

“Remember, I’m always here.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left with a strange mixture of comfort and unease. Aemond’s presence was your refuge, but his intensity… it left a lingering weight in the air.

It was already dark when you decided to take a bath. Perhaps it would help ease the tension gripping your body. Surely Mother wouldn’t mind—not if it was just a few minutes to the bathing chambers nearby.

The corridor was silent as you slipped out, your footsteps a soft echo in the stillness. You moved swiftly, heart racing with the thrill of disobedience. Reaching the bathing chamber, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, pushing the heavy door shut behind you.

But before it could close, a hand shot out, stopping it. Panic flared as another arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back, and a hand covered your mouth before you could scream. Your heart pounded, every nerve on edge, until the faint scent of leather and cedarwood registered.

“Relax,” came a low, familiar voice, its velvety tone tinged with amusement. “It’s just me.” You pull his hand away and whirl around, your expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “You scared me half to death!” you whisper fiercely, mindful of the echoing corridors outside.—”

“Forgive me, my lady. I couldn’t resist.”

“This isn’t funny,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “If Mother knew you were here—”

“She’d lock you away again?” he finished, his smile fading as his brown eyes softened. “I know. That’s why I had to see you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you trapped in that room, alone, while she wields her control over you.”

His words sent a rebellious spark through you, a flicker of validation in the face of your mother’s suffocating expectations. But just as quickly, the reality of your situation weighed it down. “Alaric, you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, glancing nervously at the door. “If Aemond finds out…”

At the mention of your brother, Alaric’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “Aemond won’t find out. And even if he did, I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “He’d kill you if he thought—”

“That I cared for you?” Alaric said quietly, his gaze piercing.

Your breath caught, and you looked away, heat rising to your cheeks. “You shouldn’t care for me,” you muttered. “It’s not safe—for either of us.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up, his touch gentle but insistent. “I don’t care about the risk, (your name). I’d rather face Aemond’s sword and your mother’s wrath than stay away from you.”

The weight of his words struck you, before you can stop yourself, you close the distance between you. Grabbing his arm, you pull him back, your heart pounding. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your waist as you lean in, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that drowns out every rule, every fear, and every consequence.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was desperation and lust, a silent scream against the forces trying to pull you apart. For a fleeting moment, the world dissolved. No Mother. No Aemond. No suffocating expectations. Just Alaric and the reckless hope he represented.

When you finally pulled away, your breaths came fast, and your cheeks burned. Alaric’s eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak, his thumb brushing the curve of your jaw.

“I…” you started, but your words faltered.

His lips curved into a faint smile, tender yet resolute. “Say the word, and I’ll stay. No matter what.”

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No. Not tonight. But… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he echoed, one brow lifting in curiosity.

“Here,” you said firmly. “The same time, the same place. I’ll find a way.”

He studied you for a moment, as if weighing the risk against the determination in your eyes. Then, he nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

With a final lingering kiss to your forehead, he stepped back toward the window. “Don't let her break you. Be careful, (your name).”

“You too,” you whispered, watching him slip into the night, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows.

As the quiet of the chamber settled around you, your fingers brushed your lips, the memory of his kiss still vivid. The enormity of what had happened began to sink in, but instead of fear, a strange exhilaration coursed through you.

The following day dawns with an air of tension you can’t quite shake. As you dress for your morning lessons, the memory of last night lingers like a forbidden dream. You replay every word, every touch, every moment with Alaric, but reality presses in too soon.

When you enter the dining hall for breakfast, Alicent’s gaze immediately locks onto you. Her expression is stiff, and her tone, when she speaks, carries a sharp edge.

“Sit,” she says curtly, her eyes flicking toward the chair opposite her.

You do as instructed, lowering yourself into the seat. Aemond is already there, silent but watchful as always, and Viserys occupies his usual place at the head of the table. His expression, however, is uncharacteristically lively this morning, his gaze softening when it lands on you.

“Good morning, my dear,” Viserys says warmly, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Good morning, Father,” you reply, a cautious smile tugging at your lips.

He waves a hand dismissively toward the plate before you. “Eat well. And don’t worry about that ridiculous punishment. You’re free to go about your day as you please.”

You blink in surprise, your fork pausing mid-air. Alicent stiffens visibly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Viserys—” she begins, her voice tightly controlled, but he raises a hand to silence her.

“She’s done nothing to warrant being locked away, Alicent,” he says firmly, though his tone remains even. “Our daughter is a credit to this family. She carries herself with grace and dignity, and I won’t have her treated like some wayward child.”

Alicent’s hands clench in her lap, her composure barely holding. “It’s not about grace or dignity. It’s about discipline. She’s been sneaking off—”

“And you dealt with it, as you always do,” Viserys interrupts, his tone softening but leaving no room for argument. “But she’s learned her lesson, hasn’t she?” He glances at you with a fatherly smile.

“Yes, Father,” you reply quietly, your gaze lowering to avoid Alicent’s piercing stare.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Viserys returns to his meal, clearly considering the matter closed.

The tension at the table is palpable as Alicent pointedly cuts her food, the sound of her knife scraping against the plate unnervingly loud. Aemond exchanges a glance with you, a subtle flicker of support in his eye, but says nothing.

After breakfast, Alicent corners you just outside the hall, her voice low and sharp.

“Your father may see you as flawless, but perfection comes with a cost,” she hisses, her gaze cold. “You will not jeopardise what we’ve worked so hard to build with your recklessness.”

You swallow hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, Mother.”

Her glare intensifies, her tone biting. “You are the model of what a princess should be, and you will act accordingly. The court looks to you for inspiration, and I will not have them see weakness. Your lessons will continue, every one of them, and I will ensure your Septa does not coddle you.”

“Yes, Mother,” you reply, your voice steady but soft.

She studies you for a moment longer before sweeping away, her skirts rustling angrily behind her. The encounter leaves you standing tall, not because of fear, but because you know the weight of perfection that has been placed upon you—a weight you have always borne with grace.

The day stretches on, a never-ending cycle of lessons and expectations. Each moment is meticulously scheduled, a testament to your role as the perfect princess. Etiquette lessons are followed by hours spent discussing history, with each lecture becoming more and more of a blur. Valyrian is mastered with grace, the elegant words flowing from your lips as if they were second nature. The pressure to be flawless weighs heavily on you, but you bear it with an air of calm, never allowing it to show.

Throughout it all, Alicent remains a constant presence. She watches your every move, her sharp gaze never leaving you. You know she is pleased with your progress, but there is always a lingering sense of expectation in the air, as if the tiniest misstep would undo everything.

Even as you move from one task to another, the thought of Alaric flickers at the edges of your mind. The stolen kiss, the promise made—these moments linger in your thoughts like a secret thread woven through the fabric of your day. You push the thoughts aside, knowing you must focus on your duties. There is no room for distractions, not when you must remain perfect in every way.

Lunch comes and goes, a quiet affair with your family. You speak with your mother and Aegon, though your words are carefully measured. They don’t know—none of them do—but you catch Aegon’s eyes occasionally, a silent understanding passing between you. Afterward, you attend more lessons, this time under your mother’s watchful eye. Her gaze is always on you, sharp and piercing, but there’s also an unspoken encouragement there. She expects greatness, and you deliver it.

As the afternoon wanes, you move to your final task of the day: another meeting with Alicent. She inspects your progress with a critical eye, praising the things you’ve done well and reminding you of the things that still need perfecting. Her voice is firm, but there’s a gentleness there, too, the kind that only a mother can convey.

The hours pass like this, one after another, each duty completed to the highest standard. Finally, the evening arrives, and with it, the promise of a brief respite. Dinner with the family is a quiet affair, the room filled with the soft clinking of utensils and murmured conversation. You eat in silence, your mind elsewhere.

Afterward, you retire to your chambers. You change into your nightgown, the fabric cool against your skin. You look in the mirror for a moment, seeing the poised princess staring back at you. No mistakes. No cracks in the façade. Everything has been handled with perfect care.

You make your way to the bath chambers, the solitude of the corridors a small comfort. As you approach the door, you hear a voice from behind.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, and you freeze mid-step.

Turning slowly, you face her, the tension building in the air. “I’m going to take a bath, Mother,” you answer calmly, offering her a small, composed smile.

Alicent looks you over, her gaze lingering on your attire. “In that? Why are you dressed like that? You know it’s improper to go without the servants’ help.” Her tone is questioning, but not unkind.

“I didn’t want to trouble them, Mother,” you reply smoothly. “I thought I would go on my own this time, just to... clear my thoughts.”

Alicent studies you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Very well,” she says, her voice softening slightly. “But you must remember to call for help if you need it. Don’t forget your place, (your name).”

You nod quickly. “Of course, Mother. I won’t be long.”

She gives you one last scrutinising look before nodding, satisfied for the moment. “See that you don’t. You’ve done well today, but there’s always more to be done. I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the quiet of the corridor. You exhale slowly, the tension in your body relaxing. Without another word, you slip into the bath chambers, and then you hear a sound outside the window. It’s him.

You approach the window, heart racing, and peek through the gap in the curtains. Alaric stands there, his presence unmistakable even in the dim light. His gaze meets yours, and the weight of the promise you made to each other the night before hangs in the air. The excitement builds in you as you move away from the window, quickly securing the door.

Moments later, the door creaks open just enough to reveal Alaric slipping inside, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. His gaze lingers on your nightgown, the soft fabric clinging to your form in the dim light. You feel his eyes on you, heat rising in your chest. Neither of you speaks immediately—words are unnecessary now. The anticipation crackles between you, and it’s clear that tonight will be different.

He steps closer, the air thick with tension, and the space between you is filled with a promise of more. You meet his gaze, your heart pounding with the realization of everything you’re about to risk. But you don't care, and you know that neither does he. Without a word, you begin to unlace the ties of your nightgown, letting it fall to the floor at your feet, leaving yourself exposed completely to him. He watches you, his gaze intense, and then, without hesitation, he closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s both hungry and desperate, a mix of desire and an unspoken understanding of the consequences. The kiss deepens, pulling you both into the moment, where nothing else matters but the heat between you, a connection neither of you can deny.

“Wait, I don’t want to be impure, even if I love you too much, and I need you so much that even words can’t describe it,” you say, voice trembling with a mix of desire and guilt. “I don’t want to disappoint my family by being impure before the wedding.”

Alaric watches you, his eyes dark with an intensity that both comforts and unsettles you. Even though you know he’s hungry, his gaze softens with concern, a frown tugging at his features. “Then don’t do it,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost like a promise. “We can always do other things.”

His words are a balm to your anxious heart, yet there’s something deeper in his tone, an unspoken suggestion that he’s willing to go to great lengths to keep you safe, to protect you—his obsession so deeply rooted in his care for you, and yet, there's a hint of something darker behind his gaze.

You hesitate, your hands shaking slightly as you look away, unsure if his care for you is truly all it seems. "But what if... what if I'm not enough for you?"

Alaric steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he lifts your chin gently with one hand. "You are more than enough," he says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "And no matter what happens, I'll make sure you're never alone."

His lips brush your forehead in a tender gesture, but the warmth doesn't quite reach your heart. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken promise of his love—and perhaps something more—pressing on you.

"You don't need to worry," he adds, his words both comforting and possessive. "I'll take care of everything. You just need to trust me."

And before you can say anything, he runs his hand down your body, touching your tits, your belly, all the way down to your private parts. You feel his fingers on your clitoris, circling, you want to moan, but before you do, his other hand goes to your mouth. As his head moves down your neck, kissing and sucking, but not leaving any marks. You were feeling so good, you don't know what he is doing down there and then he move away his hand of your mouth, and grabs yours, and guide to his dick and star to make moves.

"Just let me make you feel good too, all right, my lady?" Alaric’s voice is soft yet commanding, a tone that leaves no room for doubt.

You nod silently, your mind hazy and overwhelmed. You don’t fully understand what you’re doing; all you know is that you feel so good, so utterly consumed by the moment, that everything else fades into the background.

You barely notice what he’s doing with your hand or how quickly he’s guiding it. His touch is deliberate, firm, yet somehow gentle enough to keep you entranced.

You don’t have any idea what’s happening; the world around you blurs into pleasure and nothingness. All you know is the sensation—the warmth spreading through you, the dizzying rush of emotions—and the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only thing that matters in his entire world.

Pt. 4 >>

Author’s note: My apologies for the delay, I��ve had a busy few months, but I’m here now, and I hope to release part 4 very soon. Tomorrow, I’ll be posting some headcanons that I hope you’ll enjoy.

Taglist: @ursinaw @dakota-rain666 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @pookiedragonfire @jjggdfvvy @maryldrsstuff @1soultaken @ceramic-raven @eissaaaa @moodyblueberrytree @xadaboo @labryel @zoeyburton @hopingtoclearmedschool

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