#Someone get this guy some chamomile tea!

[taralen]

Spamton's paranoid and demented POV to the other image I did. Both are dreaming, but one is having a nightmare. His trembling hand freezes, unable to curl his fingers around her neck despite how much she disgusts him... Image Pair:

Translations of the Japanese text:

君は[[誰]]だ？= Who are you? これは悪夢だ！= This is a nightmare! 私は特別なはずなんだ！= I'm supposed to be special! 消えろ！= Disappear! ミスはしていない! = I made no mistakes! そうだろ？= Right? Spamton shares a dream with Thetalan/Theta, my White Addison OC, who torments him by merely existing despite having no power or prestige. Convinced by an enigmatic palm reader and the "phone entity" to be the only one worthy of the "deal" he was offered, discovering her completely shatters this reality.

Since childhood, he has believed that he is the only White Addison, making him see himself as special and fated for a glorious path that no one else can share. However, after meeting Theta, he doubts his uniqueness, leading him to develop deep paranoia.

He comes to perceive her as a covert anomalous threat and questions if forces outside his control made her to ruin him by forcing doubt upon his choices and fate.

For my psychological horror AU, LoveLetter.

[sweetfwr]

(TEASER!) MISSION: MATRIMONY ˒˒ yjw

your handler was very clear what your mission entailed: get in, get information, then get out, no matter the cost. when you find yourself in a sham marriage to avoid suspicion from the enemy country’s government, you begin to realize the cracks in your ever-so-sweet husband’s facade. turns out, the enemy might be even closer than you thought.

pairing) spy!jungwon x spy!reader

tags) fluff, enemies to lovers, romantic comedy, action

wc) SOON

warnings) mentions of killing, injury, weapons, violence, and more.

your husband was hiding something.

whether it was a mistress, a huge debt to an evil loan shark, or a criminal record, you were yet to find out. even if your money was on the mistress. honestly, that was what landed you in couple’s therapy in the first place.

so you sat primly in a therapist’s office — legs crossed, arms folded, and the big, fat diamond itching on your ring finger itching like guilt. truly, how did you let his big secret elude you? you’re a spy, for god’s sake. you escape death on the daily, uncover national secrets, and get rid of dirty politicians, yet you can’t figure out where your husband heads on his own after dark? or why exactly he leaves no trace of his activities?

doctor kim’s office reeked of lavender room spray and he smiled like someone that reupholstered his own furniture and drank chamomile by the gallon. he adusted his glasses for a moment, clearing his throat and letting his eyes wander to his clipboard.

your husband beat him to it.

“that’s jungwon. with a j.”

his voice was steady, pleasant, even warm. the kind of voice that could pull you to sleep— or into your demise if you didn’t know better. except you did. your husband was lying to you, and you were yet to find out just how catastrophic the situation really was.

jungwon sat in the sad, beige lounge chair beside yours and smiled like he meant it. teeth pearly white, hair parted neatly, and not a wrinkle in his carefully ironed shirt, he looked every bit the image of a loving spouse.

you resisted the urge to douse him with kim’s steaming cup of tea.

doctor kim only nodded, humming and scribbling something down on his notepad.

“well,” the doctor started, chuckling when you and your spouse tensed up ever so slightly.”i’m going to start off by letting you both know that this is a safe space. no judging or assigning blame, and especially no hurting each other.”

the softest of laughs followed. “you’re not going to kill your spouse. neither of you are murderers.”

as if on cue, the two of you offered the oblivious man across you tight smiles and awkward chuckles.

except now, your neatly polished nails were curling into the arm rests and jungwon’s arm was twitching like he was calculating the distance between him and the nearest emergency exit.

“just to clarify—we don’t need marriage counseling. this is just… a healthy little check in.” jungwon spoke, as if the chill in the room didn’t exist.

you turned to stare at him, before slowly nodding stiffly in agreement. “right. like a dentist appointment, but for our marriage.”

the doctor only blinked, before moving to furiously scribble down notes on what you believed to be his thoughts and observations about how you were the strangest couple he’d ever given aid to.

kim nodded, likely regretting every certification framed on his wall. “you’re not alone in that mindset. a lot of couples come to me just to strengthen their bond. say, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your ability to talk through conflict?”

“7.” you said, almost immediately. it was robotic and held no emotion, like you had planned out answers for specific questions beforehand.

jungwon’s confident “9.” followed right after.

you turned to him slowly, and he tilted his head at you like this were some quaint dinner conversation and not a literal bomb waiting to detonate all over your lives.

“that’s generous,” you said.

“what can i say? i’m a generous guy,” your spouse replied smoothly, and you held his stare with an intensity that made the third party in the room begin to sweat.

the doctor cleared the tightness in his throat, the lavender diffuser puffing in the corner like it was nervous too. you and your husband stayed as cool and collected as ever, despite the fact that you were making a mental note to hide his keys later. and oh, you were going to hide them good.

“well,” he said carefully. “do the both of you feel heard by your partner?”

you really thought about this one. your husband always looked like he was listening, staring at you intently and leaning into your every word. head tilted and hands folded, you had to give it to him. he did make you feel heard.

that is, if you didn’t feel like he was calculating the pressure points on your neck half the time.

“sure,” you responded curtly. jungwon pursed his lips, looking as if he didn’t like how you were already bored of the conversation. “he listens.”

completely disregarding his previous expression, your partner smiles graciously. “and she talks a lot.”

“excuse me?” you turned to him, completely and utterly fed up with his bullshit responses as if you weren’t paying this damn counsellor 300 bucks an hour to keep up appearances. your killing and spying for a living can only make so much.

“honey,” your husband laughed. “i’m just agreeing with you here.”

“i talk a lot,” you smiled, the kind that would make any normal person flinch. except, your freakishly perfect husband was no normal person. ”mind elaborating?”

he didn’t react. of course he didn’t. a lot of your inner hatred towards him was rooted from how good he was at pretending. at being a doting husband. a cardigan-wearing, camellia-watering, perfect man who never had a hair out of place during dinners at 7.

”just saying,” jungwon said, leaning back with the manly charm that had you falling into his honey trap in the first place. “sometimes i don’t even have to speak. it’s like she’s having the conversation for the both of us.

you scoffed, and something tells you your husband is well aware of how he’s irritated you.

from beside you, jungwon smirked in his seat. and you?

unsure whether you wanted to kiss him or kill him.

like 4 tag once released!

[pomefioredove]

nightmares

summary: some chars I think would take care of a reader who has nightmares type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, vil, lilia, silver, malleus additional info: reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, this is self indulgent lol, platonic or romantic, not proofread, maybe a little ooc for a few ones

𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

he initially assumes you're just staying up to slack off

you are friends with Ace and Deuce, after all

it takes a good scolding from him before you sheepishly admit that you've been having nightmares and thus losing sleep

now, Riddle comes from a family of doctors. he's no psychiatrist, but surely he can find a way to help you sleep despite it, right?

he tries everything- chamomile tea, weighted blankets, he even turned a blind eye when Ace and Deuce "borrow" a sleeping potion from the lab

nothing works

of course, this drives him mad. it seems like such a simple problem, and yet your body resists everything

your grades are suffering, and even worse, you seem like a walking corpse

he takes it upon himself to find a solution no matter what

and, of course, you have nothing to lose, so you indulge him

nothing medical or magical helps

eventually, he picks up a big psychology book and gets to work on the last thing he can think of

suddenly you're having tea and "talk time" with him twice a week at 4 PM sharp

turns out he kinda likes playing therapist

and if you're late to an appointment, it's off with your head

now you're starting to regret being his guinea pig, as thankful as you are

𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫

you can't what?

sleep?

you can't sleep?

he laughs right to your face, much to your annoyance

who can't sleep? it's easy!

you begrudgingly explain your nightmare problem and he finally shuts up (for once)

after a long silence, he grunts something about learning from the master

big surprise, all of his "master lessons" just mean he gets to use you as a body pillow while you watch

very helpful.

eventually, as much as you hate to admit it, it starts to help

having something soft and warm protectively wrapped around you is as comfortable as it gets

you start managing to sleep through the day undisturbed

then nights

Leona boasts to everyone about fixing their beloved prefect's problem, but even after you're well rested, he's still dragging you back to his favorite nap spots

turns out he doesn't mind the company so much, either

𝐕𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐭

"those eyebags are just dreadful, prefect,"

always perceptive and eternally critical

(AKA he's worried)

he knows right off the bat that something's up, but he doesn't press for answers until you come to him yourself

as tempted as he is to step in, he doesn't want to pressure you to share something you don't want to

he accepts your pleas for help (he's worried) simply because he doesn't want your performance to suffer (he's soooo worried)

he starts out through traditional means- teas, oils, setting your routine to perfection- and eventually starts brewing potions for you

only one per week, he doesn't want you to become reliant

and the side effects can be... a little disruptive

one morning you spontaneously collapse in his arms on the way to your first class

he has to drag you back to Ramshackle to rest, despite your insistence

eventually, he eases you into talking about the dreams

he's there to comfort you about them, someone to lean on (though just for you)

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫

I mean... it's Silver

poor guy probably stumbled into one of your terrifying nightmares by accident

after that he started trying to subtly guide your dreams back to normal

when he gets to, of course

you're not even aware of it in your waking life, and he has no intentions of making his good deed known

it does give him the tiniest sense of accomplishment, though

𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚

similarly to Silver, he's got a thing with sleep

his beloved prefect isn't sleeping well because of nightmares? he wants to help!

(please let him help)

he definitely won't let you refuse out of humility or embarrassment

he'll get you to rest and make sure all of your dreams are pleasant at no cost!

(AKA at the low, low cost of getting to see you so cute in your sleep. you're like a cat to him)

he will never not be fascinated by you

he's so pleased about being your unconscious protector; it makes him feel so wanted

his cute little child of man!

𝐋𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐞

Lilia is no stranger to bad dreams

he's lived a long time; he's seen some things

every once in a while he, too, wakes up covered in sweat and tears

he can't help but feel a sense of longing when you describe your situation

you poor little thing!

right away he offers to keep watch over you, as if guarding you from an unseen enemy force

he's up most of the time, anyway

watching you is no problem!

you think that sounds reasonable enough

by night two you wake up in the early morning with his arms around your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck

little bastard is definitely stealing your body heat

you don't say anything, though- you haven't had a nightmare since

(and neither has he)

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

A sassy Bob that gets worse with everything Walker says and the reader has to meditate between them but it still doesnt work?? (Im bad with ideas sorry.)

Thank you so much for the request (and all the request you've sent🩷) I loved writing it, I hope you enjoy <3

Warnings: just as a heads up this can be seen as either the reader being with Bob or just platonic I didn't really specify. There is language, sassy Bob being a bit unhinged, John is...well he's himself, reader stuck as the team babysitter

Why the hell were you three paired for this mission??? You'll never know. The mission was over. However, the debrief was not. And unfortunately, with how loud Walker's mouth was it seemed like this debriefing would never end. “Listen,” Walker said, crossing his arms as he paced around the meeting table, “if you’d stuck to the plan my plan; we’d have been out twenty minutes earlier. And nobody would’ve had to back track.”

You saw Bob’s expression change before he even opened his mouth. It was subtle. The shift in his jaw. The way his eyes narrowed, just a bit. You groaned under your breath and braced for it. Fuck here we go...

Bob leaned back in his chair with a lazy, syrupy grin. “Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware your plan included me getting shot in the ass because someone forgot to mention there was an extra sniper nest on the west tower.”

“That wasn’t on the intel,” Walker snapped making Bob roll his eyes, “Well damn, maybe if we got your ego out of the way, the satellite feed might’ve picked it up.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Guys---”

“No, no,” Walker said, waving you off. “I’m not gonna stand here and be disrespected just because Bobby boy got his feelings hurt.”

“Oh no,” Bob said, standing up so slowly it made the room feel five degrees colder, “my feelings are fine. But your so-called leadership skill? That’s a damn crime scene.”

You tried to wedge yourself between them physically, which was laughable since they were both taller and much broader but at least it made them pause for a second and look at you like you were crazy. “Okay, timeout. We're gonna just take a breather. Bob, Walker, just take a deep breath —”

“I’d rather inhale bleach,” Bob muttered. Walker rolled his eyes. “This is pointless.”

“You know what’s actually pointless?” Bob shot back. “Having a team leader whose IQ matches the number of his ‘hot takes’ per minute.”

“Bob,” you hissed. “Darling. Dial it back.” But he was practically sizzling now, full of momentum and honestly, he was just an unstoppable sass machine.

“No, seriously,” Bob said, stepping around you and blocking you from John's view just slightly. “You walk into every mission like a discount Captain America and act surprised when your plans blows up. Literally. Like, John, babe, sweetheart, how do you keep forgetting the basics of cover fire?”

Walker’s jaw twitched. “I don’t need to take this from some guy who talks like his entire personality is just sarcasm and chamomile tea.” Bob blinked. Then smiled sweet and slow, like a knife being unsheathed.

“I do drink chamomile. Because unlike you, I sleep at night knowing I haven’t endangered my entire team because I wanted to LARP as Steve Rogers with a fucked-up superiority complex.” You walked around Bob again and held out both of your hands like you were directing traffic. “Okay! Okay. Let’s all take a moment to remember we’re on the same team here!”

“No,” Bob said, clapping once. “I think it’s time someone told John that just because he carries a shield doesn’t mean he knows how to protect people. Shocking news, I know this has to be new information for you.” Walker made a low sound that didn’t bode well. “You think you can do better?”

Bob raised a brow. “Do I think?" Bob turned to you mockingly, "Baby, do you think I can do better?" He turned back to Walker before laughing humorlessly. "Johnny boy, I know I can do better, and I don’t even like leading.”

“Okay,” you barked, turning and pointing at both of them. “You—Bob, sit your sassy ass down before I find duct tape to make you. And you Walker, shut your mouth for two minutes or I’m putting your comms on permanent mute.”

There was a tense beat.

Walker opened his mouth. “Don’t,” you warned. “I swear I will set this base on fire.” Bob muttered, “Bet you he doesn’t even know how to use a lighter.”

Your entire face scrunched up completely fed up with the two boys. “ROBERT.” He held his hands up. “Fine. I’m done. I’m silent. Kind of like his tactical awareness.” You made a strangled sound and collapsed into the nearest chair. “I hate both of you.” Bob patted your shoulder, unbothered. “You love me.” Walker grunted. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m charming,” Bob corrected, “and you’re just mad you can’t keep up with that.” They kept bickering. You gave up trying to mediate. Instead, you pulled out your phone, opened a food delivery app, and ordered two milkshakes.

One vanilla. One strawberry.

With a note for the delivery driver:

"Please label these 'For the Problem Children'.Thanks!"

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3 If you'd like to be tagged in future Bob post lmk!

Tagging:

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[iraot]

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

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

I went back to rewatch episode 9 after your brief comments on the “tea drama™️” yesterday because I didn’t pay much attention on the first time and I do agree that the way his waking up was filmed gives a very strong impression that he didn’t drink a simple tea. And all things considered, it would make sense she would want to make sure he wouldn’t wake up during the night to see her packing and recording the ~goodbye TikTok~, so of course there was something in the tea, I don’t think chamomile can make a PTSD light sleeper wake up disoriented.

My biggest grip is how the whole sequence was filmed in a very emotional manipulative way - for the audience - which made the it all feel cheap and cheesy. The other dramatic moments from the show all had a more “serious” aspect to it, I think.

Also I had to check again if Cassian made any promise to find her at some point, since people around here are so sure it would be the first thing he would do as soon as he came back from Scarif (delusional time, the guy is dead). I mean, he had time do to that before, right? It wouldn’t be hard to find her anyway, if he wanted. But he didn’t promise anything, she was the one to make the choice “for both of them” as she said herself.

And just to finish, one thing about their relationship that was always odd to me is how she is always the only one to say “romantic” things to him and not the other way around. Sure, people express their love in different manners and maybe he’s not the one for words anyway, but it just gave me the feeling that type of writing that is “men are too cool to say they love their partner” kind of thing. I guess the most romantic things he ever says to her was “I can’t lose you again” and “this is the most important thing for me. Us” which are… whatever. And well, I’m not rewatching the rest to check anyway. no time for more hetero-anormative cringefest

Just venting some of my main annoyances about the show and how they made him so male gaze-y, even in some small things. By the way, I really enjoy reading your analysis, they’re all very poignant :)

Their romance is so strangely written. Again, at times I was wondering if one writer was trying to strongly hint something that the next writer wasn't picking up on: In their Coruscant apartment, their relationship felt so perfunctory and joyless and almost claustrophobic to me. Excepting that one flirty scene where they're joking about Cassian bringing some of his Karl-Lagerfeld-esque alias into the bedroom (great scene on The Americans on all the ways that might end up fucked up for all parties involved btw, if anyone is looking for a show that actually goes into what being a spy does to you...), we don't see them enjoying being around each other once. Physically, maybe, like it's probably nice to sleep next to someone in the life they're living, but... I absolutely never got the sense they like each other as people, that they have things they admire about each other or enjoy about the other's personality etc. It feels so empty, so much so that I thought it was on purpose at first. Add to that that I thought it was weirdly filmed at times, too (grain of salt, I have not rewatched these scenes, and am not in a hurry to do so). The lighting was always cold and washed-out in that set, day or night, and the camera was often at really odd distances from them, like slightly closer or further away than is conventional, or we got odd over-the-shoulder shots in moments where I felt like romance conventions want you to be able to see both people in the shot etc.

And then the scene at the supermarket! Idk if I was just seeing it through a negative lense at that point, but that felt frightening to me. Like, if you watch the scene in isolation, it looks like someone's abusive marriage. The way he physically tries to stop her from entering the market, then agrees to let her go inside, then immediately changes his mind and gets all up in her shit telling her to leave, and giving the vendor murderous looks for talking to Bix, and she tries to defuse the situation with a joke or maybe give him a little "hey asshole, cut it out" nudge, and he's not giving her an inch, and the vendor awkwardly caught in the middle of all that... And this is yet another case of a bunch of male writers not catching the significance of a scene for a part of their audience. I don't think this was on purpose. I think they meant for us to think, oh, he's being a little much, he's very overprotective. But what I'm inferring from this scene is: this guy is trying extremely hard to control the situation and I don't know if he's above using violence to do it - including violence against his partner. I don't think that implication was supposed to be in there, it's just the all-male writer's room and a male director and honestly a middle-aged male actor performing it, but as a woman about Bix's age I'm watching this scene and thinking "girl, I don't know what this guy might end up doing to you".

This goes back to my little rant about the hangar speech. They really took the guy who defied his superiors, his orders and his whole coping mechanism/belief system to tell a woman that he's choosing to believe her and have her back... and not only negated the whole impact of that moment, because they failed to see the meaning inherent in that for a part of the real-life audience, but they. They fucking accidentally gave this man a whole arc of spousal abuse red flags.

But yeah, all that felt so strange and depressing and suffocating, and I did wonder at the time if the writer of that arc meant for that to be stifling and toxic - I honestly don't know where you would take the story from there, because if they'd just do the reasonable thing and break up over it, making them get together just be toxic for three episodes and then break up again would feel like even more of a massive waste of time for the audience than it did already. But it was so stark that I did wonder if it was on purpose, and the writer for the next arc either didn't pick up on it or chose to ignore it. Because the core of their relationship doesn't meaningfully change. It's less controlling because Bix has given up trying to go outside, but it still feels weirdly empty, even though they're now in their silly earth-coloured yurt (that does offer lovely lighting, but I do hate the whole idea of Cassian glamping off base while Mothma is eating breakfast with 20+ recruits at a table every morning apparently??). Bix talked a lot more about how great Cassian is (though only referencing things we have seen absolutely no proof of on screen at this point), but still doesn't say anything about why she likes him as a person. They do say a bunch of phrases to each other with some extremely nothing energy. And that's the other thing: I'm so sorry, when Diego Luna has chemistry with someone, that stuff is magnetic. But I have seen this man look at the camera in a beer commercial with 100 percent more spark than how he looks at Bix at any point in the season, or frankly the whole show. I don't know what happened here, but this man is dead behind the eyes in those scenes, and Adria Arjona only has her pretty and concerned look on the whole time (again, with the possible exception of their flirty roleplay exchange that lasted five seconds).

And the way he reacts to her leaving is honestly hilarious. He wakes up all hazy and lost, and finds her goddamn video (goodbye tiktok is hilarious btw). She says, babe, I'm leaving so you can be special, come back when you've won the war and maybe we'll talk! And he spends like twenty minutes trying to track her down, and is a little misty-eyed about it. We are told, though we never see it, that at this point this man is "a leader" and an extraordinary spy who's about to be promoted to pretty much the top of the career ladder, and we have seen that he goes rogue for shits and giggles all the time. You're telling me this guy couldn't find out where the Rebellion transport that left a few hours ago went to? You're telling me this guy couldn't track down his girlfriend whose every move he's been controlling for several years? What's holding him back? According to the show, it's not a lack of skills, nor a love for following the rules or a sense of duty to the Rebellion! And it can't be because she told him to win the war first - he hasn't conceded to anything she wanted to do without bitching and arguing this whole season. This is not a guy who treats his girlfriend like they're on equal footing! Why would he suddenly do what she tells him to do?

One can only infer that he kind of saw this coming, and isn't really trying to fight it. That's fine, again, their relationship seemed pretty awful to me. But I don't see what about that reaction screams "this man will go out of his way to find his girlfriend immediately after almost dying on some mission in the middle of the war". (Because why would he go after Scarif?? She said win the war. Scarif isn't the end of the war. If anything, it's the start of active warfare.)

And then, when Vel comes and tells him (for completely unclear reasons btw) that he should go find Bix again, he reacts with the most noncommittal "idk yeah maybe later not right now" type answer imaginable. Where is the man chomping at the bit to see his ex again? Is he in the room with us? Once again, Diego could not have seemed less enthused in this scene. Honestly, I don't know if outstanding acting could have saved this bizarre way to write a romance, but... we'll certainly never know. I've only seen Adria Arjona in two things that I can't say convinced me of her acting chops (this and, well, Morbius), and boy, Diego Luna can be incredible but I didn't see much of that in most of this season.

It's so funny to realise at the end of it all that Tony Gilroy thought he was delivering us a grand sweeping fated romance between two childhood sweethearts with a visible decade of age difference. Whereas I first saw something viscerally uncomfortable and actively scary, then the funniest, dumbest break-up I've seen on tv in a decade, and then another viscerally uncomfortable and actively scary moment when they show us the woman with a child in a war zone where she is an at-risk undocumented migrant with trauma and no support system, and the show is trying to frame this like a good thing for her dead ex-boyfriend. They really didn't just fail to deliver on what they thought they were making, but fucked it up six different ways in the process. Overall, this was a brutal wake-up call on how people like these writers and directors see relationships, and women in relationships, and the reaction to that is even more upsetting. A bunch of young women saw the same shit I just watched and are now insulting other people in real life while claiming that this really was the romance for the ages? Girls, I'm so scared for you. I don't know what the fuck this was, but it was neither compelling storytelling nor a representation of a relationship anyone should want to be in.

Anyway, sorry this turned into a whole 'nother rant. I'm glad you're getting something out of my ramblings, though! I don't know what I'm trying to do with them at this point. I guess I'm still deluding myself that I can find what the hell other people are seeing that I'm not if I just dig deep enough, but I only end up making myself mad over and over again...

[mistydeyes]

141 members (price,gaz,soap and Simon ) reaction where reader and the group are in the common area together chilling And one of the members is teasing them and instead of entertaining him she scoffs rolling her eyes saying “bitch” while flashing her hand in a shoo motion and being sassy?

You don’t have to write this if you don’t want to ..I’m asking for a lot tbh 😭

thank you for requesting! i could 100% see gaz and soap being the absolute worst especially when you want to relax. they're like your annoying little brothers who just keep bothering you when you want to be left alone.

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summary: After a 36hr mission, you just wanted to enjoy some tea and scroll on social media. However, Gaz and Soap disrupt your evening and decide to pester you with their abundance of questions.

pairings: platonic!Taskforce 141 x fem!reader (codename: Sweetheart)

warnings: swearing, soap and gaz being ur annoying teammates

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After a much-needed shower, you made your way to the common room. You rolled your tense muscles as you filled the kettle with water and waited patiently. As you watched the water boil, Ghost joined and gave you a casual head nod. Part of you was glad he wasn't one for conversation, especially following the arduous mission you had just completed. You returned the gesture and back to your now boiling water. "There's enough for you, Lt," you commented before searching the drawers for your favorite tea. However, as you reached into the empty tin, you groaned. "Fuck," you mumbled before Ghost turned to you. You held up the tin disappointedly, "Someone finished the last bag." "Probably Soap," he responded and you threw it the tin in the recycling. You sighed before grabbing some decaf chamomile, a close second to your favorite lavender earl grey blend but far from the same.

As you sipped on the lackluster tea, you sat down on the worn couch. You hoisted your legs up, pulling out your phone to scroll through some mindless posts and videos. It was a necesssary reprieve and you were enjoying your enrichment time. However, it was interrupted by Gaz and Soap loudly entering the room. "Fuck me, mate," you could hear Gaz exclaim, "why'd you talk me into the gym and then a run." To your disgust, the room filled with the smell of sweat and musk, most likely from Soap. They continued to talk and you recognized the familiar sound of water bottles being filled before they made your way to you. "Evening Sweetheart," Soap commented and gently moved your legs off the couch to sit.

"Not in the mood, Soap," you mumbled as you adjusted yourself and he laughed. "141's sweetheart has an attitude," he chided and you rolled your eyes. "Why do they call you 'Sweetheart' anyways?" Gaz asked, joining on an adjacent chair. "Some fucking guys in my squad thought it was hilarious," you replied, with an emphasis on your last word. You hated the callsign, something that followed you throughout basic and into selection. Your all-male squad thought it was a great idea to call you the group's sweetheart and the name stuck. The misogynistic atmosphere was one of the downsides to the job but you tried to ignore it the best you could. "I bet they thought she was a barrack bunny," Soap joked and you put down your phone to shoot daggers at him. Gaz even hit his leg lightly but the petulant sergeant continued.

"So tell me, Bonnie," he asked in a sarcastic tone, "were ya one?" You scoffed at his question and you swore you could feel your eyes roll. You took a moment to internalize your anger before replying. "Don't have to be such a bitch about it, Mactavish," you replied coldly before gesturing your hand in a 'go away' motion. Before he could bite back at your response, Ghost interrupted. "Get a shower, Soap, you smell like shit," he responded and everyone realized he had taken a position at one of the tables in the room. "Steamin Jesus, Lt." Soap responded in shock, "you really are a ghost." "He's right, you smell like a sewer," you added with a smirk and you could tell he was feeling more self-conscious. "I swear I'll find out," Soap responded before quickly walking off to the showers.

You returned back to your scrolling as the room fell silent again. You could feel Gaz looking at you and you took a moment to put your phone back down. "What Gaz?" you interrogated as you met his gaze. "What's the real story behind your callsign?" he asked, almost nervously. You laughed a bit before you responded to his question. "Just some assholes from the Army," you said plainly, "at least they were more creative than you. What kind of a name is Gaz anyways?"

[koolades-world]

can u do how the OM brothers would react to a mc who bottles up/masks their emotions? i tend to do this alot due to my autism. sorry for any English mistakes i might have made, it's not my first language.

hi!! yeah, sure thing!

your english is great!! it's better than some of my friend's, be proud of yourself :))

gosh I'm guilty of doing this too so this shouldn't be too hard for me to write lol

Mc who bottles up their emotions

Lucifer

he's guilty of this too honestly since he feels as if he has an image to uphold

he tries not to be too up front about it since he knows that's not really what he would want

takes you to the side at the end of the day and asks you how you're doing

he's there to be there for you, so you can let it all out if you want, and he won't judge or speak a word of it to others

Mammon

he will outright ask you if something is wrong

he can just kind of tell something is up and asks the first chance he gets alone with you

he knows it isn't healthy, and he only wants to help you

let him know how he can help, and if words fail, his arms are open <3

Levi

he handles the situation how he would want someone to treat him

you've never heard him speak so eloquently, yet everything he's saying makes sense

for a while, he keeps you close to him and goes everywhere with you

his actions speak louder than his words after the initial talk

Satan

brews a pot of chamomile tea, and brings you out to the garden to enjoy the nature while you chat

brings you through breathing exercises and helps keep you grounded

honestly great at helping you talk through everything

he lets you know great ways to let off steam, and that even if you didn't want to talk about it in the future, you could work it out by yourself

Asmo

he decides you need a day of self care after learning something might be wrong

that's when he talks to you about it

since you're relaxed, he thinks it might be easy for you guys to talk

don't worry, he'll continue to pamper you afterwards too

Beel

will give you all the hugs you could dream of <3

brings you his favorite snacks from his snack stash so you can eat while you talk

lets you know that even though he might not be a great talker, you can tell him anything and he will listen

he would drop anything just to help you

Belphie

youve never seen him more awake honestly

you never told him, he just kind of figured out somehow

he confronted you one day, and while it was very straightforward, you could tell he meant it

pulls you into his blanket cocoon and just holds you since he wants to let you know he cares

[abiatackerman]

Hi hi hi! i love your stories! but i was wondering if you could do a levi where reader is the little sister and I want something comforting if that’s okay with you!

Levi as a big brother? Gotcha bae, thanks for requesting!

You're safe now, Brat

Canon universe! Brother "Captain Levi"! Sibling-comfort moments! 1.1k words!

Summary: After being bullied by someone from the Underground, you seek comfort from your older brother, Levi. He reassures you, reminding you that you’ll never face anything alone again.

Tags: @theremainsof @spouseofleviackerman @levisbrat25 @itsnathateasy @violentvaleska @dreamerofthewest @meowmewow7 @mikabella7 @satorella @sugacor3 @darkstarlight82 @derealizationns

🩷If you wanna be tagged let me know🩷

✨Masterlist✨

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

The smell of mold and smoke clings to your clothes like it has hands, pulling you back into the filth of the Underground even though you escaped it hours ago. Your steps echo softly through the hallway as you reach Levi's quarters, trying your best to hold it together.

You went down there alone today—just to visit a few old faces, maybe help them by handing out some of the money and supplies you've earned recently. But some people never forget who's an easy target, especially when they mistake kindness for weakness.

"Heard you're all high and mighty now, Levi's little pet," one of the guys—someone who used to be Levi's rival—sneers as he corners you in a shadowed alley. "Bet you think you're better than us now, huh?"

They didn't hit you. Not physically—they know exactly what'll happen if they do. You're Captain Levi's little sister, after all. But words cut sharper sometimes, especially when you've spent your whole life trying to prove you're not just someone's shadow.

You don't even realize you're crying until you're standing in front of Levi's door, your hand hovering just above the wood. You hate crying—especially in front of him. You don't want to look weak.

But the door creaks open before you can knock.

"You're late." Levi's voice is flat, but the moment he sees your face, his expression shifts. Barely—but enough.

His eyes narrow as they scan your tear-streaked cheeks, the way your shoulders tremble even though you're clearly trying to hide it.

"Tch. What happened?"

You shake your head, biting your lip. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Try again."

"I said I'm fi—" But your voice cracks. And suddenly the tears come rushing in again. "I-I just… I didn't think it would still hurt, y'know?"

Levi exhales softly and steps aside. "Come in. Sit."

You obey without protest, curling up on the worn couch in his small but clean quarters. He walks into the kitchen, pours you some tea—chamomile, your favorite—and returns, setting it gently in your hands.

"What did the underground bastards did this time?"

You flinch slightly at how easily he guesses. It's probably the disgusting scent—you're sure of it.

"They didn't hit me," you mumble, voice small. "They just… said stuff. About me. About you. How I'm nothing without you. That I'm soft. Weak. Just your burden. I mean, that's the only way they can hurt me now."

Levi stays quiet for a long moment. You risk a glance at him.

He looks calm. Too calm.

"I'll kill them," he says flatly.

You blink. "W-What?! Levi? NO!!!"

"I'll make it clean." He doesn't even look at you, just folds his arms, eyes hard. "Or messy. Depends on how much time I'll have."

You reach out and gently grab his sleeve. "Don't… don't do that. Please. I just—I needed to hear it from you. That they're wrong. That I'm not—"

"You're not weak," he interrupts immediately, voice low and steady as he ruffles your hair. "You're stronger than most of the bastards I've met. Including the ones running their mouths today."

You sniffle.

"You got out of that place. You chose to be better. You worked hard to be here. That takes guts."

A silence settles between you. Not heavy—just full of things that don't need to be said.

"Levi?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you… ever get scared of going back? To the way things were down there?"

He looks at you, and something softens in his sharp features. "Every damn day," he admits. "But I look at you… and I remember why I got out."

Your breath hitches. His honesty always hits like lightning.

He sighs and gently flicks your forehead. "Stop crying. Your face gets all puffy."

"Hey!" You try to swat his hand away, a tiny laugh slipping through the tears.

"There it is," Levi mutters, almost smiling. "That's the brat I know."

You lean against him quietly, and to your surprise, he lets you. He doesn't move away—just stays still, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His warmth is quiet and solid. Safe.

"You're not alone," he says softly. "You never will be as long as your brother is alive. Always remember that."

And for the first time that day, you smile.

"I know that already, brother."

Levi exhales slowly through his nose, like he's been holding in a breath this whole time. "Tch," he mutters, nudging your forehead with his knuckles, "You better."

The silence that follows isn't awkward—it's the kind that settles like a blanket, warm and safe. His hand remains on your back, not rubbing circles, not fidgeting. Just… there. Solid. Comforting.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting your breathing match his. The sting of those insults still lingers, but it doesn't feel quite so heavy now. Not when you're here. Not when he's here.

"You know…" your voice comes out quieter than you intend, "I thought I was past caring. I've been out of that place for years. I've worked my ass off to stand on my own, to not just be 'Levi's little sister.' But today…"

You trail off.

"They saw the girl you used to be," Levi says calmly. "Not the one you are now. That's their mistake."

You shift to look at him, eyes red and puffy, but burning with something steadier now. "You really think I'm strong?"

He looks at you like it's the dumbest question you've ever asked.

"How can you be weak when I trained you myself how to use the odm gears?" he replies. "Also You think I'd let someone weak wear the Wings of Freedom?"

You blink at him.

"Captain Levi," you tease softly, "Was that a compliment?"

He tugs your ear lightly in retaliation. "Don't get cocky."

You laugh again. It's still a little watery, but it's real.

A knock sounds on the door but Levi doesn't move.

"Ignore it."

"But—"

"It's past office hours" His tone leaves no room for argument. " And you're more important."

Your heart swells at that. He's not one for long speeches. He never says things like 'I love you' or 'I'm proud of you' outright. But you've learned to read between the lines.

You sit with him for a while longer, sipping your tea as the world outside keeps spinning. But in this moment, in this quiet room with Levi by your side, the world can wait.

Because here, in this space, you're not a burden.

You're not weak.

You're his sister.

And that means everything......

[lewismcqueen]

written in red. 02

vamp!lh44 x black!reader

summary: when you find yourself lost after being chased by a mysterious figure, an encounter makes you realize that this case might be bigger than you thought. a/n: a bit of a fun driver cameo in this one. should be quite obvious who it is. also lmk if you guys want longer chapters! i'm unsure if people still stick around long enough to read those. 01 | read from beginning | 03

You had been cruising carefully around the pristine streets of the neighborhood for so long that your phone was on 5% battery, meaning GPS was now off the table. The nearly-identical lawns with their neatly cut grass made you wonder if you had gone in circles. 

Ironically, not a single resident was out on the sidewalk. You saw no one inside through the few windows not covered by drawn curtains and spotted no one so much as even tending to their bushes or sitting on their porches. The same dread from earlier crept up your spine, cooling the nape of your neck with sweat.

Scanning the area, you eventually caught a flash of pink on one person's lawn: A plastic flamingo that looked even more ridiculous amidst a sea of empty, uniform green. 

And standing next to it? A brunette man wearing sunglasses with a tall, lanky build, in a navy polo and khaki shorts with white running shoes. He was watering his bushes with a pale blue watering can that looked straight out of a classic film.

Strange, you thought. Wouldn't a place like this have automatic sprinklers? You slowed down even more as you drew closer, getting ready to roll your windows down and try to ask for directions. 

He turned to see you through the windshield, likely gathering from your expression that you weren't from around here.

“Lost?” He mouthed. You nodded emphatically, finally slowing to a stop. 

The man set down his watering can to jog up to the window on the driver's side. He began conversation as soon as you rolled it down enough, casually leaning his arm on the roof. The overly familiar gesture made you bristle, but you needed any help you could get.

“No worries, you're not the only one who gets lost around here,” the man chirped with a smile. He had a long face with high cheekbones, and an English accent that you imagined some of your overseas friends might call ‘posh’. “You visiting someone?”

You tried to mirror his smile as best you could, but you imagined it looked quite strained. “No, I just took a wrong turn going home and ended up here. Do you know how I could find my way back to—”

“Hold on,” he held a finger up, and began…sniffing the air. “Big storm coming on. And soon.”

Brows furrowed in confusion, you nodded slowly. “Good to know. I'll look out for it. But I really need to get—”

The man removed his glasses, revealing watery blue eyes. There was nothing particularly strange about them, but as soon as you met his gaze the words seemed to die on your tongue. You had the vague idea that you had just been saying something, but the remaining thought seemed…fuzzy. 

In a softer voice, he beckoned, “Look, why don't you come inside, have a spot of tea? You'll have to wait out the storm, anyway.”

A sudden clap of thunder punctuated his sentence. You looked past him, into the warmly-lit windows of the man's home. It did look very cozy in there…

You unlocked your car doors and smiled—genuinely this time. 

“Sure, lead the way.”

You sat comfortably in a soft seat facing the kitchen, where you could see the man's back as he waited for his tea to brew. The house was so quiet that you heard the subtle whistling of a kettle, the clinking of what you assumed to be ceramic or porcelain cups, and then the trickling of liquid. The smell of fresh chamomile filled the air.

The empty chair across from you was soon occupied by the man, holding two small teacups with intricate blue patterns painted onto white porcelain (you were sure now that it was porcelain). He held one out to you with a friendly grin, and you took it. It was raining properly outside now, the sound of large droplets hitting the window and the occasional rumble of thunder becoming white noise in the background. 

“So, where are you coming in from?” He asked after taking his first sip.

Something tugged at you, finding it odd that he spoke as if you were intentionally visiting when you said you weren't. You pushed the feeling aside for now. 

“Oh, I live just over on…” You trailed off. A crease formed between your brows. 

You knew what street you lived on, it was right there on the tip of your tongue. But it was as if something was blocking it, pushing the information away from you before you could reach it. Your breaths became quicker every second you struggled to recall.

The man waved a dismissive hand. “All good if you don't remember, you probably have it written down somewhere,” he gestured towards your pocket, “Or in your phone?”

“Right, probably,” you exhaled. Just as you reached into your pocket and tried to unlock your phone, the red ‘low battery’ icon flashed mockingly on the screen before the device shut off on its own. 

“Fuck.”

The man had an expression of concern that wasn't very convincing. 

“Well that's unfortunate. I'm not really a smartphones kind of guy, so I haven't got a charger around for you. Really sorry about that.”

You sighed, and finally sipped from your cup now that it was no longer steaming. The chamomile was expectedly fragrant, grounded by the sweetness of what you deduced was likely honey instead of sugar. It would've relaxed you if you weren't freaking out internally about how you were going to get home.

After a beat of silence, your host piped up again. “Forgive me, but you look a bit familiar. Are you a journalist, by any means?”

“Uh, yeah, spot on,” a wavering grin crossed your lips momentarily. “Where'd you recognize me from?”

“Oh, I was just reading an article on a particularly slow Sunday—I live alone, so I get pretty bored—and I was just struck by how cutting your prose are.”

It was quite obvious that the man was attempting to flatter you, but you smiled anyway. At least someone was reading your work.

“Are you a writer yourself? Or just an avid reader?”

He shook his head. “No, no, I could never write, I'm absolutely terrible at it. So I just appreciate good work from afar. You working on anything?”

You stared into those clear, blue eyes again. The whites of them looked…new. Like a newborn who lacked any of those brown spots or veins because they hadn't lived in the world long enough just yet. A strange thought entered your mind: they looked like they hurt.

“I just got through doing an interview with some new artist, nothing special. At least not paid work.”

You wanted to will yourself to stop talking, but suddenly you felt like revealing more. No one but you knew of your interest in the Hamilton case, and keeping quiet about it had apparently taken its toll. You leaned in as if telling a secret.

“Music’s actually not really my area of expertise, if I'm being honest. I like investigating. Doing deep-dives, you know?”

The man nodded. “Your writing voice sounds more suited for that, I must say.”

You went on, “I'm looking at this old case on my free time. You know Lewis Hamilton?”

An odd snort or scoff left him. “You'd be surprised at how much I know.”

“Doubt it, my dad was super into Formula One back in the day. Hardly missed a race.”

The man had a smirk on his face that said he might know something you didn't.

“Of course.”

You went on, “So I've been looking into the guy, and he just straight up went missing. Vanished into thin air. And I thought, ‘well, people can't just vanish without a trace, he's gotta be somewhere.’ Right? I mean, isn't strange that after he was reported missing that no one thought to look for the literal racing legend?”

He sat back in his seat, circling a finger around the edge of his cup with a stormy expression. “Maybe he'd prefer not to be found. All the cameras and folks always wanting a piece of you.”

You paused, the corners of your lips tugging downwards in a puzzled frown.

“You sound like you're speaking from experience.”

Like someone had flipped a switch, the man's expression brightened. “Anyway, what'd you find in his mansion?”

The sudden transition felt like whiplash, but you answered anyway without thinking.

“Not much, just this weird book I haven't opened yet. No title or name written on the cover, but it's as thick as a Bible. I feel bad about swiping the man's stuff, but it's not like he's alive to—”

The realization hit you: you had never brought up the mansion, let alone that you had gone inside. You stared at your host, who sipped the remaining dregs of his tea with an eyebrow raised. His voice remained quiet, but took on a new edge.

“What? You thought no one would notice someone poking around Lewis Hamilton's estate? Are you daft?”

Your felt your stomach drop, feeling as if you were frozen in place. Was this man some kind of undercover fed? Were you about to be arrested? You did not have the money to get arrested right now. A jovial chuckle filled the silence.

“You should see your face right now, really! Please, I'm not a cop,” he leaned forward, resting the arm that wasn't occupied on the arm of the chair. He said your name in a placating voice not unlike that of a disappointed teacher.

“I'm here to give you…something like a bit of a warning, sweetheart. I'll be frank here: You're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, and it's gonna get you into some very unpleasant situations. I’m sure you've already had some experience with that. The dead ought to stay that way, don't you think?”

You said nothing, running through the events that led you here. This man couldn't have been the motorist following you, he'd have to have run home and done a quick change while keeping the motorcycle out of view. This meant multiple people knew what you were doing. Someone was watching you.

A cold chill settled deep into your bones. “I-I think I'm gonna leave. Thanks for the tea.”

You stood up on wobbly legs, forcing them to move towards the door with the man's icy gaze on your back.

“No problem. Let's hope you take my advice, or else I'll have to see you again soon.”

Your clothes wet the driver's seat of your car after sprinting in the rain, but you were just glad to be out of there. Taking a deep breath, you tried one more time to recall your address. Relief washed over you when it came to you like usual.

How you managed to maneuver around the neighborhood and find your way out, you didn't know, but eventually a familiar street came to view and you turned onto it. You checked the rearview: nothing. Within fifteen, you were back at your apartment. 

After a warm shower, you changed into newly-washed pink sweatpants and an old grey oversized t-shirt. Back in your bedroom, the book still sat on your desk, worn and unopened. The British man's warning echoed in the back of your mind; how long would you have to finally peek inside before you were scared off the trail? There was no way you were going to stop here, after just barely scratching the surface and that being enough to send weird posh English dudes after you.

It was now or never.

Reluctantly, you sat down at your desk and cracked it open. The first thing you noticed was a huge coffee stain blooming from the bottom corner of the first page. The second thing? There were initials, written elegantly in the top margin.

L. H. Likely Lewis Hamilton. And a note:

Hello there, new friend! I hope to be talking with you a lot these days. Possibly much longer, if I'm right about what is happening to me. Cheers!

You released a shaky breath, in absolute disbelief at your sheer luck. This was Lewis Hamilton's diary.

[sturnsbambi]

dealer!chris has a close call and has to hide at baker!reader's place for a little bit and she has to calm him down?

dealer!chris has a close call and has to hide at baker!reader's place and she has to calm him down

warnings: mention of a drug deal, blood, bruises

you were having one of those rare, quiet nights — sweatpants, oversized tee, lights low. the movie playing on your tv had long since lost your attention. you’d been half-scrolling through your phone, half-listening, sipping lukewarm chamomile tea, legs tucked beneath you on the couch.

the apartment smelled like vanilla from earlier — you'd baked something just because, like you always do when your head got too loud. now everything was soft and warm, your little world settled under a blanket of calm.

until someone knocked.

three times. then one.

you froze, heart stuttering.

only one person knocked like that.

you opened the door, and chris was there — hood up, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the dark hallway behind him. his clothes were damp, blood at the collar of his shirt, a bruise blooming beneath his right eye.

"i need to crash." he muttered. “can i come in?”

you stepped aside without a word.

he slipped past you like a ghost, dripping onto your hardwood floor. you shut the door, locked it, and turned to him. he stood there in your living room like he didn’t belong — shoulders tense, eyes darting, every inch of him coiled and on edge.

“you okay?” you asked, gently.

“no,” he said flatly. “but i’m breathing, so that’s a win.”

you watched him for a beat. he didn’t sit. didn’t relax. just hovered near your window, like he needed to stay close to an exit.

“i was just watching a movie,” you said, trying to soften the air. “want some tea?”

he huffed — not quite a laugh. “what, no cinnamon rolls or freshly baked cupcakes tonight?”

“didn’t know you were coming.”

he looked at you finally. “didn’t know i was coming either.”

you stepped into the kitchen without waiting for an answer and poured another mug. when you came back, he’d dropped onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced like he was praying or falling apart — maybe both.

you handed him the tea. he took it, but didn’t drink.

“did a drop go bad?” you asked quietly.

this time, he answered.

“yeah,” he said. “it was a setup.”

your eyes flicked to his. he wasn’t looking at you — just down into the tea like it might have answers.

“someone flipped. told them where i’d be, what time, what i’d be carrying.” he ran a hand down his face, jaw twitching. “they had guys waiting. two cars. unmarked. could’ve been cops, could’ve been worse.”

you swallowed, your voice quiet. “what happened?”

“i didn’t stop moving long enough to find out.”

he leaned back, eyes on the ceiling now, fists tight around the mug.

“i parked three blocks out, like always. but the alley was too quiet. no usual noise, no lights in the windows. just that feeling — you know?” he paused. “that gut-sick, too-late feeling. like the air’s already gone.”

you didn’t interrupt. just listened.

“i saw one of their guys behind a dumpster. radio in his hand. waitin’ for confirmation. if i’d walked ten more steps…” he trailed off, jaw clenched hard. “i backed out fast. took the long way. lost 'em, i think. but i couldn’t go home. so—” he nodded toward you. “here i am.”

you sat beside him, careful to leave space.

for a while, neither of you said anything.

“you shouldn’t keep letting me in like this,” he said eventually, voice low, worn. “not when i look like this. not when i live like this.”

you looked at him, really looked. bruised. bloodied. but still here.

“i let you in,” you said softly, “because i want to.”

he shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “you’re too good at this whole ‘giving a shit’ thing.”

“and you’re too good at pretending you don’t need it.”

he went quiet.

then, barely above a whisper:

“you’re gonna get hurt if you keep being soft with people like me.”

you looked down at your tea. “maybe. but you’re here. so, if i’m gonna get hurt — at least let it be on my terms.”

chris didn’t move for a long time.

then — slowly, carefully — he leaned back into the couch, letting himself sink into the quiet just a little. not enough to relax, not fully. but it was something. a start.

he took a sip of the tea. grimaced. “tastes like flowers.”

you smiled. “it’s calming.”

he glanced over at you. eyes softer than they had been all night.

“yeah,” he said. “that checks out.”

divider creds @bernardsbendystraws

[soc69]

Erasermic family general hcs:

- when shinsou has bad dreams or intrusive memories of his time in the system it’s hizashi he goes to, not shouta, because even though hizashi was only in the system a short while he understands what Hitoshi went through and how it feels to be abandoned and not know what to do with all the emotions that comes with it.

- eri used to be terrified on present mic. Not of Yamada hizashi, the sweet guy who signs as he talks and makes her chamomile tea when she can’t sleep, but of present mic who looks like a huge flightless bird and squaks weird slang all the time. The fear was fixed when she saw hizashi undergoing the transformation process one day.

- hizashi and shinsou have developed their own ‘sign slang’. As the ones who’ve used it most throughout their lives and with someone new to try it out with they started making their own signs for internet catch phrases and swear words and it pisses Aizawa off so much that he’s left out of the loop. This, in turn, only further encourages shinsou and hizashi to the point where half the time they’re not even making sense to each other but just gesturing randomly whenever shoutas around to piss him off.

- I’m pretty sure it’s canon that hizashi has, like, no nostrils (or maybe really really small ones) on account of his quirk as stoping airflow through your nose means you can make louder vocalisations, so, although everyone thinks mic would be the only one who can cook between him and Aizawa, the two of the basically function as two halves of the same idiot in the kitchen. Since your sense of smell makes up about 70% of your taste buds, despite hizashi enjoying cooking and be able to follow a recipe, without shouta there to taste test, hizashi’s cooking becomes absolutely repulsive and he has no idea. Shouta on the other hand, is perfectly capable of cooking but just refuses to learn because he thinks the system they have worked out now is perfectly functional.

- the first time hizashi is left to cook for Hitoshi alone during one of his early visits, he suffers such a culinary disaster since shouta wasn’t there to supervise. Mic makes sure to tell Hitoshi to tell him if it’s nice or not but the kid is far too polite for that and struggles through 2/3 of the meal that is somehow both sour and salty while also being so fucking spicy that Hitoshi thinks his ears are bleeding before Aizawa comes home and picks something off hizashis plate and immediately tells mic it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever made and throwing out the entire meal. Hitoshi is absolutely flabbergasted, tears streaming, nose running, throat retching, as yamada and Aizawa both ask him why the fuck he didn’t say something.

- mic likes pretty much every type of music and has sampled practically every genre ever made and since eri has never had the chance to develop her own taste, he takes her on the axact same journey of self discovery. Eri ends up very similar to mic in that she likes a lot of different things but her absolute favourite genre ends up being ‘kawaii metal’ which mic and Hitoshi both find hilarious and let her play it all the time which Aizawa (who only ever listens to brown noise) absolutely fucking hates.

- Aizawa can’t drive. Like at all. He never learnt, never even took any lessons, never had any interest in it. Mic is older than him by a few months and got his lisence super quick and after that Aizawa decided he would never need to learn because he would always have hizashi to chauffeur him around.

- mic doesn’t get angry much so everyone thinks shouta is the scary one but the more you get to know Aizawa the more of a softy he becomes. Mic, on the other hand, is fucking terrifying when you piss him off. Hitoshi and eri have only ever seen it once when some bitch from Hitoshi’s old home ran into them and got mouthy. He’s the quiet anger type that just just radiates insane unpresidented rage and Aizawa finds it incredibly sexy.

- eri is the kind of kid who collects bugs from the garden and spends hours watching them crawl over her hands in absolute amazement because she’s never seen so many of them before. As we all know, mic is terrified of bugs, but eri did not know this until she invited all her little creepy crawly friends into the house for move night. Cue them all cuddled up on the couch one day when mic feels something crawling over his legs. At first he thinks it’s Aizawa as his legs draped over his lap and tells him to cut it out and Aizawa is like ‘huh?’, looks down, and sees the fattest, juiciest cockroach ever on yamadas leg. Aizawa, who also doesn’t really like bugs all that much, is like “zashi, do not fucking move” and eri catches on, turns around and is like “oh! Patrick is here” which makes mic finally notice and release the most deafening scream ever and jumps five ft into the air which knocks a sleeping Hitoshi to the floor who wakes up face to face with a massive fucking spider and joins yamada in the screaming match while Aizawa is using his quirk on mic so none of them go deaf while climbing the furniture to avoid all the bugs and screaming for everyone to calm down in an uncharacteristically high voice while eri just sits on the floor amongst the chaos like “I just wanted you guys to meet my friends”. The house gets fumigated after that.

[givekennyabreak]

"I'll take care of you." (Platonic!Victor Kavanaugh x gn!sick!reader HCs)

Summary: You're down with allergies and your friend Victor is worried.

Request: "Maybe some sickfic, if you’re up for it? I could see Victor sharing a space with the Reader (platonically, of course) and/or letting them share part of the room given that it’s probably the quietest space in Colony House.

I’d love a little bit of Kenny/Reader too, if you want to throw some of that into the mix.

Something something “I don’t want anyone else in here, Vic, they’re all way too fucking loud—“ and both of them knowing Kenny is the one exception."

Rating: T

Pairings: best friend!Victor Kavanaugh x reader; Kenny Liu x reader

Warnings: mentions of allergies, 2nd person POV, lil Kenny x Reader <3, a small suggestive phrase, no spoilers, mentions of tea and medicine

"I'm not sick." you said, sniffling and holding in a cough as your throat itched like hell

Victor was unimpressed, to say the least. he was used to seeing you like this at least three times a year

(every time the weather changed, it triggered your allergies and got you hacking your lungs out)

as you guys shared a bedroom, he always knew when you were going to get them sniffles - the first batch of 15 sneezes in a row when you woke up one morning was the main sign

you always slept on a mattress on the floor, right beside Victor's bed, as it helped with back pain (you're young, but the throes of old age come fast)

when he hears you sniffling, the first thing he does is haul you up onto the bed with him by your arms, sharing a few blankets with you (not all of them. you can't hog them all)

when he notices it's not a cold, though, he's relieved - shooing you from his bed, bluntly as ever /affectionate

he does get a little worried if the symptoms don't fade within a couple days; it usually gets better quickly, with you sucking on lemons and using a warm towel over your face to help with the nasal congestion

when it perdures, Victor gets scared. By the fourth day, man's pacing in front of his bed and your mattress, mumbling "i think you're gonna die soon", with frantic eyes

you end up sitting on the bed with him, reassuring him it's all gonna be okay, this one is just a longer reaction to the weather change

"I used to get these long bouts the whole time when i lived in the city. i'm gonna be okay, promise"

he makes a blanket fort for the both of you, as a way to ward off the bad allergy spirits

lets no one get near you, nor lets you leave Colony House.

"no, you're going to inhale road dust and it'll get worse"

"Victor, it's not how it works-"

"if you leave i'll get donna"

"...fine"

you're room bound for a while, so a few of your friends come by (the ones Victor deem safe for you to get in contact with)

mari and kristi check on you on the first few days, and recommend a few teas that will help

"chamomile, ginger and cinnamon for the inflammation." mari said, glancing at victor. "i trust your companion will help you with that."

at some point your body was exhausted from the non-stop sneezing and coughing, you just wanted to lay down and rest in silence the whole day, but victor brought you a visitor

"there's someone here for u" "vic, i'm about to murder anyone who makes a sound near me" "not this one"

victor is blunt, honest to a fault and a little childish, due to his history, but the man wasn't dumb

so, when your eyes lit up as kenny walked in with a mug of tea in hands, victor smiled.

"my mom sent u this. she said it's bad for you to stay cooped up here"

that legit brought tears to your eyes. bless tian-chen and her heart

you drank the whole thing in a heartbeat. kenny stayed to talk - but it didn't annoy you.

victor didn't leave the two of you alone, though. he sat on a chair in the corner of the room

he knew what people who looked at each other like you and kenny did when left alone in a room.

(you were still very much too awkward to even admit your feelings, though.)

a few days after that, you were finally good to go! breathing normally, no sneezing or coughing, no body ache

Victor is so relieved he actually pulls you outside.

"i missed going outside. couldn't come because of you"

dude is blunt but means well.

you laugh out loud at that. "i missed coming outside too, Vic"

he'd drag you to the diner to eat pancakes to celebrate freedom

kristi and kenny joined the both of you at your booth <3

tian-chen put a couple more pancakes in your plate

"you have to get stronger. no more allergies"

you smile and thank her, while kenny bumps his shoulder into yours

he steals a pancake from you

and you don't complain, because a few minutes after you leave the diner

you find out pancake flavored kisses are actually quite pleasant.

up the road, victor smiles to himself.

[azrielstherapist]

No One Like You [Ch.4]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

You, an apothecary in Velaris, isn’t interested in saving anyone, least of all him. You have your own secrets and scars to carry. When your paths cross, something shifts. Something neither of you is ready for.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize, whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins

Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: We're at chapter four. We're starting to see a little in reader's past 👀. Hope you guys like it. I don't know, but TW there's a bad dream.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, pls let me know, it means a lot to me seeing your feedbacks in the comments. <3

I'll update this in a few days. Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

The last light of the shop dimmed as I flipped the wooden sign to Closed, the bell above the door chiming softly behind me. That sound always lingered, like the fading note of something half-remembered.

The scent of herbs still clung to my skin: crushed lavender, sun-dried chamomile, the earthy undertone of moss and bark. It lived in my hair, my fingertips, beneath my nails. I breathed it in like comfort.

I took a moment just to stand in the hush. After a day full of voices, the silence of the apothecary always felt like a soothing balm.

Then I moved, routine tugging at me like a well-worn coat. I wrapped my shawl tight, gathered my satchel, and stepped into the blue hush of evening.

Velaris was quiet tonight. Not the kind of quiet that was empty, but the kind that glowed, a city exhaling as lanterns flickered to life, casting pools of golden light on the cobblestones. A child’s laughter floated up from an alley. A couple passed me, fingers laced together, whispering secrets between smiles.

I walked the familiar path along the river, the Sidra dark and sleek beside me, reflecting the stars like they were watching. The bridge stones were cool underfoot, my boots clicking softly with each step.

The city pulsed gently beneath me, alive.

My house was tucked between two others like it had grown there by accident: ivy curling up its bricks, small windows flickering with warmth. A place that didn’t ask anything of me.

The front door stuck, as it always did. I kicked it. It groaned open with a thud and a breath of warmth-

“Miao.”

A bolt of red fur shot toward me like a shadow with legs, skidding slightly on the floorboards before colliding with my shins. I crouched down, already smiling.

“There you are,” I murmured, scratching under his chin. “Did you miss me, you wicked little goblin?”

The cat, one-eyed, entirely too smug, headbutted my hand with an ungraceful purr.

“I see you didn’t die of starvation while I was gone.” I straightened with a creak of tired knees. “Barely.”

He followed me into the kitchen, tail twitching. Always within reach, always hovering just far enough away to pretend he wasn’t waiting for me.

I tossed my satchel on the chair, washed my hands, rolled up my sleeves, and put a pot on the counter.

“I had a woman ask me today if I was seeing someone,” I told him as I began to chop the vegetables. “Said I looked too happy to be single.”

The knife thudded rhythmically against the board. Onion, carrot, a bit of root vegetable I’d bartered from the market. The smell of garlic warmed the air.

“Imagine,” I muttered. “A woman can’t smile these days without it meaning something.”

“Mrrrow,” came his regal reply, as he leapt onto the counter despite knowing better.

I let him stay.

“He offered me tea,” I admitted. “That’s all. He smiled. Said something clever. That’s not…” I trailed off, chopping some erbs. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

A lie, maybe. One I told myself more than I told him.

Lord Waffles, named during a fever dream and a bottle of cheap wine, blinked his remaining eye at me like I was the foolish one. Maybe I was.

“He just…” I paused, hands stilling. “He makes it quiet. In my head.”

The house felt still. Like it was listening.

I turned the stove on low, letting the soup simmer as I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Lord Waffles settle onto his throne of crumpled tea towels beside the fruit basket. His one eye blinked slowly, like he was too good for this world.

"You wouldn't believe it," I said, reaching up to pin my hair back with fingers still scented of thyme and old pages. "He came to the shop today. Again."

"Mrao."

"Oh, don't start. I know that tone. I’m not waiting for him to show up, if that’s what you’re implying."

"Mrrow."

I narrowed my eyes. “I have better things to do than moon over tall, dark, mysterious strangers with ridiculous cheekbones.”

He licked his paw. Smug little monster.

"And no," I said, chopping more root vegetables than necessary just for something to do, "I didn’t stare. Not that much. A reasonable amount of staring. Normal amounts. Completely normal."

"Miao."

"Excuse me, I was polite. Friendly, even. He was the one who was-" I faltered, stirring the soup a bit too vigorously, "-smirking. Like he knew something."

Lord Waffles gave a pointed flick of his tail and looked away.

I leaned down on the counter to look him in the eye. “Don’t give me that look. You don’t even like strangers. You bit a priestess once.”

He looked deeply unrepentant.

“And another thing,” I said, grabbing a spoon to taste the broth, “he asked for another vial of sleep draught. Said he hasn’t been able to rest in years. But he’s always so composed, so…”

"Mmmroww."

“No, I’m not going to describe him again.”

"Mrp."

I sighed, resting my cheek in my palm. “Fine. Tall. Broad. Voice like midnight velvet. Smiles like he’s only letting you see the corner of it.”

Waffles thumped his tail once on the counter like a judge delivering a final verdict.

“Fine, yes. Handsome. Unreasonably so. Like he was created just to be a problem.”

The cat yawned as if I was boring him.

“I didn’t give him the draught for free, you know.” I straightened. “It was payment. For the tea. And the conversation. That’s all.”

I busied myself ladling soup into a chipped bowl. The cat padded over and rubbed against my ankle, soft and warm and forgiving.

“He left gold,” I muttered after a moment, almost to myself. “More than enough for rent for months. Just… left it there like it was nothing.”

Silence fell, thick as the steam curling from the bowl.

“People don’t do that,” I said softly. “Not unless they want something.”

Lord Waffles hopped off the counter and meowed again. This time, it sounded a little softer. Almost like concern.

I bent down and picked him up, pressing my nose into his fur. “He doesn’t know who I am,” I whispered. “What I’ve done. What I’ve-been through.”

The cat purred, curling against me, warm as a heartbeat.

And in that moment, I was just a woman holding a cat, soup cooling on the table, trying not to fall for the man who smiled like he carried starlight in his pockets.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The silk was cool against my skin. Pale as morning fog, it wrapped around my wrists, then lower, brushing past my thighs like a lover’s fingers. Light. Cool. Gentle as moonlight poured through water. It laced itself around me. Around my ankles.

I didn't flinch. I didn’t fear. The fabric smelled of peach and wild mint, soft and familiar, the kind of scent that lives in memories we don’t know we’ve lost.

I let it pull me under.

Above me, the sky bled shades of rose and gold, dusk and dawn folding into one another, too tender to be real. Somewhere, music played, a haunting melody with no words, like someone humming a lullaby they'd long forgotten. 

The wind kissed my bare shoulders. Warm fingers brushed my spine.

And him.

Not his face, not yet. Just the sense of him. Like gravity. Like breath.

He came to stand behind me, his presence wrapping around mine like a second skin. I knew this magic. Knew it like the way you know your own heartbeat, constant and unseen. It curled around my ribs, wrapped around my throat in a whisper, but never tightened.

“You came back,” I murmured. I was smiling.

I should have known.

The silks wound tighter. 

Barely. Barely.

But it no longer draped, it held.

My smile twitched.

A lover’s caress turned into something else.

I blinked. 

The sky above me flickered, gold bled into grey.

The wind stilled.

“Do you remember what you promised me?” he asked, his voice the same as always: velvet-wrapped honey, smooth enough to slip past your defenses, sweet enough to mask the poison.

I turned my head, but the world blurred. “I… I don’t-”

“You said,” he whispered, “you were mine.”

The silk pulled.

No.

Not silk.

Chains.

Iron slid over skin like snakes waking in a nest. Cold and wrong and real. They crept up my arms, slick and silent, coiling beneath my ribs, weaving into the bones of me. I tugged, gentle at first, then frantic, but they held fast. I could feel the echo of bruises blooming where they kissed too long.

My smile had vanished. My voice with it.

He stepped in front of me now. Not a stranger. Not a lover.

Him.

The one who said he was chosen by fate.

The one who bound me with the one word like it was mercy, not a sentence.

My pulse stuttered. “Stop-please-” I choked, but the words didn’t carry.

"Fate brought us together, little flower. You belong to me."

His hand touched my face. Soft. Almost kind. I flinched.

He only smiled.

“You’re still so beautiful when you beg.”

My knees buckled, but the chains caught me. Held me upright, even as I wanted to vanish, dissolve, scream.

I couldn’t breathe.

My magic was gone, hollowed out. My body, no longer mine.

My voice, useless.

My name, forgotten.

I was his.

I was his.

I-

Then, something.

A shift. 

A scent. 

Lavender. Lemon verbena. A touch of cedar.

A laugh, different this time. Not cruel.

Smooth and unhurried, like the sea at night.

Another presence. Not his.

Not his.

I reached toward it with shaking hands. With everything I had.

The chains cracked.

And the dream broke.

I woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart slamming against my ribs. My throat was tight, raw. My nightgown clung to my skin, damp with sweat. The candle had guttered out sometime in the night, the room cloaked in shadow.

I pressed a hand to my chest. 

“It was just a dream.”

But my wrists still burned.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

[justagreengummybear]

Hello and welcome to episode 1 of my “Gaydar” series, where I tell people what sexuality I think characters from media are. I am bisexual so I think I’m qualified to say my opinion lol. First up is all the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit characters. I’m starting with the Hobbit because I just rewatched all three movies recently.

Bilbo: There is no way on this green and burning earth or in my mind that Bilbo gives off anything other than awkward, introverted, and chaotic trans gay man energy. I find it increasingly hilarious that despite Martin Freeman’s stance on things like this, that the two most popular characters that he’s played have the highest rate of being in the most gay ass ships known to the world of men. His likeness is carved into the most heartbreaking and also hottest gay ships ever known and he has to live with that.

Thorin: Bisexual disaster man who has absolutely no idea how to show that his love language is both physical touch and words of affirmation, so he gives people he loves what someone hilariously called “love bonks.” Seriously, he had this entire field, a vast open plane in front of the mountain to walk through and he still went right for Bilbo to bump his shoulder against his. Use your goddamn words to tell Bilbo you love him, you silly short little bisaster.

Gandalf: As one of the Maiar (basically an all powerful angel in Tolkien universe) I was originally going to say Gandalf is Pansexual, but upon further examination of his character, Gandalf is 100% demisexual and demiromantic. He’s literally thousands of years old and I feel like he absolutely would not find anyone attractive or see any romantic potential in them if they didn’t share the same lifespan as him (looking at you Lady Galadriel.) He’s a mess but we love him.

Balin: He’s that one old, gay uncle in your family that you didn’t know was gay until you’re older and then realize that’s why he never got married. He literally gives Globber the Belch from How to Train Your Dragon: “this is why I never married, that and… one other reason.” Bombastic side eye on you, my guy.

Dwalin: My husband. My man. My perfect fucking tank of a man. I was originally going to say that he’s very straight coded, but I could definitely see him being bi leaning more towards femme presenting people. I also ship him with my own original character, but that’s an entirely different discussion.

Oin and Glóin: They are also straight coded, but Oin I could see being similar to Dwalin, Bi just leaning more towards femmes. Glóin gives big “I don’t understand what the LGTBLMNOP stuff is but good for you” dad energy.

Ori and Nori: Definitely also bi, but leaning more towards masc presenting people. Ori just gives sweet little gay woodshop nerd and there’s something about how Nori styles his hair that makes him seem fairly gay.

Dori: 100% gay. There’s not much explanation for this one, it’s just the vibe I get off him. He definitely spills some chamomile tea with Balin on those late nights in Erebor.

Bombur: Eh, he’s straight. Man is married and canonically has 6 kids. But he’s super chill with everyone because he’s the absolute goat of acceptance.

Fili and Kili: Fili is a proud and out pansexual man who is not picky at all. People are hot, he don’t care. Kili is bi but straight leaning, just for the “that’s not an elf maid” joke.

Bofur: Absolute legendary pansexual icon. Bofur can have anyone or everyone he wants because he’s just such a sweet little dork who gives no fucks about who or what you identify as. If he thinks they’re attractive, they’re attractive, end of story.

Bifur: Asexual. But he likes to watch. Next question.

Thranduil: Bisexual pillow princess. No more notes.

Bard: Bisexual. It gets lonely in that tiny lake town.

Tauriel: Another straight character, but I mean it in the most loving way possible. She loves short kings, what else can I say?

Now onto the LOTR cast-

Frodo: You poor sweet gay boy, let me give you a hug. Seriously, this boy deserves all the love and care in the world, which his best friend would absolutely give him.

Sam: Bisexual king. I can’t Not see Frodo and Sam being soulmates in every lifetime and Sam loving both Frodo and Rosie equally with his fucking Litter of 13 children. Rosie definitely gives the vibe that she wouldn’t mind watching her husband with his boyfriend.

Merry and Pippin: They’re both bi, but Pippin gives vague trans or gender-fluid vibes, I can’t tell which though.

Legolas: Bi, gender-fluid and 100% a bottom. Elves are essentially beings of light that choose physical forms suiting their own wants, and if that’s not gender-fluid coded, I don’t know wtf is.

Ghimli: Also bi, but aggressively so. He thought Galadriel was so fucking pretty and then he turned around to insult his twink boyfriend every chance he got. It’s his love language and Legolas seems to be into that.

Boromir: Straight but literally the most chill and accepting ally you’ve ever seen. Protective dad energy.

Faramir: Totally bi. When he saw his future wife’s crush, he absolutely said “Yeah, I get it.” Probably more fuel for his dad to hate him tho. “Miss me with that gay shit,” Denethor, probably.

Arwen: My queen, my gay awakening, and another straight character, which isn’t bad necessarily, but she can definitely peg her husband whenever she wants.

Aragorn: Sorry Bofur, but Aragorn gets the number one spot for most fruity character in this series. The man, the myth, the legend. Aragorn is a pansexual, polyamorous mess and his vibe is literally one of my favorite jokes.

“Hello, my name is Arwen. This is my husband, Aragorn. This is Aragorn’s boyfriend, Legolas. And this is Legolas’s husband, Ghimli.”

Absolute icon.

Eowyn: Also straight, but upon meeting Aragorn’s girlfriend turned wife, she would absolutely cave and say “Oh. I get it now.”

She definitely wouldn’t say no if Arwen offered a four way with her and Faramir. She would only accept if Faramir did. Which he would.

And before anyone asks about the villains, they are all straight (derogatory) and that’s my stance on it.

So there we have it, my hot take on the absolute fruit bowl that is the LOTR and Hobbit movies. I hope you all found this funny/stupid/entertaining or something.

[aidansloth]

Coffee and Chamomile

Summary: Hitoshi can’t sleep (again) so he decides to get up and make himself some good-ass coffee ‘cause he’s smart. When he reaches the common room, he realizes he’s not the only one who wanted a hot beverage.

Warnings/Things to keep in mind: slight hurt/comfort, swearing, suggested low self-esteem on Shinsou’s side and some dirty jokes because they’re teens. And adorably cute. Reader is referred to as they/them or ‘you’, this takes place in the dorms and Shinsou is part of Class 1-A (or 2-A, whatever you want). Also I don’t remember perfectly the layout of the dorms so pretend. I’m not up to date with the episodes (stuck on season 4) so please no spoilers! Last disclaimer: this is KIND OF self-indulgent and I’m autistic so if you think the reader is acting weird, that’s why.

Words: 2.3k

Posted this on AO3 too! You can find it here.

2:38am

Hitoshi turned in his sheets, covers uncomfortably sticking to his form as he sank his face into the scrunched-up pillow.

3:04am

An exasperated groan escaped his lips, half suffocated by the cushion; his arms wide around the mattress and his breathing deep and empty.

3:29am

That’s it. He’s getting up and making himself some damn coffee or whatever the others left in that poor kitchen. His sheets are hurled carelessly as his feet instinctively find their place in his cat-shaped slippers. Trying not to make too much noise (an act he had mastered by now) he opened the door and made his way to the common room. His phone, used as a make-shift torch guided him across the corridors; as he got closer and closer he noticed light becoming brighter, when he finally reached his destination the realization dawned on him. Someone else was up.

He quickly turned his phone-torch off before turning the corner, to find one of his new classmates dancing (or whatever that was) with their back turned to him, hands busy with what looked like a cup of tea.

It wasn’t long since he joined the Hero Course but he was starting to remember some names and whatever faces he didn't remember from the Sports Festival. Unfortunately, he wasn’t that good with names. No one talks to him anyways, why should he care?

While he did recognize you from behind he did not remember your name. You were nice to him, he thought. Nicer than the rest at least. That Denki guy seemed nice too- a bit too intense though. You lent him a pencil- or was it a tissue? No mind that, what was he gonna do now? Leave? No, you’ll turn around and notice him and think he was spying on you. Did you even want company? You seemed pretty busy. On the other hand it’s his common room too- but has he been there long enough to intrude on your private moment like that? He might not be here to make friends or be nice but that doesn’t mean he has to be an ass.

That’s when he realized you hadn’t noticed him yet. Ah. So aware of their surroundings for a hero.

He decided that grunting awkwardly was the best course of action. Bummer, you were wearing earphones. He tried a louder cough, but you only noticed him once you found yourself face to face with him. A loud curse left your lips and your hands instantly slammed against them as instinct. Hitoshi’s eyebrows raised and he pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. Good thing you placed your tea down earlier. Their eyes were now staring straight into his.

“Ehm- hi.” You licked your lips, saliva suddenly missing.

“Hi.” He managed to grunt out. Now this was awkward. He watched your eyes dart back and forward before settling back on him. He really wanted to say something, anything to get this uncomfortable feeling out but that little voice at the back of his head held him back.

“You here to make yourself some tea too?”

His mouth opened slightly, the careless innocence of the question taking him aback. Still, no words came out. He nodded. He actually wanted coffee but he didn’t think himself able to explain that through words now.

“Cool. I boiled extra water accidentally. What kind of tea did you want?” Your smile looked so genuine and again, careless. Like you didn’t think he was dangerous. Out of habit he was about to nod again but stopped in time to force some words out.

“Is there carcade?”

“Yep!” You were definitely too chipper for this hour in the morning. He tried not to think too much about the fact that you answered his question with no hesitation. He watched as you moved your hands swiftly along the mugs and tea bags, your movements rhythmic, like you do this a lot. In no time your teas were ready, so you placed yours in front of your stool and in front of his. Not that he sat down yet, no. His eyes were too busy watching you. The tea caught his attention quickly enough. Sitting down his hands snaked around the mug, his hoodie sleeves just a bit too long.

A string of silence hung.

“I guess we’re both awake for the same reason.” Hitoshi was glad his voice was back, though the ever-lingering anxiety stayed. He actually didn’t know why they were up but he thought this was a decent conversation starter. His gaze was too occupied marveling at the tea to notice your tilted head and dog-like expression.

“You’re writing fanfiction too?”

Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting that.

“Ehm- no- no I’m not.” Suddenly he felt weird and sorry he wasn’t writing fanfiction. His classmate nodded understandingly while taking another sip off their mug. Looking back at the kitchen island he felt particularly stupid for not noticing the laptop with an open Google Document page open. There was a small beat of awkward silence before the next sentence.

“Then why are you up?”

Ah. There it is. What was he supposed to respond now? Oh yeah, basically I have insomnia, meaning I get no hours of sleep and I do manage to miraculously fall asleep I’m awoken by nightmares and now, as our new guest of honor, the gracious sounds of the guys’ snoring which breaks the laws of time and space by getting across all those walls!

“Just- stuff.”

He thanked every god in the universe that they didn’t ask anything surrounding his very weird and suspicious answer but opted for a simple nod and a ‘cool’. Clinging his fingertips against the mug he realized he should try to keep the conversation going as well; you probably thought he didn’t want to talk to you with all his dry answers. His grip tightened and his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

“What- what is the fanfiction about?” He swore he never saw someone’s eyes light up faster, their lips immediately stretched into a painfully wide smile.

“Basically, you know ‘Lord of the Rings’, right? The fantasy book? There are these two characters, a dwarf and an elf. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, these two races have a really tough history which led to prejudice and hate on both sides. But for this certain world-saving quest they have to interact with each other, trust each other, you know? For the first quarter, maybe, of the quest they don’t get along very well. I mean, not trying to kill each other or anything, but petty threats and jokes are thrown around. At a certain point in their journey they have to take a break in this elven kingdom and by the end of it they are the best of friends! Now, I ship these two characters together, so, I’m writing a specific fanfic that takes place during their pause there and since Tolkien didn’t really go into detail with what they were doing during that time I have lots of creative freedom,”

Hitoshi’s lips pressed together as he watched them gesticulate their way through what could only be defined as a speech; his half-open eyes never left theirs while his chin rested on his hand. His eyes lingered from one feature of their face to another, still listening of course: he was good at that. Though his eyes may have lingered a moment too long on their lips.

“-not even mentioning their relationship later on at the end of ‘The Return of the King’, commenting on Minas Tirith’s architecture like a bunch of housewives! Really, in the middle of a war ‘This place needs more trees!’-” Their face dropped and Hitoshi’s heart with it. Did they notice him staring too much? He did that, didn’t he? Fuck. He made them uncomfortable-

“I’m sorry. I’m boring you.” They say huffing out a half-regretful chuckle. It nearly tricks him.

He stared just a little bit longer before talking.

“You’re not.”

He watched as their lips turned into an awkward smile, like they thought he only said it to be nice. The silence slowly crawled back. Hitoshi didn’t know what sudden urge slapped him in the face enough to have the courage to speak, but he did.

“Your voice is relaxing.” Good job asshole, now they think you’re a creep. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from your surprised one, which quickly turned into one of joy. And now he was blushing. Might as well dig my own grave with that one. Fingers tapped on mugs. Their mouths opened once, closed and then opened again.

“Do you mind if I- we move to the couch? I hate stools.”

“Sure- yeah.”

And moved to the couch they did. Fanfiction-writing long forgotten, they placed their teas on the small table in front of them; Hitoshi was surprised when they got blankets for the both of them and instinctively covered him too but he wasn’t about to complain about it. For a little while they sat in comfortable silence, only sounds of breathing and sips were heard. Just for a little while though. Until he noticed they kept yawning and their head dropping a bit every couple of seconds. His eyebrows scrunched up.

“You tired?”

“Meh, just a bit.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you up? I mean, we’re not that busy right now with school, you could write during the day and not in the middle of the night. Unless you can’t sleep but it doesn’t look like you can’t.”

“Well-” They huffed out a smile. “-it’s not exactly about having time. It’s a bit more complicated. Like-” They exhaled again, squeezing their eyes shut and then reopening them. “There aren’t enough hours during the day to- to be. The whole day feels like a dread and the only thing I look forward to is those hours in the night where I can do anything I want without that senseless guilt. The night is the only time I feel free to be.”

Hitoshi stayed silent for a moment, elaborating every word meticulously.

“That’s- that’s-”

“Sad? Pathetic? Depressing?”

He chuckled. “I mean- a bit.” Their soft laughter mixed together. “What I meant to say was, that’s- relatable.” A simple shared look was enough to fill the silence between them.

“So, why are you up?” Before Hitoshi could excuse himself again they stopped him.

“Don’t you dare say ‘just stuff’ again to me, I just gave you a tear-ripping, punch-to-the-face, gut-wrenching speech.” With their index finger pointing at him he let out a soft laugh, though his eyes lost a bit of their shine for a second when he started speaking.

“I have insomnia.”

“Ah. So you got up to make yourself chamomile or something?”

“Well, I wanted to make myself some coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee.”

“And you let me make you tea, why?”

Hitoshi adjusted himself quickly and cleared his throat. “You looked happy.” He felt their eyes stare through his soul, he felt naked.

“Is this helping?” God thank you for changing the subject.

“Is what helping?”

“Talking.” He thought for a moment.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Don’t usually talk to people.”

They smiled. “I noticed.” He grinned.

“Are you going to go back to sleep then? Well, not sleep- you get it.”

“Don’t know. This couch is very comfortable.”

“Oh yeah?” You said, raising your eyebrows with a shit-eating grin. A wide grin grew on his face and he let out a laugh.

“Yeah.” You nodded again.

“You know, I won’t get offended if you want to go back to sleep- or to your fanfiction.” He said.

You shook their head. “I’m fine here.”

He gulped, praying that the low light won’t show his blushing cheeks. Their conversation went on for another half an hour at least, Hitoshi couldn’t tell honestly. Their teas finished and mugs cold, they got up (mostly because they realized the time). Cups in the sink, they began talking again once Hitoshi yawned.

You chuckled. “Is my voice that relaxing?”

“Incredibly so.” He grinned seeing them laugh again. He cleared his throat.

“So, you going to sleep?” Hitoshi watched them as their shoulders dropped.

“Yeah- yeah, is that okay? I don’t mean to leave you alone but-”

“Yes- yes it’s fine don’t worry about me, I won’t die,” he grinned, his hands in his pockets “sleep, you need it.”

“Oh, and you don’t?”

“No, I’m like Batman.”

“Are you implying he doesn’t sleep because he calls himself Batman?- He’s not even- He doesn’t have super powers like that, you are aware-” Their soon-to-be ramble was interrupted by his laughter.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not mocking, promise.” He bit his inside cheek, clenching and unclenching his fists in nervousness. “I just- like how passionate you are.”

“About Batman?”

“About Batman.” They looked at each other for a second before you nodded.

“Alright… Well, I’m off to bed. Nice slippers by the way.” Hitoshi grinned like a lovesick boy at your comment.

He nodded smiling and moved away a bit from the entrance of the corridor to let you pass. They smiled and wished each other a good night. It only took a few steps before you stopped and whipped around.

“Wait!” You ran and before he knew it they had plunged into him, his torso wrapped nicely within their arms. His body froze at first but quickly came back and wrapped his own arms around their frame. Hitoshi could feel his muscles relax. It wasn’t long before they moved away leaving an empty feeling in both of them.

“Goodnight!” They said and Hitoshi swore that was the sweetest smile he had ever had the luck of witnessing.

“Good- goodnight.”

As if he was able to sleep after that.

Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism/advice is welcomed.