#freader

[zumicho]

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♥︎ .ᐟ.ᐟ 06

© zumicho all rights reserved.

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author’s note: if u got the reference u earn a cookie

+++ ik the handwriting for yn’s is unusually messy pretend that’s bc she’s stressed !!! bc !!! u know !!! apology / confession essay to her crush !! yeah !!!

@wyrcan @guitarstringed-scars @mimi3lover @itsdragonius @vivian-555 @blueberrygeniejam @cryptictheseus @azharyy @yuminako @iluvmang @aliensstolemyheart @ilyless @tojirin @mylahrins @gra-eae @reads-stuff-quietly @neeksnicoboytoy @elliott0o0 @nnnyxie @chizunata @girlkissersco @kiyoomis-side @scxrcherr @causenessus @eggyrocks @phoenix-eclipses @walllflowerrrsss @gsyche @acowboykisser @swag-only @serossidechick @le000xxgrd @eclecticeggknightpsychic @garfieldissocool @dazqa @venusianeros @youmake1mistake @thechaosoflonging @r0seandth0rns @empress-pug-pug @iad0ru

[cyborg-franky]

For @whitewineandpizzapuffs ! Thank you for the support and please enjoy <3<3

Ace x F!Reader SFW WC: 729

“I need to get away from this ship for a bit,” You said, putting hands on Ace’s shoulders as he leaned back on his chair, almost tipping over if not for you. “Yeah?”

You nodded and pushed him back to sitting, the chair making a thud on the floor before you wrapped your arms around him, resting your chin on his head and sighed. “I just need to get away from all the, ya know… men.” You huffed into his hair and heard him laugh at that. “Getting too much testosterone in the air, huh?” he teased playfully. 

“I can just go on my own,” you tried to pull your arms away, but Ace whined and grabbed you. “Aw, come on, don’t leave me.” You rolled your eyes at the whiny tone as he pawed at your arms. He acted like you were dating sometimes, not that you minded. You pushed those thoughts aside. You didn’t need to focus on your crush right now; you just needed a break from the ship.

–

Taking the striker to a small island, you gripped the picnic basket for dear life as the small fire-powered boat shot across the waves, skimming over the surface. The wind in your hair and against your face felt nice. Ace would get you both there safely; you were just still getting used to going from the stable footing on the Moby to being rocked around.

Ace helped to pry you from the striker's mast. Taking his hand, you let him help you off and onto the sand. You signed and took a breath as Ace grabbed the basket and headed to the shady area under the palm trees.

This island was smaller than it looked on the map, but that meant it was all yours, just the two of you. You watched Ace set out the picnic blanket before he kicked off his heavy boots, flopping down and letting out a pleased sound as he wiggled his toes. You tossed your backpack to the ground and joined him.

“This is nice; I already feel so much better,” you said as you rummaged in your bag for a sketchbook and pens. Ace’s face lit up when he saw the marker pens. You got comfy against him, reaching into the picnic basket, getting out a bottle of soda, popping it open, and taking a swig. 

You quirked an eyebrow when Ace arranged your leg across his lap, a blue pen in his hand. You watched him uncap the pen and start to colour in one of your many tattoos. Your arms and legs were covered in lots of black line work, and you’d never considered you’d make the perfect coloring book.

Watching Ace focus on your leg, gently colouring in one of your tattoos, how his nose scrunched and the tip of his tongue stuck out as he focused on his work. He finished with the blue and then switched to green. You laughed out, and he blinked up at you. “Sorry, it tickles,” you said with a giggle.

Ace couldn’t help himself, smiling at hearing the giggle as his heart fluttered. The sound of you happy was everything to him, even if it was just you being ticklish. “I didn’t mean to, for once,” he said as his smile turned into a cheeky smirk. “Sure, I believe you,” you poked your tongue out at him and started to sketch as he went back to coloring.

This was exactly what you needed: time away from the busy ship, a small tropical paradise, and spending time with your best friend. The sun started to set, and you’d curled against Ace as you watched the sky change above. 

“I think you made me look pretty, Ace.” You said, stretching out your arms and legs and looking at all the colours he’d added to your tattoos. “Nah, you're already pretty. I just added a little something.” Ace said giving you a wink.

Both of you suddenly felt warm, cheeks dusted with pink at his comment. “M-maybe I should get these coloured for real,” you mumbled, looking at your skin. “Yeah, you should,” he added, looking away.

“Wanna head back?” he asked, going to stand before you stopped him. “Just a little longer?” you asked, a gentle plead in your voice, and he nodded, getting comfy next to you. “Thank you, Ace.”

“Anytime,”

[casinocarpediem]

Me when they put "shy!reader" and they make reader an incomprehensible helpless baby instead of somebody who is actually shy

[bts-0t-7]

Mountain of Threads

Pair: Jungkook x dancer F Reader

Summary: You discover a powerful connection and love between you and Jeon Jungkook. Through shared moments of vulnerability and exploration, you embark on a journey that transcends boundaries - creating new stories and a forever-intertwined bond.

Genre: Fluff, Idolxreader

Chapter Warnings: None

WC: 662

The air crackled with anticipation as you stood on stage, the spotlight illuminating your every move. Like the water, your body movements flowed together as one. As the music swelled, you danced with passion, pouring your heart into art. And in the crowd, Jungkook watched, his gaze filled with awe and admiration. The wonder on his face - mouth gaping wide open, staring at your entrancing movements - not moving a single inch.

After the performance, you caught him in the back rooms - a shy smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He hesitantly approached you, speaking with sincerity. "You are a talented dancer, Y/N. That dance was really a masterpiece."

A blush crept up your neck as you ducked your head, replying, "Thank you, Jungkook. Coming from you, it really means a lot."

Jungkook's eyes sparked with a mixture of humility and determination. "The dedication you put into your craft is amazing. Amazing and obvious and really inspiring." His eyes grew bigger as he gasped. "I should go write songs now then!"

His infectious laughter spurred your own and you laughed along, enjoying the easy-going air between you two. At that moment, a connection formed - through shared dreams and the pursuit of excellence. It was a recognition of each other's passions, dreams, and hope - a deep understanding that they have the power to shape lives.

As days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, you found yourself spending more and more time with Junkook. Through shared practices and late-night conversations in the convenience store, you discovered a one-of-a-kind kindred spirit - one that relays the unspoken language of your hearts.

Together, both of you trekked up the mountain of growth and explorations, pushing each other to reach new heights. There were many moments of frustration and exhaustion - many questionable times on whether this connection is worth the fight - but they were always eclipsed by the unwavering support and encouragement you received from Jungkook.

Late one night, standing on the rooftops of his house, the both of your gazed at the stars. The both of you were silent for a long while, before Jungkook turned to you, eyes filled with determination and an underlying…fear. “Y/N, I’ve watched you become stronger and more confident every day. Your passion and drive have always inspired me to be a better version of myself.”

Warmth spread through your chest as you smiled at him. “And you, Jungkook. You have also pushed me further even when I think that I have reached my limit, allowing me to explore new boundaries and embrace challenges.” You turned back to look at the stars, continuing, “You truly have an incredible ability to light up a room with your presence.”

Jungkook’s cheeks tinted with a blush as he chuckled. “Thank you, Y/N. Your belief truly means a lot to me.”

At that moment, the world seemed to shrink, leaving just the both of you on the rooftop - a space where dreams collide and love blossoms. Jungkook’s hand reaches out, his fingers gentry intertwining with yours as if to solidify the connection between your souls.

With a bated breadth, you leaned in, lips finding Jungkook’s in a tender kiss. It was a moment that encapsulated all the unspoken emotions swirling between you. It was a dance of vulnerability and trust, a stepping stone toward a love that transcends all boundaries.

From then on, your strings intertwined as your journey continued, hand-in-hand. Through the ups and downs, the peals of laughter and the tears, you discovered a love both so powerful and tender - one that has defined even the most complex emotions in every situation; one that defied expectations and blossomed beyond the confinements of the stage.

In Jungkook’s embrace, you found a partner who would always push you to be the best version of yourself as you would for him. Together, the both of you soar beyond boundaries, embrace the unknown, and continuously create a story that your forever be etched in your hearts.

[buckyalpine]

I will elaborate on this but imagine MobBucky has to kidnap you for whatever reason, ransom, to send a message, insert your preference here and he has you tied up in some room of his house. It’s all fine until he hears the scraping of the chair moving against the floor so he, Steve and Sam go over to make sure you’re not trying to escape.

He the closer he gets, the louder the scraping is, he bursts through the door.

“You better not try to lea-what-what the hell are you doing-

You momentarily stop your scooting to look and him and then back at your destination, only to start all over again. You were so close, you didn’t care if your hands were bound, you’d find a way-

“What’s she doing in there” Steve questioned, seeing Bucky run an exasperated hand over his face.

“She’s trying to pet the cat”

“What?”

Bucky stared at you as you finally reached where his very white, very spoiled fur baby was perched. He was so sure she’d try and swat at you, at the very least hiss, after all, she was as picky and grumpy as her daddy-

“Merp” she hopped down to nuzzle against your leg, bumping her head against you with a happy purr. “Meow-

“Alright, that’s enough, Alpine get over here”

The sassy feline gave him a hard stare before reluctantly pulling away and sauntering over, batting his leg before trotting off. He was supposed to be the leader of his gang and meanwhile his hostage was trying to pet his cat who just scolded him after being told to leave.

“Well thanks for that” You gave him an annoyed huff, obnoxiously scooting back to where the chair originally was.

“Brat” Bucky mumbled his breath, biting back the smile that almost made its way to his face.

Almost.

[iraot]

Warnings: M/M intimacy, tooth rotting fluff?, rough sex, knotting, abo dynamics, p in v sex, p in a sex, oral sex, throuple, power dynamics?, play, hair mentioned i think, Pairing: Alpha Zayne x Omega F!reader x Alpha Caleb A/N: this is the last OFFICIAL part of my ABO series, at least until the sixth LI comes out. I am taking drabble requests for any of the relationships so feel free to shoot me a DM and I'll get to it as soon as I can! :3 If you also just wanna yap hit me up too! I'm a chronic yapper. A03

��𝟝 𝕐𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕊 𝔸𝔾𝕆 The summer sun was beginning its lazy descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet as the three of them raced through the field behind Linkon University’s faculty housing, where their families worked. The rampantly growing wildflowers swayed in the evening breeze, the scent of earth and grass filling the air as laughter rang out between them.

Caleb was the fastest, always the first to dart ahead, feet barely touching the ground as he bolted through the field. His dark brown hair was a wild mess, violet eyes bright with excitement as he whooped and called over his shoulder, “Come on, slowpokes! Last one to the tree has to carry the backpacks home!”

She groaned dramatically but pushed forward, her legs burning as she tried to keep up. She wasn’t as wild as Caleb, but she had her own brand of playful competitiveness. “Not fair! You took off before we even started counting!”

Zayne, as always, was more calculated in his approach. He didn’t immediately rush in after Caleb but instead gauged the distance, the lay of the ground, the way his two best friends moved. With a quiet, knowing smirk, he adjusted his pace, waiting for the right moment to surge ahead. “You should know by now that Caleb doesn’t play fair,” he murmured as he passed her, his black hair catching the last of the sunlight.

She huffed, trying not to grin. “And you’re still letting him get away with it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Just as Caleb was about to reach the massive oak tree that marked their usual finish line, Zayne suddenly veered to the right, cutting through the tall grass. Caleb was too caught up in his own momentum to notice until the last second—when Zayne stretched out a hand and tagged the tree first.

“What—? You cheated!” Caleb gaped, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

Zayne simply leaned against the bark, arms crossed, utterly unbothered. “I played smart.”

She reached the tree a few seconds later, panting but laughing. “Guess that means Caleb’s carrying the backpacks.”

Caleb groaned, falling onto his back with an exaggerated sigh. “You two always gang up on me.”

“We wouldn’t have to if you weren’t always running off,” Zayne pointed out, nudging him with his foot.

She plopped down beside Caleb, staring up at the sky with a contented sigh. “One day, we’ll probably have to start acting our age. Be all proper and responsible.”

Caleb turned his head to look at her, grinning. “Not happening. I’ll make sure of it.”

Zayne shook his head, but there was fondness in his gaze as he sat beside them. “At the very least, I’ll make sure neither of you get into too much trouble.”

She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. “So, what’s the verdict? Backpacks?”

Caleb groaned again but grabbed one of the bags with a dramatic flourish. “Fine. But only because I’m gracious in defeat.”

She and Zayne exchanged an amused glance before gathering the rest of their things, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm as they made their way home. Even then, before their designations, before their world became infinitely more complicated, they had been something unshakable—three parts of a whole, bound together in a way none of them could fully put into words.

Not yet, anyway.

PRESENT The change in the air was subtle at first—just a shift, something quiet, creeping beneath the surface like a storm waiting to break. But then it thickened, coiled, twisted into something heavy and undeniable, something that seeped into the walls, the sheets, their skin. It was a slow, smoldering burn, creeping into their bones, filling every breath with something sharp, something deep.

Zayne felt it like a pulse beneath his skin, a slow ache spreading through his veins, settling low in his gut, curling tight around the heavy weight of his cock where it lay against his thigh. He exhaled through his nose, trying to stay steady, but even that was a fucking struggle. His body was already turning against him, heat building behind his eyes, muscles going taut, coiling in anticipation. He wasn’t in rut yet, not fully, but it was coming. He could feel it.

Caleb was worse off.

The other Alpha was already shifting where he sat, restless, his hands twitching before curling into fists against the edge of the mattress like he was trying to tether himself. But restraint wasn’t in Caleb’s nature. Never had been. His body knew what it wanted, and it wanted now. It was evident in the way he pressed up against Zayne, broad chest to chest, his scent thick with rut, flooding the space around them. His lips curled, sharp, wicked, as he rolled his hips down in a slow, deliberate grind, dragging against Zayne’s cock just to watch the way his throat bobbed with the effort of restraint.

“Fuck, you’re already holding back?” Caleb murmured, voice rough, teasing, layered with heat that he wasn’t even pretending to hide. His breath ghosted against Zayne’s jaw, lips so fucking close but not touching, not yet, just enough to make it worse.

Zayne let out a low, guttural sound, more growl than breath, his hand snapping up to grip the back of Caleb’s neck, fingers flexing against sweat-damp skin. “We don’t need to do this,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away.

Caleb huffed out a sharp breath, biting down on his lower lip, dragging it between his teeth before releasing it with a quiet, breathy laugh. He rocked his hips again, grinding down, the friction sending a sharp, burning heat through both of them. “That’s cute,” he rasped. “Like you’re not already fucking soaked in scent.”

Zayne clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the way his cock twitched at the words, the way his body ached for more, craved it, demanded it. Caleb was right—he fucking reeked of rut, the deep, dark spice of it thick in the air, mixing with Caleb’s scent in a way that was fucking dizzying, overwhelming. It curled around them both, binding them together in the worst best way.

Caleb didn’t wait for an answer. He surged forward, closing the space between them, capturing Zayne’s mouth in a kiss that was all heat and teeth, hungry, restless. Zayne let him, let Caleb take, let him press him down against the mattress, let his hands slide down his back, gripping muscle, feeling the way Caleb trembled under his fingers.

The rut hadn’t hit full force yet, but fuck, it was close.

And this—this wasn’t going to be enough.

Zayne barely remembered how they got here, barely remembered shoving off their clothes, the frantic, desperate way their hands tore at fabric, the way Caleb’s nails dug into his shoulders, dragging down his back, leaving angry, red streaks in their wake. But now, Caleb was beneath him, panting, gasping, his face buried in the sheets as Zayne pressed into him, his cock stretching Caleb open, filling him, dragging against the tight, slick heat of him inch by inch.

Caleb shuddered beneath him, his breath catching on a moan, his hands fisting the sheets so tightly his knuckles went white. “Fuck,” he gasped, voice wrecked, body burning, back arching as he tried to push back, to take more, to take all of it.

Zayne gritted his teeth, his fingers digging into the sharp curve of Caleb’s hips, holding him still as he sank deeper, forcing himself to go slow, to drag it out. He wanted to wreck him, to pound him into the mattress until neither of them could fucking breathe, but he knew Caleb—knew the way he liked it, knew the way his body craved the stretch, the ache, the feeling of being taken apart, piece by fucking piece.

The sounds Caleb made—broken, breathless little noises, gasps and moans and desperate little whimpers—sent heat ripping through Zayne’s spine, curling low in his gut, tightening around his cock like a vice. “Fuck,” Zayne grunted, forehead dropping to the sweat-slick expanse of Caleb’s back, his breath coming in ragged, heavy pulls. “You’re—fucking squeezing me.”

Caleb let out a rough, choking sound, body trembling, shuddering around him. “Maybe—” he sucked in a sharp breath, shivering as Zayne pulled back, dragging his cock against the slick, swollen clutch of his body before pressing back in, slow, deep, almost mean. “Maybe I don’t—wanna let you go.”

Zayne groaned, his hips snapping forward, his restraint fraying, shattering. His thrusts picked up, deeper, harder, grinding into him, dragging him closer and closer to the edge. Caleb sobbed out a sound, arching, his hands clawing at the sheets, his body tightening, locking down around him.

It was too much.

Zayne growled, deep and primal, his knot swelling, locking them together, forcing him deep, keeping him buried inside. Caleb gasped, his whole body jerking, tensing, his muscles twitching under Zayne’s hands, his breath coming in sharp, uneven little moans.

Zayne let out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead to the back of Caleb’s neck, his lips dragging along sweat-damp skin. His hands smoothed down Caleb’s sides, feeling every tremor, every little aftershock still working through him. The scent of rut was still thick in the air, suffocating, clinging to the sheets, to their skin.

They stayed like that for a while, panting, twitching through the last tremors of it, their bodies spent, their muscles locked, shaking.

Zayne’s head snapped up.

The apartment wasn’t silent.

A noise.

Faint.

Something breathy. Unsteady.

Caleb stirred beneath him. “You hear that?”

Zayne’s gut twisted, instincts locking onto something new, something dangerous. His world had been narrowed to Caleb for hours, but now—now that the haze was ebbing, another scent was creeping in, something sweet, thick, suffocating.

Omega. Not just any Omega. Her.

Zayne was moving before he had even fully untied from Caleb, instincts screaming, body demanding action. Caleb cursed behind him, barely managing to catch himself as Zayne pulled free, the knot finally giving way. He groaned, rolling onto his back, but his expression shifted the second he inhaled deep.

“Shit,” Caleb muttered, already moving. “That’s—”

Neither of them wasted time. A quick rinse, scrubbing the worst of their rut from their skin, before shoving on loose clothes, still radiating Alpha heat as they stalked into the hallway.

The scent hit them full-force in the living room.

She was there, curled on the floor, trembling, fingers twitching against the oversized fabric of her hoodie. Her scent was thick, pouring off her in waves, her heat pressing against every inch of the apartment like a fucking siren’s call.

Fuck.

She wasn’t supposed to go into heat for another few weeks.

Caleb exhaled sharply, glancing at Zayne, his violet eyes still dark with leftover rut. “Well,” he muttered, voice tight. “That’s a fucking problem.”

She whimpered when Zayne lifted her, fingers clutching weakly at his hoodie, her heat scent clinging to his skin like a plea. Zayne clenched his jaw. Caleb’s lips pressed into a thin line.

The scent was overwhelming now, worse than before–worse now that she was in their arms–the slick-sweet haze of her heat wrapping around them, sinking into their lungs. She had just been in heat last month. There shouldn’t have been a reason for her to go into heat for several months, but with two Alphas coming into rut at the same time; well, the odds weren’t in her favor.

Zayne exhaled slowly through his nose, tightening his grip around her as he stepped into her room. The space was warm, the air thick with her scent, but what caught his attention was the bed—the carefully arranged pile of blankets, pillows, soft things she'd unconsciously gathered over the past few days. 

A nest. 

Her nest.

He hadn’t noticed. Neither of them had.

“Fuck,” Caleb muttered under his breath.

Zayne carefully knelt, setting her down at the center of the nest. She let out a breathy sound, rubbing her cheek against the soft fabric, her body instinctively curling into the space she had made for herself. But when he tried to pull back, her hand shot out, clumsy and shaking, grabbing at his wrist.

Her eyes cracked open—barely focused, pupils blown wide. “Don’t—” her voice was small, raw, “don’t leave.”

Zayne swallowed hard.

Caleb ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “Shit.” He dropped to his knees beside the nest, watching as she tried to reach for them again, her body moving on instinct, seeking their warmth, their scent.

Because they did this.

She whined again, softer this time, her fingers flexing weakly as they curled into Zayne’s hoodie. Her scent pulsed in the air—sweet, thick, drowning them in it. It was impossible to ignore, seeping into their skin, into their bones.

Zayne forced himself to breathe slowly, carefully, even as every part of him wanted to sink into her scent, press closer, give her whatever she was begging for.

She didn’t understand what she was asking. Not yet.

Caleb let out a sharp breath beside him, rubbing the back of his neck like it might help clear his head. It wouldn’t. Not with her lying there, heat-flushed and trembling, pupils blown wide as she looked at them.

“Fuck,” Caleb muttered under his breath. He was staring at her like she was the only thing in the world. Then he dragged a hand down his face and sat back on his heels, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We—shit, we did this to her.”

Zayne swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He knew. The second he smelled her, he knew. Their ruts had thrown her cycle off-balance, pulled her into heat too soon. Her body reacted to them.

Her heat was because of them.

Zayne’s jaw ticked as he reached down, smoothing his palm over the sweat-damp skin of her arm. “We didn’t mean to,” he said, voice low, rough. It felt like a weak excuse.

Caleb huffed out a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t change shit, does it?”

She whimpered softly, shifting in the nest, her thighs rubbing together, seeking friction that wouldn’t satisfy her. The motion sent another wave of scent through the air, and Zayne felt his stomach clench.

Fuck.

Caleb’s whole body went tense beside him. He dragged in a shaky breath, then shoved himself away, back hitting the wall. He tilted his head up, staring at the ceiling like that would help anything.

“This is bad,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Really, really fucking bad.”

She whimpered again, eyes fluttering open, hazy and unfocused. “Please,” she breathed, fingers twitching toward them.

The sound of her voice sent something deep and primal rolling through Zayne’s chest. His Omega. The thought shouldn’t be there, but it was. Her heat was crying for them, her instincts pulling her toward them. She wanted—needed—

Zayne gritted his teeth. No. She didn’t need them like that. Not when she was like this.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. Focus.

She shifted again, her body aching for warmth, for touch. “Too hot,” she mumbled, voice thin. She tugged weakly at her hoodie, but her fingers were uncoordinated, trembling. Her heat was draining her strength fast. Too fast.

Zayne moved before thinking, reaching out to help. But the second his fingers brushed the fabric, she made a sound. A breathy, helpless little whimper.

His vision went red for half a second.

Caleb swore.

“Zayne,” he warned.

Zayne’s breathing was too slow, too careful. His muscles coiled under his skin, his entire body wired tight with restraint. He could feel her heat in his palm, radiating through the hoodie, sinking into him. So soft. So warm. So—

He pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.

Caleb exhaled hard. He was watching, eyes dark, knowing. “That close?” he murmured.

Zayne clenched his jaw. “Shut the fuck up.”

Caleb didn’t push, which meant he wasn’t any better.

The room was silent except for her soft, needy breaths. Zayne could feel the way she was still reaching for them, the way her body was practically singing for them to come closer. His instincts screamed at him to do exactly that.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done—not touching her.

Caleb let his head drop back against the wall again, breathing in slow, measured drags. “We can’t leave her alone like this.”

Zayne exhaled sharply. “I know.”

“She’s not gonna last long like this, man.” Caleb’s voice was quieter now, but just as strained. “She’s already burning up.”

Zayne looked at her. Her skin was flushed, her lips slightly parted as she panted through the heat pulsing through her body. She needed them. But not like this.

Not like this.

His stomach twisted.

Caleb ran a hand down his face. “I hate this.”

Zayne did too. Every instinct in him wanted to take care of her, to fix this, but fixing it meant crossing a line neither of them were willing to cross.

Instead, he reached for the blankets in her nest, pulling them up around her, tucking them in close, careful not to let his fingers brush her skin again.

She sighed at the warmth, curling deeper into the soft fabric, murmuring something under her breath that neither of them could make out.

Caleb let out a slow breath. “So, what the fuck do we do?”

Zayne stared down at her for a long moment, watching the way her fingers curled weakly around the edge of the blanket, the way her lashes fluttered as she fought against the haze.

“Stay,” he said simply.

Caleb’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t argue.

Because as wrong as this situation was, leaving her like this would be worse.

So they stayed.

They stayed.

Time crawled.

Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours.

They stayed.

At first, they’d kept their distance—one on either side of her nest, unmoving, watching her carefully, speaking only when necessary. They kept their hands to themselves. They kept their instincts leashed.

It wasn’t enough.

She was getting worse.

Her breaths were coming too fast now, shallow and desperate. Sweat slicked her skin, dampened her clothes, leaving her overheated, burning alive. She twisted restlessly in her nest, whimpering in pain more than need now. Her body was fighting itself, spiraling deeper into heat at a rate neither of them had ever seen before.

Zayne felt his stomach clench.

“Fuck,” Caleb whispered hoarsely, scrubbing a hand down his face. “This—this isn’t normal, man.”

Zayne’s jaw ticked. “I know.”

They both knew.

This wasn’t like last time. Last time, she’d had a warning. Time to prepare, to take suppressants if she wanted, to lock herself away and ride it out at her pace. This? This was something else.

Her body hadn’t been ready for heat. It had been thrown into it, dragged under like a drowning animal, and it was killing her.

She let out a weak whimper, barely able to move now. Her eyes cracked open—dazed, unfocused.

She didn’t even recognize them anymore.

That was it. That was the line.

Zayne and Caleb locked eyes.

Neither of them spoke at first. They didn’t have to.

They both knew what the other was thinking.

Zayne swallowed, his throat dry. “She’s not gonna make it through this alone.”

Caleb’s face was tight, his whole body rigid. “I know.”

Another whimper from the nest—softer this time, weaker. Her fingers barely twitched where they were curled into the blanket, as if she were trying to reach for something she couldn’t even see anymore.

Zayne clenched his jaw.

Caleb exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them again. “She’s gonna hate us for this.”

Zayne nodded, a sharp, decisive motion. “Probably.”

Caleb swallowed, his throat working. He hesitated, then exhaled. “I’d rather have her alive and pissed at me than—” His voice caught. He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Zayne inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the thick, sweetened haze of her heat. His instincts roared, ready, waiting. But his mind was still steady, still clear.

“We do this right,” he said roughly. “Slow. Careful. No claiming.”

Caleb’s nostrils flared, but he nodded.

There was no more debate after that.

The first thing they did was slow her down.

She was panting now, her body trembling violently in her nest, her skin slick with sweat. The fever was burning through her too fast, too hard. She needed more than just their touch—she needed care.

Caleb was already moving, his fingers deft as he reached for the water bottle on her bedside table. He cracked the cap open, shifting closer to where she lay tangled in blankets, barely lucid.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough but softer now. He reached for her, cupping the back of her head gently, lifting her just enough to press the bottle to her lips. “Drink for me, yeah?”

She whimpered at the contact, her hands weakly grasping at the front of his shirt. She tried to press herself into him, into his heat, his scent, but he held her steady.

“Not yet,” Caleb murmured, his voice soothing. “C’mon, baby, need you to drink first.”

Her lips parted obediently when he tilted the bottle, and she took slow uneven sips, swallowing between shallow breaths.

Zayne watched, his body tight, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could smell her exhaustion, her frustration. She was running on nothing but need now, instincts taking over, seeking, reaching—pleading.

His gut twisted. She shouldn’t have to beg.

The second Caleb pulled the bottle away, her hands were moving again, small and clumsy, reaching out, seeking them.

Zayne exhaled slowly, leaning down, his palm finally finding the curve of her thigh. She shivered under his touch, a choked sound leaving her lips.

“Easy,” he murmured, fingers stroking slow, measured paths up the length of her thigh, easing her open. “We’ve got you.”

Her breath hitched.

Zayne’s palm dragged higher, so slow, so careful, skimming over damp heated skin. His fingers spread, grazing, teasing, preparing.

Her whole body reacted.

Caleb chuckled, rough and breathless. “That’s what you wanted, huh, sweetheart?”

She whimpered.

Zayne’s gaze flicked up, meeting Caleb’s over the curve of her body. They had her. She was theirs.

Caleb exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before shifting back down to her. He ran his knuckles along her flushed cheek, his mouth quirking into something almost fond.

“She’s desperate for it,” Caleb murmured.

Zayne hummed. “She’s gonna get it.”

And then he kissed her.

Soft. Slow. Lazy.

Not rushed, not greedy, not taking. Just giving.

Her whimper turned into a shuddering moan against his lips, her body arching into him, for him, melting beneath his hands as he prepared her, opening her up.

Caleb pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering, “We’ve got you, baby. We’ve got you.”

Zayne settled between her thighs, a wall of heat and muscle, pressing her down into the soft tangled mess of blankets beneath them. His body was solid, heavy, unyielding, the sheer size of him a reminder that she was completely at his mercy. She was so small beneath him, so soft, so pliant—her body trembling with exhaustion but still moving, still seeking, still aching for more. The fevered flush of her skin burned against his, sweat-slicked and desperate, her scent thick enough to drown him, coating his tongue, clinging to his lungs. It made his head swim, made his muscles coil tight with the effort of restraint, made his cock throb where it lay heavy between them.

Even now, wrecked and ruined, she was still trying to move, her hips rolling weakly, a slow, pitiful grind against the underside of his length. She was struggling, her body too far gone to manage anything more than pleading little movements, rubbing against him, seeking relief, lost to the hunger of her own heat. She didn’t have to fight for it. She didn’t have to beg.

Zayne had her.

His hands traced over her body, slow, steady, dragging heat in their wake as they mapped over every inch of flushed, fevered skin. He spread her open with easy, effortless strength, holding her still, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. His thumbs pressed into the soft dip of her hips, his fingers gripping the curve of her thighs, steadying her. She was so wet—pulsing, dripping, her slick coating his fingers, her body already preparing itself for him.

For him.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through his ribs, sinking deep into the space between them.

She whimpered at the sound, an immediate, instinctive reaction, her body going tense before shuddering apart again, thighs twitching like she wanted to wrap them around his waist, to pull him closer, to lock him in. She was burning up, feverish, overwhelmed, but she still wanted to. Still needed.

Zayne exhaled sharply, dragging his cock through her soaked folds, coating himself in the mess of her slick, feeling the way her body quivered at the contact. The heat of her, the sheer wetness, the way she clenched around nothing—it nearly undid him. His muscles went rigid, his fingers flexing against her skin, restraint hanging by a thread, fraying with every shuddered breath.

“You’re burning up, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick, hoarse with the weight of his need. He let the tip of his cock nudge at her entrance, push, press, tease—just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her squirm—but not enough to give her what she needed. Not yet.

“This what you needed?”

She made a choked, needy sound, her fingers twitching against his biceps, nails barely scratching at his skin, useless and weak but still trying.

Zayne chuckled, low and lazy, but there was something dark beneath it, something possessive, something just a little cruel.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured, soothing, promising. “Gonna give you exactly what you need.”

And then he pushed in.

Her gasp broke into a moan, her back arching, her body tightening around him, sucking him in, taking him.

Zayne’s jaw clenched, a growl catching in his throat as he forced himself to go slow, to keep himself steady. She was so fucking wet, her body made to take him, welcoming him, milking him—but she was tight, too tight, scorching around him, squeezing down like she wanted to keep him there forever. His fingers dug into the softness of her thighs, spreading her wider, holding her open, watching the way her face twisted, overwhelmed, undone, lost in the feeling of him.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice rough, gravel-thick. “Takin’ me so well, baby. Fuck.”

She whined, a high, broken sound, her legs finally locking around his waist, ankles hooking behind him, desperate to keep him close, to keep him inside.

As if he was ever going to leave.

Zayne exhaled harshly, pressing his forehead against hers, breathing her in, drowning in her scent. His hips rolled, deep, slow, dragging the full length of him inside her inch by inch, stretching her open, filling her until there was nowhere left to go, until he was buried to the hilt, locked in place by the clutch of her body.

She pulsed around him, clenching, gripping, desperate.

He groaned, his hands dragging up her waist, feeling the way she trembled beneath him, barely able to hold herself together.

“You needed this bad, huh?” he murmured against her ear, his lips brushing her overheated skin, his voice dripping with amusement, with affection.

She whimpered, nodding weakly, helpless.

Zayne’s lips curled.

He pulled back, the thick drag of his cock against her swollen walls making her gasp, before thrusting back in—slow, deep, perfect.

Her whole body shuddered.

From his place at the edge of the nest, Caleb let out a sharp breath, barely more than a muttered, “Shit.”

Zayne ignored him. His focus was on her. Only her.

His rhythm was unhurried, deliberate, every thrust measured, controlled, every roll of his hips drawing a fresh gasp from her throat, a fresh clench of her body around him. Her fingers clung to his back, weak and trembling, like she was afraid he’d pull away, like she was afraid she’d wake up and find herself alone, still aching, still empty.

“That’s it,” Zayne murmured, voice rough, full of praise. His hand slid up, cupping her jaw, tilting her face up, forcing her dazed, heat-fogged eyes to meet his. “Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

She moaned, nodding, lips parting like she wanted to answer, but only breathless sounds escaped.

He shushed her, thumb dragging slow over her cheek. “I know, baby. I know.”

His thrusts picked up, deeper, stronger, pushing her higher, pulling her apart.

Her body reacted instantly, her back bowing, her legs squeezing tighter, her cries turning sharper, higher, desperate.

Zayne gritted his teeth, feeling the way she clenched around him, taking him, milking him, her body pulling him in, demanding more. His knot was swelling, stretching, locking him in, binding them together.

She sobbed out a sound, her body tensing, shaking apart beneath him.

Zayne groaned, his lips finding her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Almost there, baby,” he murmured against her skin. “Gonna lock you down, keep you so full—”

She cried out, breaking.

Zayne felt it—the way she clenched, trembled, shattered around him, her body spasming with pleasure, dragging him down with her.

It tipped him over the edge, his knot swelling fully, locking them together, forcing him deeper.

He growled, deep and satisfied, pressing her down, keeping her still as he spilled inside her, filling her, marking her in the way her body demanded.

His forehead dropped to hers, his breath ragged.

She whimpered, soft, spent, perfect.

Zayne stroked her cheek, his fingers slow, soothing, grounding. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

Caleb let out a rough exhale. “She’s still got hours left, man.”

Zayne lifted his head, meeting Caleb’s gaze over her trembling form.

His lips curled.

“Then we’d better take our time.”

The heat was still there, a slow, smoldering burn licking at the edges of her senses, no longer all-consuming but still refusing to fade completely. It coiled deep inside her belly, an ember rather than an inferno, waiting to be stoked back into flames with just the right touch. Her breath came in soft, uneven gasps, her body trembling with the aftershocks, the last echoes of pleasure still ghosting through her nerves. Everything felt raw, sensitive, too much and not enough all at once.

Zayne was still locked inside her, the thick swell of his knot keeping them bound together, his body a solid immovable weight pinning her to the nest. He was heavy in the best way, grounding her, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressing against hers, steady, strong. His warmth seeped into her skin, a contrast to the fever still simmering in her veins. His lips brushed lazily over her temple, the softest of touches, unhurried and absentminded, like he had all the time in the world.

And then there was Caleb.

He sat at the edge of the nest, legs crossed, forearms resting on his knees, one hand running through the mess of his dark hair, fingers gripping like he was trying to steady himself. His sharp violet eyes stayed locked on her, the intensity of his stare sending a different kind of shiver down her spine. He looked wrecked—tense, drawn too tight, like the last few hours had taken a toll on him as well. She didn’t doubt it.

“Hey,” Caleb murmured, voice low and rough, tinged with something unreadable. “You with us, sweetheart?”

She blinked, slow and dazed, the weight of their gazes anchoring her back into herself. She wasn’t floating anymore. She was here, present, body aching but mind clear enough now to think. She shifted slightly, testing, but the moment she tried to move, Zayne’s grip tightened on her waist, holding her still.

“Easy,” he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion, but there was something firm beneath it, something protective.

Her throat felt raw, dry, words catching before she could form them properly. She swallowed, tried again, her voice coming out hoarse and raspy, the edges frayed. “Did you two seriously wait until I was half-dead to do something?”

Caleb exhaled sharply, a sound between a groan and a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Zayne huffed a quiet breath against her skin, his chest shaking slightly with a low chuckle. “Yeah, she’s back.”

She tried to glare at them, but it was useless. She was still too wrung out, every muscle in her body slack and boneless, wrecked beyond measure. Instead, she just huffed out a breath and shifted again, deliberately, grinding herself against the thick stretch of Zayne’s knot, feeling the deep residual throb still pulsing inside her.

Zayne grunted, fingers digging into her hip, his breath going sharp against her temple. “You keep moving like that, sweetheart, and we’re gonna have a real problem.”

A slow smirk curled across her lips, lazy and teasing. “Maybe I like causing problems.”

Caleb let out a strangled noise, something that sounded dangerously close to actual pain. “Can we not do this right now? Jesus.”

She turned her head slightly, blinking up at him, feigning innocence. “What, jealous?”

Caleb’s jaw clenched, his violet eyes flashing dark with something sharp, something hot. He rolled his eyes, but it was too late—she’d already seen it, already caught the way his fingers twitched where they rested against his knee, like he was fighting the instinct to reach for her.

Zayne chuckled, voice low and rough, full of amusement. “She’s still a menace. Good to know heat doesn’t change that.”

She huffed, shifting again just to test, just to push, just to see how far she could take it. The answering growl that rumbled through Zayne’s chest sent a shiver through her spine.

“You guys gonna help me or what?” she muttered, tilting her chin up defiantly.

Caleb inhaled sharply through his nose, visibly reining himself in before shaking his head. “Not until you drink more water and eat something.”

She groaned, loud and dramatic, throwing her head back against the pillows. “Oh my god, I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Caleb muttered, already reaching for the bottle of water nearby. “You’re not dripping slick out of thin air, princess. You’re gonna dehydrate if we don’t take care of you.”

Zayne’s breath was warm against her ear, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “See? Bossy little shit.”

Caleb made an annoyed sound before promptly throwing a vitamin packet at Zayne’s head.

Zayne caught it effortlessly with one hand, not even bothering to lift his head.

“Fuck both of you,” Caleb muttered under his breath before tearing open a protein bar, breaking off a piece, and holding it out toward her. “Eat, now.”

She groaned again but took the food, chewing slowly. The burn in her veins hadn’t faded, hadn’t cooled, but the food helped ground her, settled something deep in her gut, something instinctual.

Caleb watched her carefully, eyes tracking her every movement, every little twitch of exhaustion, his expression unreadable. He was always like that, always noticing everything, always seeing too much.

“You scared the shit out of us,” he muttered, quieter now.

Her chewing slowed.

Zayne’s fingers traced slow, absent patterns over her hip, soothing, steady. “Your body wasn’t ready for this heat,” he murmured. “We knew it wasn’t normal, but we didn’t know how bad it was gonna get.”

She swallowed, finally looking at them—really looking.

Caleb exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze darting away for the first time. “We weren’t gonna do anything, you know.” His voice was rough, strained. “Not without you actually saying you wanted it.”

Zayne hummed against her skin, the sound low, full of unspoken agreement. “But when you stopped recognizing us…” His grip on her hip tightened, just slightly, just enough for her to feel the way his fingers trembled. “We weren’t gonna let you suffer, sweetheart. We weren’t gonna let you—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

She knew.

Her chest tightened, something hot and aching blooming behind her ribs, pressing up into her throat.

“You guys are so fucking stupid,” she muttered, her voice quieter now, lacking its usual bite.

Caleb arched a brow, lips pressing into a flat line. “Excuse me?”

She exhaled slowly, shifting just enough to bury her face into the curve of Zayne’s neck, breathing him in. His scent was warm and familiar, something deep in her body recognizing it, settling into it, soothed by it. “Of course I wanted you to help.”

Zayne went still.

Caleb blinked, his entire body tensing.

She sighed, nuzzling closer, her voice muffled against Zayne’s skin. “Like I wouldn’t have picked you two anyway.”

The silence stretched, thick, weighted, something unspoken settling between them.

Then Caleb let out a sharp, exhausted breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Zayne huffed a low laugh, his grip on her easing, shifting, turning into something warmer, something softer. “Should’ve said something sooner, sweetheart.”

She scoffed, lips brushing against the side of his throat. “Maybe I wanted to make you work for it.”

Caleb groaned, head tipping back. “You’re literally killing me.”

She grinned. “Not yet.”

Zayne let out a deep, rumbling chuckle, his lips ghosting over her ear. “Then let’s fix that.”

The nest was still thick with the scent of heat and rut, the air charged with something heavy, almost tangible. It clung to them, settled deep in their bones, in their lungs, in the spaces between their bodies. She could feel it, the way it wrapped around her like a second skin, the way it refused to fade even as the worst of the frenzy passed.

Zayne was still inside her, still thick and locked, his cock pulsing faintly with the aftershocks of his release. Every now and then, a slow, lazy throb worked through him, making her whimper softly, body tightening instinctively in response. He smirked against her hair, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to her temple.

“Still sensitive, sweetheart?” His voice was a low murmur, thick with satisfaction, with something else—something deeper.

She wanted to snap at him, to roll her eyes, but the truth was that she was still trembling, her body wrung out but still burning, still hungry, still aching. The heat wasn’t gone. The worst of the desperation had dulled, but her body still thrummed with need, still whispered more, more, more in the back of her mind.

Caleb watched them from where he sat at the edge of the nest, jaw tight, fingers flexing where they rested on his knee. His violet eyes were darker than usual, almost black in the dim light, and she could feel the weight of his stare, could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, sharp and obvious. There was a reason Alpha’s didn’t typically share burning ire for one another usually did it but she had a feeling that the relationship between them wasn’t typical.

It never had been.

She let her gaze drift over him, slow, assessing, deliberate. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. The way he was breathing a little too fast. The way his thighs tensed subtly, like he was holding himself back. The way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for her but wouldn’t let himself.

Her lips curled slightly, lazy and knowing.

“Caleb.” Her voice was hoarse, rough from all the moaning, the gasping, the crying out, but she still managed to make it sound teasing, sweet.

His jaw tightened. “What?”

She shifted against Zayne, feeling the stretch of his knot, the way it locked her open, kept her full. She sighed, rolling her hips just slightly, just enough to feel that dull, aching throb of overstimulation, the wet, slick mess between her thighs.

Caleb’s nostrils flared.

She licked her lips, slow. “Are you just gonna sit there and watch all night?”

Zayne made a low noise in his throat, amusement curling at the edges of it. “You’re such a menace.”

She hummed, tilting her head slightly, looking up at Caleb from beneath her lashes. “What’s wrong? Don’t want me anymore?”

His expression darkened, something sharp flashing across his face. “You know that’s not it.”

She did. She could see it. Could smell it, the way his rut was still simmering beneath the surface, the way his restraint was fraying, threadbare and weak.

Zayne chuckled against her skin, his fingers dragging over her waist, possessive, lazy. “You’re really trying to break him, huh?”

She smirked. “Maybe.”

Caleb exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with something unsteady, barely contained. “Fuck.” His voice was rough, wrecked. He was losing.

Good.

She held out a hand, palm up, inviting. “Come here, Caleb.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles going white. He was still hesitating, still fighting against whatever last shred of self-control he had left.

Zayne huffed, amusement thick in his voice. “If you don’t take her up on that, man, I will.”

His breathing was ragged, uneven, his muscles tensed like he was still holding himself back, still fighting not to crush her under the weight of his need.His pupils were blown, his gaze hungry, his body trembling with restraint. 

“You sure?” His voice was a growl, low and dangerous.

Her breath hitched, her pulse jumping. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

Something in him changed completely as his mouth crashed against hers, rough, claiming, all teeth and heat and hunger. With his hand cradling her jaw he pulled her closer and sighed into her mouth as she moaned into it, arching, pressing up against him, feeling the hard, unrelenting lines of his body, the way he fit against her like he was always meant to be there.

Zayne let out a deep, satisfied hum against the side of her neck, still lazily grinding his hips against her, still half-hard despite already being locked inside her. “About fucking time,” he muttered.

Caleb ignored him, his grip tightening on her waist, his body pressing against her side and holding her as close as he could. His rut was catching up to him fast, hitting him hard, sending a violent tremor through his muscles. His scent spiked, thick and sharp, making her head swim, making her mouth water.

She could feel him, the hard line of his cock pressing against her outer thigh, heavy and burning hot, so close to where she needed him but not close enough.

She whined softly, shifting, pressing up against him. “Caleb.”

He growled, low and guttural, his hands dragging down her arms, over her ribs, down to her waist, gripping, kneading, feeling. His fingers dug in, possessive, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, the way she felt under his hands.

Zayne chuckled lazily against her neck, his own hips still shifting in slow, teasing movements, his knot keeping him locked inside her, keeping her stuffed full. "Losing your mind already, huh?" His voice was thick with amusement, with satisfaction.

Caleb growled, low and warning, but it only made Zayne laugh. Tired of waiting to have to pop his knot, but also tired of not having her in his arms. 

"Relax," Zayne murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "She can take it. Can't you, sweetheart?" His fingers ghosted over her stomach, slow and teasing, as if to emphasize how absolutely ruined she already was, how full she was stretched between them.

Zayne shifted against her first, the motion sending a dull, aching throb through her body as his knot pulsed inside her, still keeping her stretched around him, still locked in place. He exhaled a low, pleased sound against her neck, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of her waist, possessive and indulgent.

"Fucking perfect," he murmured, lips brushing over her sweat-dampened skin. "Completely wrecked between us, huh?"

She barely managed a sound in response, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, her body still trembling in the aftermath. Caleb was slumped over her on the other side, his breath coming in slow, and uneven pants, his face buried against the crook of her neck. His hands were still gripping her thighs, still digging into her skin like he wasn’t ready to let go, like the last of his rut was still clinging to him, refusing to let him pull away.

She was utterly trapped between them, pinned by the weight of their bodies, by the thick unyielding knot still keeping her locked, still filling her past the point of sanity.

And god, she loved it.

Zayne chuckled, the sound low and smug as he shifted again, pressing even closer, rubbing his nose along the curve of her jaw. “Still burning up, sweetheart?”

She exhaled shakily, her fingers twitching where they rested against his chest. “It’s not gone yet,” she admitted, her voice raw from moaning, from gasping, from crying out their names until her throat ached.

Caleb groaned against her skin, his hands tightening on her thighs, his breath shuddering. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Of course it’s not.”

Zayne only hummed in amusement, his hand slipping lower, dragging slow, teasing circles over the curve of her belly. “Well,” he mused, his tone deceptively thoughtful. “I suppose that means we’re not done, are we?”

Her breath caught, something molten twisting low in her belly, a new wave of heat licking at her nerves, sparking her body back to life. The thought of more—the thought of being taken again, of being used until there wasn’t a single ounce of heat left in her—made her thighs clench instinctively, made a quiet, needy whimper slip from her throat before she could stop it.

Caleb groaned again, his entire body going tense, the sharp flare of his scent spiking around them like a warning. “You can’t just—fuck, Zayne, don’t start that shit—”

Zayne only laughed, smug as ever, his fingers dipping lower, skating teasingly close to the mess between her thighs, to the place where he was still locked inside her, still keeping her stretched and full.

"Why not?" he murmured, his voice dark and knowing. "She wants it."

Caleb let out a low, warning growl, but he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop the way his fingers flexed on her thighs, like he was already losing the battle with himself.

Zayne smirked, dragging his teeth over the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Tell him, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Tell him how much you want it. How much you need it.”

She shivered, her body already betraying her, already responding to his words, to the promise laced in his voice.

She swallowed, tilting her head just slightly, her lips barely brushing against Caleb’s ear as she whispered, breathless and sweet—

“Please.”

Zayne’s knot softened first, the pressure inside her easing just enough that she could feel the slow, messy slide of his cock as it withdrew, leaving her gaping, dripping, a wet, obscene heat clinging to every inch of her skin. The absence was unbearable, a sudden, aching emptiness that sent a shudder through her, her body clenching down instinctively, desperate to hold onto the fullness that was slipping away.

A needy whimper broke from her lips, unbidden, her thighs twitching, her breath catching on the loss.

Zayne groaned as he pulled back, his hands gripping her waist for a moment, steadying himself. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse. “Look at you—still so fucking open for us.”

She couldn’t answer—could barely think—because even before she could process it, before she could do anything but tremble from the loss, Caleb was there. No hesitation. No restraint.

He shoved himself into the space Zayne left behind, filling her in the same instant she lost him, pushing his cock into her slick, and swollen heat with a force that made her cry out, her body arching, her fingers clawing at the sheets beneath her. His rut was still running hot, still burning through his veins, still demanding more, more, more—and he gave in to it completely, burying himself to the hilt, groaning low and wrecked at the feeling of her wrapped tight around him, soaking, stretched, trembling.

His hands gripped her hips hard, pulling her against him, dragging her body up to meet his brutal, claiming thrusts.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice ragged, his forehead pressing against her shoulder. “I can still feel him in you.”

She sobbed at the words, her entire body clenching around him, overstimulated, ruined, and yet—still aching for more. The heat hadn’t faded. It still whispered in the back of her mind, still begged for everything they had to give, still kept her body open, pliant, desperate.

Zayne chuckled somewhere beside her, his hands sliding over her stomach, possessive and slow. “That’s because she’s meant to be filled, Caleb.” His voice was dark, knowing, his fingers ghosting lower, dipping between her thighs where Caleb was already fucking into her, spreading her open all over again.

Caleb snarled, thrusting deeper, harder, chasing his own knot, his body tensing with the sheer force of his need. “I know,” he growled. “I know.”

Where Zayne was gentle and firm, Caleb was ruthless. His thrusts were deep, punishing, merciless. His grip on her hips was bruising, his fingers digging into sweat-slick flesh, holding her in place, making sure she didn’t slip away from him—not even an inch. Not that she could or that she wanted to.

She was wrecked between them, overstimulated, stretched raw, completely lost in the haze of her heat. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Her body clenched down on Caleb’s cock, demanding more, sobbing for more.

Caleb growled, the sound feral, half-crazed. “So fucking tight,” he bit out, his hips snapping against her, his cock dragging against every sensitive, swollen inch inside her. “Still so fucking wet.”

Zayne chuckled—low, dark, satisfied. He was still close, kneeling beside her, watching where Caleb slid in and out, filthy and slick. His fingers traced absent, possessive patterns over her stomach, teasing at the skin, pressing down just enough that she could feel every thick, throbbing inch of Caleb inside her.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” Zayne murmured against her ear, his voice all dark amusement, all wicked promise. “How deep he is? How perfect you take him?”

She whimpered, ruined, her nails digging into the sheets, her body trembling, helpless beneath them. Caleb’s breath hitched, his pace faltering for a second—just for a second—because he felt it too. Felt the way her body pulled him in, refused to let him go, milked him for every inch, every thrust.

He wasn’t going to last. Not with her like this. Not when she was soaked, stretched, dripping from both of them. His fingers slid down, gripping the backs of her thighs, spreading her wider. He pounded into her, relentless, deep, unyielding.

Zayne hummed, dragging his fingers down lower, brushing over where she and Caleb were joined, slick, messy, obscene. He groaned, shaking his head. “Fuck, Caleb—look at her. She’s taking you so well.”

Caleb swore, shaking, sweat dripping down his spine.

He was close. So fucking close.

His knot was swelling, throbbing, pulsing inside her.

Her broken moans, her slick heat, the way she gasped and whimpered and sobbed for it— it was pushing him over the edge, driving him insane, making it impossible to hold back.

Zayne’s voice was low, knowing. “She’s ready, Caleb.” His lips brushed over her temple, soothing, taunting, unshakable. “Go on. Knot her, I want to see it happen this time,” having been on the receiving end more than once. While it did feel good in its own way, he always wondered just how it looked. 

Caleb snapped, thrusts turned brutal, desperate, losing all rhythm. His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her wide, open, his. She sobbed his name, shaking, coming apart, her walls clenching, fluttering, sucking him in deeper, deeper, deeper and then his knot swelled completely, locking them together, sealing him inside her.

He roared, wrecked, trembling, spilling deep, filling her, marking her completely.

Zayne groaned beside them, his hands still dragging slow, teasing circles over her sweat-drenched skin. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice thick, rough with satisfaction. “That’s it. Take it.”

The room was quiet now, the only sound was the steady rhythm of her breathing, the occasional soft sigh as she shifted in her sleep, pressed between them, utterly relaxed. Caleb’s knot had softened, and after a long, slow, careful withdrawal, they’d cleaned her up as best they could. She’d barely stirred, only murmuring softly, nuzzling into Zayne’s chest as he tucked the blanket around her, fingers brushing absently over her spine.

They’d promised to make her shower later, but for now, she needed rest. Zayne leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his damp hair, exhaling slowly. His body was heavy, exhausted, but his mind was still racing.

Caleb was sitting at the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, ordering food while keeping one eye on her.

“She’s gonna be starving when she wakes up,” he muttered, swiping through the menu. “You know how she gets.”

Zayne huffed out a tired laugh. “Yeah. If she doesn’t eat exactly what she wants, she’s gonna be a menace.”

Caleb’s lips twitched. “So, extra dumplings.”

“Obviously.”

A few more taps, then Caleb put the phone down, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms behind his head. His body still thrummed with residual heat, but it had eased now, settled. For a while, neither of them spoke. Zayne let his eyes drift to her—curled up, completely wrecked, completely safe. Her scent was still thick, sweet, lingering in the air, mixing with theirs, claiming every inch of the bed.

Something in his chest tightened, Caleb must have noticed, because he exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair before finally saying, “So… what the fuck happens now?”

Zayne’s fingers stilled against the sheets. He knew this conversation was coming. Had been waiting for it.

Still, he kept his voice even. “With her?”

Caleb’s jaw tensed. He glanced at her, then at Zayne, then looked away. “With all of us.”

Zayne breathed in deep, then let it out slowly.

They’d been here before. Not exactly here, not tangled up in heat and sweat and exhaustion, but close enough. Close enough that the weight of it pressed against his ribs, something unspoken and old and complicated.

Alpha-on-alpha relationships weren’t easy. They were incredibly misunderstood, people assumed it was all about dominance, about fights and aggression, about who was stronger, who was more in control, that had never been what it was like with them.

Zayne shifted, leaning forward slightly, his forearm resting on his knee. He met Caleb’s gaze head-on. “You tell me,” he said, quiet but steady. “What do you want to happen?”

Caleb’s throat bobbed. He looked away for a second, then back at Zayne, something raw and uncertain flickering behind his eyes.

“I don’t—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking know, man. I just—”

His hand twitched at his side.

Zayne knew him too well to miss the tension in his shoulders, the hesitation that wasn’t really hesitation at all.

Zayne’s voice softened. “Yeah, you do.”

Caleb let out a frustrated sound, raking a hand through his already-ruined hair. “Fuck. Fine. Yeah, I do.” He exhaled, pressing his palms together, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking to her again before settling on Zayne. “I want—” He exhaled sharply. “This. I want this.”

Zayne watched him carefully.

Caleb’s throat worked as he swallowed, his jaw tight, tense, conflicted. “I want her,” he admitted, voice low but unwavering. “And I want you, and it's the only thing I’ve ever wanted for as long as I can remember.”

Something hot and sharp flashed through Zayne’s chest. He should have expected it. Had expected it. But hearing it—hearing it out loud—was different. It shouldn’t have been but it was.

Caleb scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know it’s not fucking normal,” he muttered. “People don’t get it. They don’t get us. They think we’re supposed to—what? Fight it out? Figure out who the ‘real Alpha’ is? Fuck that.”

Zayne’s lips quirked. “We both know you’d lose.”

Caleb let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck you.”

Zayne huffed a laugh, but it faded quickly because beneath all the teasing, the truth still sat there, heavy between them. This wasn’t a new conversation but it was the first time they’d had it like this. Seriously. 

Caleb’s voice dropped, quieter now. More serious. “I don’t want to choose.”

Zayne exhaled slowly.

Caleb shook his head. “I won’t choose.”

Zayne’s chest ached. He understood that. He understood it so fucking well.

And fuck, maybe it was selfish, “I don’t want to, either,” Zayne admitted, the words barely above a murmur. Caleb’s shoulders sagged slightly, something like relief and exhaustion hitting at the same time.

Zayne glanced down at her again—the third piece of this equation, the one who changed everything. He let his fingers brush over her bare shoulder, a silent touch, grounding.

Caleb watched, then reached out, too. His fingers tangled with Zayne’s over her skin. A beat. A breath. A decision made in silence.

Caleb swallowed, his voice quieter now. Surer. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

Zayne nodded. “Yeah.”

No matter how hard it had been or how hard it was going to be or what people would think of them or how Alpha’s were supposed to act. He didn’t care, and neither did Zayne. Because when it came down to facts, they had always been stronger together.

The nest still smelled like her.

Sweet and slick, heat-heavy, soaking into the blankets, into their skin, their bones. But her scent had started to fade just enough that Zayne was aware of something else—something that had been there all along, lurking beneath the haze of instinct and need.

Caleb.

His scent was thicker now, sharper. Not as raw as before, but still simmering, still coiled tight in his muscles, in his breath.

Zayne could feel it.

Could feel him.

The weight of Caleb’s gaze, the restless way he shifted beside him, fingers flexing against the sheets.

They were both still wired, still burning under their skin.

And she was still asleep between them, her soft breaths even, her body completely spent.

Zayne exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to settle the static under his skin.

Caleb moved before he could react.

A sharp press of lips, firm hands shoving him back.

Zayne barely had a chance to let out a low grunt before his back hit the blankets, Caleb’s body following, pinning, claiming.

Zayne’s lips parted—surprised, breathless, already sinking into it.

He shouldn’t have been surprised.

Not really.

Caleb’s mouth was hot, relentless, bruising, his hands already finding Zayne’s wrists, pinning them above his head, holding him still.

Zayne growled against his lips, pushing up, testing, challenging. Caleb just chuckled darkly, biting at his bottom lip.

“You’re still wound up,” he murmured, breathless, lips dragging along Zayne’s jaw.

Zayne exhaled sharply, fighting the instinct to roll them over, take control. “So are you.”

Caleb smirked against his throat. “Yeah. But I’m the one on top.”

And then he pushed down, grinding their bodies together, their cocks already hard, aching, slick with leftover heat.

Zayne let out a sharp breath through his nose, eyes dark, and hazy. Caleb’s weight was solid, grounding and overwhelming.

Zayne knew how this worked.

Knew that when Caleb wanted to take, he took.

And fuck, maybe Zayne wanted to be taken.

Caleb must have felt his body go still beneath him, because his smirk widened. “Yeah,” he murmured, dragging his tongue along Zayne’s throat, teeth grazing. “You’re gonna let me have you, aren’t you?”

Zayne exhaled, tilting his head back, baring his throat just enough to tell Caleb exactly what he already knew.

“Do it,” Zayne rasped.

Caleb didn’t hesitate.

He shoved Zayne’s legs apart, settling between them, spreading him wide. His grip was tight, unrelenting, keeping Zayne exactly where he wanted him.

And then he pushed inside.

A low, wrecked groan tore from Zayne’s throat, his head falling back against the blankets. Caleb was thick, heavy, deep, stretching him open.

Zayne’s fingers curled into fists, his body tense, taut, barely holding on.

Caleb laughed softly, rough with strain. “So fucking tight,” he muttered, voice thick with heat. “Still trying to fight it, huh?”

Zayne growled, his hips bucking up, trying to take more, trying to challenge.

Caleb let out a sharp, delighted breath—then grabbed Zayne’s wrists again, pinning them hard against the mattress.

“Oh, no,” Caleb murmured, his voice like gravel, smug and knowing. “You’re gonna take it, Zayne,”  then he fucked into him, deep, hard, brutal. Zayne gritted his teeth, his whole body jerking with the force of it.

He’d forgotten what it was like—how Caleb took, how he claimed, how he pressed Zayne into the mattress and didn’t let up. Zayne was burning, overwhelmed, gasping through clenched teeth.

Caleb just kept pounding into him, rolling his hips with sharp, perfect precision, one hand still locking Zayne’s wrists down while the other wrapped around his cock, stroking in time with every thrust.

Zayne’s breath stuttered. His hips bucked helplessly into Caleb’s grip, caught between the push and pull of pleasure, nowhere to go, completely trapped.

Caleb’s forehead pressed against his, breath uneven, voice nothing but gravel.

“Come on, baby,” Caleb muttered, filthy, rough. “Come with me.”

Zayne let out a low, broken sound, his body tightening, coiling, trembling. Caleb’s knot swelled, locking them together, keeping him deep. Zayne snarled, body jerking, pleasure ripping through him like a live wire, blinding, unbearable. Caleb groaned against his mouth, spilling deep, marking him completely. Zayne’s head fell back, gasping, spent, owned.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. A small shift. A rustling sound. Zayne’s head snapped to the side. She was awake. Propped up on one elbow, watching them, eyes dark, lips curled into something lazy and knowing. Zayne went still.

Caleb, panting against his throat, still knotted inside him, let out a slow, rough chuckle.

“Well,” Caleb muttered, voice wrecked. “Good morning, sweetheart.” She didn’t look away.

Zayne could feel her gaze on him—dark, knowing, heavy with something he couldn’t name. His lungs still heaved, his body still trembled, still pinned beneath Caleb’s weight, still locked around his knot, still marked, still claimed.

And she had seen all of it.

Heat crawled up his spine, not embarrassment, not quite, but something else—something raw, something vulnerable, something that felt too big to fit in his chest.

Caleb, the bastard, only let out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Well,” he muttered against Zayne’s throat, voice still wrecked, thick with the last remnants of rut. “Didn’t think we’d have an audience.”

His breath was hot, teasing, his hands still pressing Zayne into the nest, his fingers still firm, still grounding. Zayne clenched his jaw. He felt vulnerable like this, opened up by Caleb’s cock and tied to him being bred in the only way he could be. She was still watching. Zayne turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze fully for the first time since realizing she was awake.

She wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t mocking. Her expression was lazy, slow, something unreadable sitting behind her half-lidded gaze. Her lips were curled just slightly, just enough, but it wasn’t amusement. She looked—comfortable.

Like this was natural. Like watching them was something she was allowed to do. Zayne swallowed, his throat dry, tight. His voice came out lower than intended, rough with something unsteady. “How long?”

She huffed a small breath, amused. “Long enough.” Zayne’s stomach twisted with something uncomfortable, he recognized it as fear though he was certain that Caleb felt the same way. For so long this had been real only for them. He hadn’t had to share this side of himself or Caleb with anyone.

Caleb’s fingers flexed against his wrists, and Zayne flicked his gaze back toward him, only to find those sharp violet eyes watching him closely. Caleb’s lips quirked. Something slow, something knowing. “You look like you just realized something important.”

Zayne exhaled sharply through his nose. Fucker.

Because yeah. He had. There was no fear in her gaze. No hesitation. No confusion. She knew exactly what she was looking at, what they were to each other, what they could be. She’d watched Caleb take him apart. Hadn’t looked away, hadn’t flinched, hadn’t run. And now she was here, still curled in their nest, still tangled up in their scents, still theirs.

Zayne swallowed hard. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, Caleb smirked.

She stretched slightly, slow, languid, satisfied then crawled towards them wanting to be closer to the heat of the nest which was undoubtedly these two. Then she tilted her head at him, something curious, teasing, just a little wicked.

“So,” she murmured, her voice still sleep-rough, still low, still drenched in heat and something thicker. “You gonna kiss me too, or what?”

Zayne forgot how to breathe as Caleb laughed. Low. Rough. Delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Caleb murmured, still knotted deep inside Zayne, grinning like the devil himself. “You have no idea what you just started.”

Three days later, the apartment felt different.

The thick, suffocating weight of heat and rut was gone, finally lifted. The air no longer reeked of desperation, of raw need, of pheromones clinging to every surface. The sheets had been washed, the windows cracked open for fresh air, and for the first time in days, the three of them weren’t tangled together in a nest of blankets and sweat-slick bodies.

But something lingered.

Something heavier.

She sat at the kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug of tea, her posture loose but tense at the same time. She was wearing a hoodie—one of Zayne’s, if the scent was anything to go by—but her bare legs were draped over Caleb’s lap, her body angled toward him instinctively.

Zayne stood at the counter, silent, watching.

Caleb was the one to break it.

“So,” he said, fingers tapping against her thigh, slow, absent, thoughtful. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

She exhaled softly, rolling her mug between her palms. “Yeah,” she murmured. “We should.”

Zayne finally moved, stepping forward, leaning against the table, arms crossed. “Alright,” he said, voice even. “Let’s talk.”

A beat of silence.

Then Caleb huffed out a slow breath. “Look. We all know this isn’t… standard.”

She arched a brow at him. “No shit.”

Caleb’s lips twitched, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes.

“We’re Alphas,” he continued. “And you’re an Omega. That alone is rare enough these days. But two Alphas bonding an Omega?” He shook his head slightly. “It’s not unheard of, but it’s not exactly easy, either.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “Because Alphas aren’t supposed to share.”

Caleb made a displeased sound. “Yeah, well. That’s bullshit.”

She finally looked up, her eyes steady, sharp. “Do you think we can?”

Caleb turned to her, tilting his head slightly. “What?”

“Share,” she said simply.

Zayne’s stomach tightened.

She wasn’t asking in a teasing way, or a playful way. She was looking at them both, expression serious, assessing, waiting.

Because this wasn’t just about them wanting her.

This was about them choosing her. Choosing each other.

Caleb exhaled, rubbing his thumb along the curve of her knee. “Yeah,” he said, quiet but firm. “I think we can.”

Zayne didn’t hesitate. “I know we can.”

She searched their faces for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded. Zayne could see it in the way her shoulders relaxed, the way the tension in her spine eased. Not because the conversation was over. But because it was starting.

She shifted slightly, turning more fully toward them. “If we do this,” she said carefully, “it means all three of us. Not just me and one of you. Not just when it’s convenient.”

Caleb nodded. “Of course.”

She met Zayne’s gaze. “And you?”

Zayne held her stare, steady, unwavering. “You’re mine,” he said simply. “But Caleb is, too.”

Caleb blinked, his jaw tightening slightly.

Zayne didn’t back down. “I’m not gonna pretend we’re like every other bond out there. We’re not. But that doesn’t mean we don’t work.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp. “Unless you want something different.”

Caleb scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.” Zayne smirked slightly.

Caleb sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re right, though. This isn’t gonna be normal.”

Her voice was softer now. “Do you care?”

Caleb huffed out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

Zayne glanced at her. “Do you?”

She stared down into her mug for a long moment.

Then she sighed. “I think…” She exhaled. “I think the world doesn’t like things it doesn’t understand.”

Zayne watched her carefully.

She looked up, gaze flicking between them. “But I don’t care about the world,” she murmured. “I care about you.”

Something in Zayne’s chest tightened, burned, settled.

Caleb hummed, pleased, satisfied. “Good answer, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes, kicking his thigh lightly. “Shut up.”

Caleb chuckled, but then his expression shifted, turning serious again.

“Alright,” he said. “Then let’s talk logistics.”

Zayne lifted a brow. “Logistics?”

Caleb gestured vaguely. “Mating bonds. How we do it. When we do it. How we handle things after.”

She frowned slightly. “What do you mean, ‘handle things after’?”

Caleb met her gaze evenly. “We’re gonna bond you,” he said simply. “Both of us. That’s permanent.”

She nodded. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Caleb’s voice was quiet. “Because it means no backing out. It means our instincts will be locked onto you forever. It means if you get hurt, if you get sick, if something happens—we feel that. It means we’re all tied together for the rest of our fucking lives.” Zayne’s jaw tightened. Not because he disagreed but because it was true. She was silent. Then, slowly, she reached forward, wrapping her fingers around Caleb’s wrist.

“I know,” she said softly.

Caleb stilled. Her grip was firm, steady.

“I wouldn’t be here,” she murmured, “if I didn’t know.”

Caleb exhaled. Then he nodded. Once. Firm. Decisive. Zayne watched them both.

Then, quietly, he murmured, “Then it’s settled.”

[pizzaapeteer]

lay all your love on me

Weee little blurb and moodboard for week 3, another little fluffy Mattheo but with more implied smut 🌙 @thatdammchickennugget & @finalgirllx for jinxed July challenge 💛

An: if you can’t tell I was inspired by ABBAs lay all your love on me, as well as used the prompt night swims. No warnings but swearing and f x reader. Prettty divider by wrathofrats!

Moonlight streaks down on the empty beach, waves lulling soundly against the shore side, a perfect night as you dance around to the sounds of ABBA. Picked clearly by you with a drunk protest that enforced Mattheo little choice but to please you at this early hour. The alcohol flows through you as you spin so dramatically, your hair whipping, spraying specs of sea salt everywhere. 

You hum along to the words of Lay all your love on me, lowering yourself down and with a slow crawl; move towards him imitating the movie's scene. His eyes never leave you and your playful movements, taking a sip of his beverage, his eyes greedily roam over your body at the now exposing a view of your cleavage. 

Fuck, you’re a goddess. The things he wants to do to you right now. He’s never been so in love with you, and the goofy personality you bring out. At any and all times. For instance, it’s currently striking one AM and your energy seems to be in no way ready to disappear. He finds himself matching your fun loving smile as you stand up and grab his hand to dance with you. 

He’s never been much of a dancer or a fan of ABBA, but for you, well, that’s a different story. There were no lengths he wouldn’t go for you. He twirls you around, becoming infatuated by the way your smile grows bigger. 

The private beach feels so welcoming when he has you in his warm embrace, and he scoops you towards him, lifting you up. Eating up the sweet giggles that rapture out of you as your legs kick into the night sky. 

“Lets go in!” An excited idea spurs from your mouth the moment your feet land back on the ground. With a tug of his arm, you're already tempting to lead Mattheo to join you in your new determination adventure towards the dark sea. 

“Seriously, you want to go swimming now? It’ll be freezing!” He protests, his heels digging into the depths of the sand, creating sunken caverns trying to stop your surprisingly strong pull. 

“Come on Matty.. We have the whole beach to ourselves, we can do whatever we want.”

Any hesitancy drops at the cheeky grin you throw his way, and with the extra revelation of skin. He cocks a brow, his lips curling up into a smirk, “Oh we can do anything huh.”

The removal of your bikini top excites his interest further, but he's quick to pout when you cover your goods before he can see. Watching, you ran away with a giggle towards the water, drunkly struggling to rip off the remaining clothes before you reach it.

Following behind, he discards his own shirt and catches up at light speed, bounding on top he submerging the two of you together. The tension of calm water is broken with his childlike jump, and he’s met with the invigorating coldness that seeps into his core, his skin stinging like needles. 

The shock of the water's temperatures pulls a sudden gasp from him as he emerges, his arms wrapping around you seeking warmth. “Holy fucking shit! This was a terrible idea.”

There's a slight tremor in his complaint, his bottom lip beginning to quiver. The closeness of your bare chest pressing snuggly against him does little to provide him warmth. He’d forgotten how badly he handles cold, having been stupidly tempted by your alluring self. 

“Let me warm you up.” The needed heat he had been craving soon welcomes him with a passionate kiss captured by your lips and he engages eagerly. The two of your lips guide meshing together like so many times before, your kisses becoming more hectic, fusing into a feverous make out. 

He hisses in pain as you bite his slowly numbing lip, a low whine falling from his lips, granting you the moment to slide your tongue in, taking charge. He groans at your dominance even if your intoxicated behaviour mostly fueled it. His hands wrap, moving, feeling every contour and curve growing his excitement. Too much to the point, his dick throbs hard in the wrong kind of way. 

“Okay, I love this it extremely hot but I’m so fucking cold, I fear my dick's going to fall off.” He states pleading, knowing he wants to follow whatever you have in mind, while not losing any limbs to frostbite. 

An adorable snort makes him grin lovingly. He loves when he can make you laugh. He’s happy you‘ve agreed to exit the depths of the frozen ocean. He watches how you whimper, complaining about how your tits are going to fall off too, having lost the pleasant heat from him and your shirt.

He takes great pleasure in covering them with his large hands, grinning slyly as he repeats your earlier words. “It’s okay. I know a way to warm them up.” His heart is already glowing with its usual warmth as he prepares to lay all his love on you in an unforgettable way.

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen. ©️pizzaapeteer 2024.

[curtsycream]

Kunimi x tsukki x kenma x akaashi x little reader where she Regressed in babyspace and feels sick but cant tell them bc she's non verbal and want to be Held and even when she falls asleep and she feels when she get put down she wakes up and start crying 🥺🥺

(I used in the request the pronoun she her but u can use any pronoun u want)

Poly!Nope Squad x Regressed!Reader

Don’t mind me but this was a requested fic and I think that’s what motivates me most knowing someone is anticipating something on my behalf. But I did try my best because I’ve never ventured into babyspace but I do know someone who has. Also it’s fine I don’t mind writing for any gender or pronouns! It’s just gender neutral is mine own default for inclusivity

It was raining yet again for the fourth time this week in Tokyo. This wasn’t a new revelation as it was spring and heavy rainfall was expected. Sitting up in bed alone Y/N couldn’t help the frown from appearing on her warm face. Normally she would be the third one up behind Keiji and Kei. But today she was the last one which only happened when she pulled an all-nighter or if she was sick.

Rubbing her eyes harshly she let out a small cough with a disgruntled look on her face. This wasn’t a normal cold for her as she felt an added factor to the situation. Sitting in bed alone she felt fuzzy inside and from her watering eyes and quivering lip she knew she couldn’t fight it. Before she knew it she had regressed which wasn’t uncommon for her to do. Her life partners were aware of her regression but she had never regressed into baby space before.

She was lost as she sat in bed until the bedroom door opened and a rather calm Akira walked into the room. On days like this Akira didn’t have to go into work at Eleventh Bank. Something Akira enjoyed as he usually got to sleep in. “Baby…are you okay? You don’t look well..” he said in his usual monotone voice.

All she could do was look up at him with wide teary eyes and a quivering bottom lip. She couldn’t bring herself to speak she felt nonverbal which usually never happened when she was in little space. So instead she decided to raise her arms making grabby hands at him. Understanding fully what she was trying to get across Akira smiled softly at her before picking her up. When she was secure in his arms she hid her face against the side of his neck.

Akira with his arms around her body as he carried her out of the room had a puzzled look on his face. Though this wasn’t the first time he had picked her up this was the first time she was so quiet about it. They all knew how slightly talkative she was even in littlespace. But he picked up on something different she was warm to the touch and so quiet.

Making his way into the living room with her in his arms he looks at Kozume who is playing his switch. “Eh, what’s wrong with, kitten?” he asks Akira.

Akira could only shake his head, “I don’t know…I think she’s not feeling good. But I can’t tell because she isn’t talking.”

Kozume raised an eyebrow at his words before placing down his switch. Standing up from the couch he was slumped on he walks over to Akira and Y/N. Placing the back of his hand against her forehead he sighed, “I think she has a fever..”

Moving his hand to her cheek he smiles at her, “Hey kitten…are you not feeling good? You’re so warm..” he says gently. He could tell from her pout and glossy eyes that she had regressed. “Are you feeling little, kitten?”

She could only nod her head slowly with a pout as she looked at Kozume. Yet she didn’t say anything she still couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. Something in her head was preventing her from doing so.

Not even an hour later after they had bathed her, fed her, and read her a bedtime story she was asleep. The only issue was that she was asleep in Kozume’s arms. He didn’t want to leave her alone in the bedroom but he did have a scheduled stream soon. So against his own want to keep her close to him, he decided to lay her down in their bedroom.

Moments later Kei had gotten home wearing his training with the Sendai Frogs. He still had on his uniform as he cleaned his glasses with a cloth. Making his way past Akira who was cooking dinner in the kitchen, whom he greeted, he walked upstairs. When he made it upstairs he heard the sound of soft sobs and whimpers from their bedroom.

With a confused look on his face, he walked into the bedroom before spotting his princess curled up on the bed in tears. Walking over to her he shakes his head, “Don’t tell me you’re pouting…did Akira say no to sweets before dinner again?” He teased.

Yet his teasing words didn’t go over well with her as she only cried a little louder. Kei found this strange as he removed the blanket from her head. His eyes took in her swollen eyes from tears, her frown, and how she hadn’t spoken to him in return. “What’s wrong, Princess? Are you okay?” He asked worriedly.

She didn’t say a word all she did was crawl over to him on the bed. Her arms wrapped around his midsection as she let out noises of discomfort. Kei seemed to have caught on as he picked her up rocking her a bit. “You’re sick…do the others know? You’re so warm,” he coped out unintentionally.

She nuzzles her cheek against his cheek with a nod as she clings to his tall figure. “You’re awfully quiet today too…” Kei says as he grabs her chin with one hand. He stares into her eyes before shaking his head, “You seem to be in a deeper headspace than usual..feeling smaller?”

All she did was nod and confirm his words which Kei figured. He remembered Keiji speaking about how at times regressors can regress younger than they usually do. This normally happens when they are under more stress than they usually are. “You’re feeling like a baby?” He asked calmly.

Yet another nod as Kei thinks over what he remembers about baby space. This was unfamiliar territory for him as he had never seen his princess in a headspace younger than 5 or 6. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re not talking too…huh?”

He didn’t even need to see her nod, which she did, to know her being in baby space was the reason she was nonverbal. Kei only held her tight in his arms before leaving the bedroom, thoughts of changing long forgotten.

Later that day when Keiji had finally left his home office,which was in a secluded part of the house, he walked downstairs. He was amused to see Kei trying to put down a reluctant and crying Y/N. It seemed the last thing she wanted was to be put down for a nap even if she would be sleeping on the couch next to him.

“What’s going on here?” Keiji asked in his rather caring voice. As he did she perked up making grabby hands at him.

“She doesn’t want me to put her down even when I told her I’ll be right beside her. I think she regressed further than usual as she’s nonverbal right now. She also has a little fever but that has gone down a bit,” Kei said.

Keiji could see the the exhaustion on Kei’s face as he tried to get her to sleep. “Don’t worry Kei, do what you need…I’ll take care of her..” he assures.

Before Kei could protest or she could whine Keiji had already scooped her up in his arms. Sitting on the couch with her in his arms he presses kisses to her slightly warm skin. When he does a flurry of giggles leave her pouty lips. “Look at you dove causing such a fuss..” he said affectionately as Kei walked upstairs to shower and sleep.

After Kei went upstairs Keiji let out the couch so that he could lay down on it with his dove. Since it was a lazy body that could work as an oversized bed he grabbed a blanket off of the back of the couch.

“It’s okay dove..I’ll be here when you wake up..” Keiji cooed as he pressed kisses along her cheeks and nose. With his words of comfort, she did exactly that and fell asleep in his arms as they laid on the couch.

When she woke up hours later she felt better as her fever had gone down fully. Rubbing her eyes she still felt tired but she didn’t feel as small as she did before. Looking around she noticed it was still raining and the TV was playing an episode of Bluey.

Not only that but she noticed all four of her boyfriends asleep on the couch around her. She couldn’t help the smile that appeared on her face as it seemed they wanted to keep her company.

“Kitten…why are you up? Go to sleep..” Kozume said from his position beside Akira. His eyes were partially open as he looked at her. With a nod, she listened before curling up between Kei and Keiji. This time she fell asleep with no issue knowing that regardless of what happened she would always have them there for her.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed anon! I think I’ll be writing a bit more but I don’t know. I recently started grad school and I’ve been occupied with that and settling into adulthood.

[yooglefics]

Tʜᴇ Cᴀsᴜᴀʟ Tʏᴘᴇ ✦ Mᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

❍ Meet the squad ・ Meet the regulars

❍ #01 ・ #02 ・ #03 ・ #04 ・ #05 ・ ON GOING SERIES!

﹟( r ) ( f ) ( ☾ ) ( ✎ ) – yoongi x f!reader. AU. College!verse. Strangers to friends with benefits to ?????. Eventual smut. Hurt / comfort at times. And fluff for cute friends. Summary: Hobi and his girlfriend set you up with a friend of hers to help with whatever happened months back. However, no one really expected things to end the way they did. ⎡ Reader is afab and is referred to as she/her. she has long black hair because for a sec this was going to be an oc hehe. ⎦

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[criticsstuff]

ALMOST MET (Series)

Gwendoline Christie x freader

Chapter: One

Words: 1185 (short chapter)

Warnings: none that I know of well except maybe fake sword fights.

Summary: Y/n gets a role in game of thrones season three and happens to catch a glimpse of Gwendoline Christie on set. Will they ever meet ?

Authors note: I will update as soon as you want more. Already wrote chapter two and three so don’t worry. It’s not impossible that I’m to lazy to reread sometimes, so don’t be alarmed if you find larger spelling mistakes. Enjoy <3 (hopefully)

—————————————————————

She stood just beyond the flurry of crew members, her boots crunching softly on gravel, her breath slightly quick from excitement and nerves. Her short brown hair was a little tousled from the breeze, curls fluttering around her cheeks, and her dark eyes darted from tent to tent, camera rig to costumed actor. Everything was new. Everything was enormous. And yet, she couldn’t stop smiling.

“Alright, Y/n?” a kind voice asked, brushing past her with a clipboard clutched tightly in hand. It was one of the production assistants — Nora, maybe? Or Natalie?

Y/n nodded quickly. “Yeah! I mean—yes. Just… taking it all in.”

The assistant smiled and didn’t press further, disappearing into the organized chaos of the set. Y/n smoothed her hands down her jacket and inhaled, steadying herself. This was her first day filming for Game of Thrones — she’d been cast as a new character in Season 3, a minor noblewoman with ties to one of the northern houses. Nothing groundbreaking, but enough screen time to be noticeable. Enough to mean something. And definitely enough to make her knees weak with anticipation.

She wandered slowly, letting her curiosity guide her. She passed groups of extras in furs and armor, their modern sneakers poking out from beneath chainmail until someone inevitably scolded them. She passed a catering tent where someone laughed too loudly, the sound rising above the soft hum of conversation. She paused at one of the trailers to peer at the name on the door: Lena Headey. Her stomach flipped — the Cersei Lannister — and she quickly kept walking, cheeks warm.

As she rounded a cluster of prop wagons, the sound of shouting caught her attention. Not angry shouting, but the kind of intense projection used in dramatic scenes. Instinctively, she stepped closer, drawn toward the energy.

In a field sectioned off by equipment and lighting rigs, a scene was unfolding. Two actors were in the thick of a heated exchange — swords out, voices sharp. One of them, a tall woman in armor, stood poised like a statue carved from marble and fury. Her blond hair was cropped close, shorter than Y/n’s own curls, and framed her chiseled features with sharp elegance. She was captivating.

Gwendoline Christie.

Even from where she stood, Y/n could feel the strength of her presence. She radiated confidence, every movement controlled yet powerful. Her voice carried easily across the field, and not just because of volume — there was something magnetic about it, something that made people turn their heads.

Y/n didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the other actor lunged, and Gwendoline blocked the blow with effortless grace. It wasn’t a real fight, of course, but the choreography was so clean it might as well have been. Y/n found herself leaning slightly forward, hands curled in the sleeves of her jacket, a little starstruck. She’d seen Gwendoline on screen before, of course, but nothing compared to seeing her in the flesh — the raw intensity of her performance, the way she occupied space without demanding it.

As the scene neared its end, the director — a stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair and a bright scarf wrapped around his neck — caught sight of Y/n out of the corner of his eye. He turned away from the monitor, beaming.

“There you are! Y/n, come here a sec!” he called, waving her over.

Y/n startled, blinking as if waking from a dream. She gave an awkward, apologetic smile and quickly made her way toward him, boots crunching softly against the grass.

From the field, Gwendoline’s gaze flicked up just in time to see a petite woman with short, dark waves disappearing behind the tents with the director. She tilted her head slightly, catching only the edges of a smile before it vanished from view.

“Who was that?” she murmured, mostly to herself. The scene was called to a cut, but Gwendoline remained still for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the space where the newcomer had stood. Then she shook herself, laughing a little under her breath. “Curious,” she said to no one in particular, and moved to reset for another take.

Meanwhile, Y/n followed the director toward a smaller tent set up beside one of the equipment trailers. The air inside was warmer, thick with the scent of coffee and freshly printed scripts.

“Sorry to pull you away like that,” the director said, offering her a seat. “Just wanted to touch base before we get into blocking tomorrow. You settling in okay?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you,” Y/n said quickly, sitting with her hands folded in her lap. “Everyone’s been really nice. It’s… a lot, but in a good way.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, flipping through a folder. “You’ve got some good scenes coming up — we wanted someone with expressive eyes and a kind presence. You nailed the audition, by the way.”

Y/n blushed, lowering her gaze with a shy smile. “That means a lot. I really love this world.”

He grinned. “Well, you’re a part of it now. You’ll be in scenes with Robb Stark’s crowd, mostly, but we might have you cross paths with Brienne later in the season. Gwendoline, that is.”

Her ears perked up at the name. “Oh, she’s incredible,” she murmured before she could stop herself. “I, um… I saw her filming earlier. She’s just—wow.”

The director chuckled. “Yeah, she’s something else. Kind as hell, too. You’ll like her.”

Y/n nodded, but a flicker of nervousness danced in her chest. She wasn’t used to sharing space with people so… commanding. And yet, something about Gwendoline’s presence didn’t feel intimidating, exactly. More like… intriguing.

“Anyway,” the director continued, pushing the folder toward her, “here’s your shooting schedule for the next few days. Nothing too early, and we’ll get you into costume this afternoon for a quick fitting.”

Y/n took the folder, her fingers brushing the worn edges. “Thanks,” she said softly.

As she stepped out of the tent a few minutes later, the clouds had shifted. The sun peeked through, casting a warm halo of light over the fields and tents. In the distance, a tall silhouette with armor and golden hair caught her eye before vanishing around the corner.

Y/n stood still for a moment, heart ticking a little faster.

And somewhere nearby, Gwendoline Christie was asking a crew member, “Do you know who that new girl is?”

Neither of them knew it yet, but the first spark had already flickered to life.

<<To be continued>>

[wetandtiny]

Aftermath (1.5)

Approximately 1.5k words

part 1 · part 2

-----------------------

intro

You were still shocked about the night before; on one hand you had THE best orgasm in your afterlife and on the other you felt like you fucked it up entirely by asking for something selfish that you thought he'd probably enjoy too.

You wanted so much more than a bite that night, but you were becoming obsessed with his teeth and consequently him biting you, clearly you would have been able to finish without that, but you didn't want it to be like all the other random hook ups you had in hell were it was boringly normal sex or completely deranged ones were angel had to save you before anything happened.

You were clearly obsessed with Alastor, no doubts about it and wanted him in more ways that you could imagine. It was gnawing on your insides, turning your stomach inside out. Your feelings were all over the place, but no doubt the strongest one still remaining was guilt.

-------------------------

**I started writing part 2 but have a hard time finishing it, so here's the ''in between'' part of it. no real smut in it more of like establishing habbits and relationship of reader with angel dust.

Go read part one if your haven't!

tags

minors DNI 18+ only

#fluff #angryreader #readerfeelbad #sadreader #angeldustisyourfirend #caringangeldust #bitemark #hurtreader #readerworkatthehotel #Y/N #sexpositivereader #receivingsubreader #subreader #needyreader #readerhasacrushonalastor #Freader #Odaxelagnia(reader)

-----------------------

You decided to stay in bed for the day, trying to tend to the puncture wound on your leg by yourself, not quite reaching all the marks on the back of your leg. You also tried not puking all over your bed from the distress it was causing you.

Fuck him and his help, this didn't help at all! It had all the opposite effect on you, now you were out of commission until your leg felt better. You knew you'd have healed faster and better if he gave you a smaller bite or he'd been more intelligent and dicked you down harshly instead of making you wish for more and ask for something stupid in return. It was like his stupidness was spreading to you.

A couple of hours passed, you were supposed to be downstairs and help with the daily tasks at the hotel but couldn't even walk! You didn't want to call for room service as you knew Alastor would most likely be the one answering the phone. You should at least tell someone about the predicament you were in. You were having a hard time trying to figure out what to do or who to tell, but your vibrated on your night stand.

-Hey buttercup! I didn't see you all morning, did you die or something? What happened to you?

-Well, I got hurt yesterday and can't get up from bed.

-What?  Didn't know you had a date yesterday.

-No, it was not a date.

-I need help with cleaning a wound, it's kind of in a place I can't reach if you have a minute.

-I'll be there in 10, pudding.

-Don't move.

You felt a small ripple of relief knowing you had a friend to help you. You crawled to your underwear drawer to get more presentable, you slipped on a pair of cheeky panties and a pyjama t-shirt. Moving your dirty clothes in a corner of the room at the same time.

Angel arrived in your room a couple minutes after and knocked on the door.

"I'ts angie."

"Come in."

He opened the door, entered your room with a bag on his shoulder and quietly closed it behind him.

"Woah! You look like shit toots, have you even slept at all? " He approached you and handed you a water bottle from his bag.

You looked at him with a strained smile while taking the bottle. You knew you probably had dark circles from the restless night you had. You washed up to the most of your ability and then went straight to bed, but tossing and turning all night were not the best ingredients for a relaxing night.

"Look I'm not going to lie to you Angel, I didn't. It was one of the shittiest nights I had since I started living here."

"Ok then, Let's see the ouchie, so you can catch up on your beauty sleep.’’

You removed the cover from your leg, trying not to rub it against the skin.

"Damn!... Who did that to you? Didn’t know you were into pain stuff" He asked surprised, while getting supplies out of his bag.

"I... "

You disregarded the last comment but you didn't know if it was best to tell him or not who it was, I mean yes he knew about all your other dates and the fact that you had a crush on Alastor, but you didn't know if Al would approve of you telling the whole story to someone.

"I don't know if I can tell you that Angie."

"…It’s someone I know isn’t it?" He said while opening a bottle of wound cleaner.

You looked at him and furrowed your brows slightly with a heavy sigh, not answering the question.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Please Angel I don't want to cause trouble."

"Ok ok" he laughed slightly "I won't push, but if you need help, I'm here." He said gesturing locking his mouth with a key and throwing it over his shoulder. He cleaned the front of the wound.

"This side's done, on your belly now."

You rolled the other way, letting him see your back side.

"Shit, he didn't miss you babe" he said while starting to clean it "I hope, at least, that they made you cum."

"Yeah… he did, angel I really wanna tell you everything but, it would give away who it is, so I'd rather keep it to myself, but it was soooo good…until the end"

"What? What happened, he made you cum didn't he?"

"I mean yeah, but he fucking ran away after that.'' You said motioning to your leg. ''It was just starting to get good; I am so pissed."

"Did he talk to you after that or..."

"No.. and I'm too scared to go talk to him"

"Well maybe he’s scared of something." He said while you hissed from pain.

"Sorry, you're really red." He said while whipping a puncture that was almost under your butt.

‘’Him? Scared? No fucking way.’’

"It happens to the best of use once in a while, I mean there’s a lot of things I didn’t want to do when I started doing porn. Heck there is still stuff even I don’t want to do.’’

‘’You sure you don't want to tell me who? I could go give him a pep talk or like advices."

You huffed "…Naah. But I promise, I'll tell you when I'm ready... or when I need some retribution of some kind. Hahhaaha"

You laughed together while he finished cleaning. Then you talked a bit about the new sex toys that came out this week and other things that happened during the week and eating some snacks he brought.

"Knowing how you heal; you should be fine in 2 or 3 days." He said before leaving.

"I'd you need anything else just text me. Ok?"

‘’Ok I’ll be sure to let you know! Thanks again, I’m glad you’re here.’’

------‐----------

You were tired from hurting and felt like shit. Your leg was healing fine, but still, it was taking a toll on you. You were still plagued from the flashback of that night, thorn between being turned on by what happened or feeling guilty about it.

But the thought of him was still too strong in your mind, he was hugging all of the space in it. His hands clawing at the fabric of reality that was still enveloping your waking state. Whispering in your brain sweet words that would make you so excited, you could still feel his hands on you and hear him moan between your legs leaving you with less willpower that necessary to battle against your guilt. You moved instinctively, fingers finding the unnecessary needy nub placed over your dripping core, your subconscious knew it was this time of the day again, where his sweet voice would echo in your brain. You needed to hear the sweet caress of his voice filling your ears.

You opened the radio on your phone, not even bothering to plug your headphones, only to hear sweet nothing, the gray noise feeling the vast silence in your room, breaking your lusty state and turning it into a feeling of loss and loneliness.

"Why?! Damn it!!" You yelled, feeling a sob crawling up your throat. "No! No fucking way he's ruining my sex life!" You dialed the number of the last guy who gave you an orgasm, excluding Alastor.

"Hey babe! How you doing?"

"No time to talk I need a cock inside me right NOW!"

"Oh shit! I umh...I can't right now, but I can come over tonight!"

"Damn it Felix! I feel like my head is going to burst. Leave it, I'll text someone else."

"Wait! Wait I'll come over just wait, I'll be here in 10."

"See you in 10."

You didn't care much about him, he was as vanilla as one could be, but at least he could help you get some steam off.

He arrived a bit later, asked you what happened to your leg. You answered him truthfully,

" Had some guy bite me, gave me the best orgasm ever, but gotta be honest with you, might be a bit much, I like being able to walk."

" Do you...want me to bite you while we have sex?"

"Hmm...I mean...would be nice! But please do it more softly."

He fucked you while spooning to make sure your leg wouldn't hurt too much. Taking small bites on your neck and shoulder, it felt more like nibbles not enough to pierce your skin, but enough to make marks. You kept telling him to bite harder, but he couldn’t bring himself to hurt you. You still finished, he still finished. Getting some release was alright but still, annoying, and boring.

You said thank you, he left. You felt a slight wave of relief. Finally, you could sleep. You cleaned, popped some pain relief pills and went off to bed.

-------------------------------

Go back to masterlist

[nahoney22]

Hello darling!

I’d love if you wrote a NSFW fic with Tech or Wrecker.

Maybe you’d be coming home from a bad day at work and a bad fight with your parents and he comforts you and makes you forget your troubles with some soft sex. Lots of praise and pleasure. Maybe some overstimulation??

Only if you have the time of course!! If you’ve already written something like this, I’ll scour the master list

Many thanks lovely!!

Gentleness***

Wrecker X F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

After visiting your parents, you brain is fried with their words and demands of wanting you to have a different path in life. So when you return to your boyfriend, Wrecker, you crave some much needed TLC.

warnings: NSFW, 18+ only. Explicit sexual content and language. Soft smut, cunnilingis, praises, overstimulation, established relationship, aftercare and female reader. A little bit angsty, mentions of arguing with parents.

authors note: I chose to do Wrecker because I’ve not wrote for him in a hot minute and I feel like this is Wrecker coded. Sorry for the wait @originalcollectionartistry ✨🤍

With a raspy throat and misty eyes, you approach the Marauder following what was meant to be a pleasant reunion with your parents, only to unravel into a heated debate about your life choices. Are you old enough? Mature enough? In their eyes, the exhilaration of navigating the galaxy with a band of rogue Clones was an unacceptable life for their daughter. They envisioned a different path—one confined to a desolate planet, toiling behind a counter in a dreary little shop.

You yearned for their support, but some convictions remain unaltered. It had been this way for many years and each time you see them, you think they would change their minds.

Outside the Marauder, you collect yourself, wiping away tears and clearing your throat before boarding.

However, the usual clamor had subsided this evening, leaving you in solitude momentarily. Yet, a yearning for your boyfriend lingers.

Thinking you've found respite, you settle into the cockpit, allowing tears to cascade. With your head in your hands and fingers entwined in your hair in frustration, your sobs echo in the silence. Unbeknownst to you, the familiar and resounding footsteps approach, shattering the quiet.

"I thought I heard ya—hey, what's wrong, babe?" Wrecker swiftly joins you, crouching beside you and tenderly placing a hand on your thigh.

Peering at him through your hands, you manage a smile amid the tears and emit a soft sniffle. "I'm fine, just parents."

A frown creases Wrecker's brow. "I thought you were looking forward to seeing them?" he asks.

"Yeah, until they started bombarding me about what they think I should be doing with my life," you groan, swiping away your tears once more and straightening up. "Just annoyed."

Wrecker offers a sympathetic smile, planting a gentle kiss on your cheek. "Did they, um, mention anythin’ about me?" His hand grazes the back of your neck, prompting a playful eye-roll from you.

Fortunately, your parents did inquire about Wrecker. Your relationship with him wasn't exactly a secret after their initial meeting, which left a favorable impression. That much you were thankful for.

"They just asked about how you were and all," you mention, crossing your arms and leaning back against the chair's headrest. "But... they still disapprove of me traveling with you all. They want me to stay home and work for them."

Wrecker tilts his head, his brow knitting together. "Is that what ya want?"

"Absolutely not, Wreck," you declare. "I just wish they could understand that this is the path I've chosen."

Wrecker stands tall and concerned above you. “Well I’m glad you're still here,” he says, a gentle smile tugging at your lips in response. Yet, he's not entirely convinced. “Is there anything I can do?”

Initially stumped, you gaze up at him, taking in his towering presence, his striking features, and suddenly, a longing for something, anything, wells up within you. "Honestly?"

"Yeah, anything!" His smile widens, noticing a glimmer of light returning to your eyes.

As you stand before Wrecker, your voice carries a hint of vulnerability. "I want you to love me."

Confusion knits Wrecker's brow. "But you know I already do? Don't you?"

You let out a soft, tender laugh at his innocent bewilderment. Your hands trail up his sturdy arms, tracing the contours of his broad chest before delicately cradling his cheeks. Your fingertips brush over the rough, scarred tissue, as you gaze deeply into his eyes. "Yes, but I want you to love me," you express, your voice filled with longing and an unspoken yearning for more.

He’s silent now, but he understands what you mean as his eyes spark with interest.

With such a gentleness, he took your hands away from his face, starting to trail soft kisses up your arms until he seals his lips over yours, drawing you in.

You let him take the lead, keening into his touch as his hands begin to pull the clothes away from your body, his large hands gently kneading at your soft, nude flesh as his tongue dances with yours.

It’s not long until he has you wrapped around his waist, carrying you through the ship until he lays you down on his bunk, warm breath waltzing against your skin.

Soft moans begin to part your lips as Wrecker kneels at the foot of the bunk, your legs spread and balancing over his shoulders as he slips a finger between your folds. Your increasing arousal helps Wrecker to move his digit up and down before he gathers your slick on his fingers, using it as lubricant to rub at your swelling clit.

You choke on a groan, knees subconsciously closing around his head but Wrecker doesn’t mind, infact, it spurs him on as you start to gently roll your hips to his touch. He encourages you, keeping a steady pace as he places kisses to the inside of your thighs as he works at your clit with intent, yet gentle.

Your legs start to tremble, chewing on your lower lip as Wrecker lets out a satisfied growl of pleasure as you grind down on his hand, slipping a finger inside you and curling it as he gently thrusts. “That’s it pretty girl, take what ya need.”

“S-So good Wrecker… you’re so good to me.” You whine, toes curling as he maintains a steady momentum.

“Of course I am, I always will be,” he rasps, eyes fixated on your glistening pussy, “let it go, cum for me. I’ve got ya.”

Your eyes are seeing stars, stars more beautiful than those through space as your body becomes rigid and your breathing becomes heavy. Then, you cry out his name, your orgasm shooting through you as you ride out the pleasure against his hand. “That’s it, you did so well.” He cooes. “That was a lot.”

A happy sigh parts your lips but Wrecker didn’t stop there. “Do you think you can cum again sweetie? I think you can.” He cooed as he placed soft kisses to your thighs before his warm breath fans over your tingling pussy.

Naturally your hips bucked as his tongue glides over your folds, licking up the residue of before and melts as he whines softly at the taste of you. You squirm, getting a bit too overstimulated but a part of you wanted more, you wanted to fight against it and let Wrecker continue to have a taste of you.

“Don’t worry,” he purrs, sensing the struggle between wanting another orgasm and for him to stop teasing at your pulsating cunt, “I will take extra good care of you if you are a good girl and cum on my tongue.”

Your blood runs hot, his praises alone almost making you hit your high. Softly, you hold onto the back of his head, grinding your hips on his tongue as he delves his tongue against your stimulated clit, the burn now desirable.

His large arms wrap under your thighs, bringing you even closer to his face than before, chuckling into your pussy as you let out a wanton cry of pleasure. Your hands move to the sheets on the bunk, gripping as if for dear life as he laps eagerly at you, sucking and flicking his tongue expertly against your sweet sex. “Oh f-fuck! Wreck..!”

“Say my name again sweetie, let me know how much I’m pleasing ya.”

You were blessed to be laying down because if you were standing there was no way you would’ve been able to hold yourself up. “Wrecker, you’re so good at this.”

Again, he chuckles, sending vibrations through you that have your toes curling as your cunt becomes numb. As your moans become louder, you knew you were close again. Wrecker groans as he slips his tongue into your pussy, feeling you clench around his tongue that has you soaring into the galaxy.

“Your moans are so perfect, baby. You’ve done so, so good for me.” He pulls away, catching his breath and you almost sob at the sight of your juices around his grinning mouth before he moves his hand back to your core and lets his fingers strum rapidly against your clit.

It’s too much and somewhat not enough either. His name runs past your lips like a mantra all the while he ushers words of praise. “That’s it, good girl. Cum again.”

One part of your brain makes you squirm away from his touch, finding it unbearable but the other half craves for the intensity of another orgasm. “It’s too sensitive Wrecker,” you moan, knuckles turning white as you grip onto the sheets.

“I know baby but I know you can do it. Let it go, you’ll feel so much better.” For someone so loud his words were so quiet and soft yet laced with pure filth. You’re hot, the stimulation relentless and it’s not until his mouth is back on your clit when your climax finally hits.

“O-o-oh stars!” you whimper as your orgasm rakes through you and onto his mouth and chin, your whole body tingling now. He continues to lick your pussy, collecting every ounce of your high before he stands, wipes his mouth and chin and pulls you into his arms as he sits on the edge of the bunk with you.

“That’s how it’s done, sweetie. Well done.” He cooed, stroking a hand through your sweat covered hair, “was that enough?”

You give him a dazed, dopey grin and nod. “It was perfect.” You sigh happily, resting your forehead into his chest as he cradles your nude body. “Thank you for this.”

“Like I said, I’d do anything.”

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[dollyfl1rt]

warnings: 18+ mdni, anal, smut, a really handsy ex police officer

6:49 am

everyone was either just waking up or eating breakfast. in your case, you had just woke up.

“y/n, theres a bathroom upstairs by my room you can use. andrea’s hogging the downstairs one” maggie suggested sweetly her country accent apparent “thank you, maggie” you smiled as she nodded.

you walked upstairs finding the bathroom she told you about. you entered it in awe about how stunning it is.

“those shorts are small..no?” you heard from behind you as you jumped a little “you scared me” was what word vomited “they’re thin, thought you said you were cold?” rick teased his eyes everywhere except yours right now “i am cold it’s freezing in here”

“let me warm you up” he shrugged his gaze finally meeting yours with that wicked smirk, you peeped over the railing of the stairs to see who was down there and who wasn’t. to your advantage, if rick seen something he wanted he went for it. which that something was you right now. just as you were about to turn around to brush your teeth rick’s chest clashed with yours. he pulled you into an embrace just looking down at you. you reached up for his cheek and kissed him, your lips moving fast. you were so eager it was insane. everything you’d been thinking about for the past few days.

rick placed his arms under your thighs and carried you to the bathroom, closing and locking the door. you softly moaned at how rough he was being. sad to say, shane was never rough with you. always so scared he’d ‘break you’. rick broke the kiss and turned you around, your stomach against the bathroom counter. he quickly unbuckled his belt pulling his pants and boxers down.

you felt his cock perked up against your butt cheek. maybe rick was bigger than shane, maybe. you squirmed against his length lowly whining. rick let out a low husky chuckle. he tapped his tip against your ass. “you sure?” you couldn’t be more sure of anything in your life. so to answer his question you nodded.he aligned his cock with your hole and pushed himself into you. your eyes widened and you bite your bottom lip. he was in your butt, you’d never done that before so it shocked you how different it felt.

his hands found their way to your butt cheeks. those huge, rough, calloused, hands gripping at the fat of your butt. once he found a steady pace he continued with it. soon enough whines escaped your mouth. rick licked his hand, reached down, and rubbed your clit. he fucked you hard against his chest “god you feel fucking amazing” he growled in your ear rubbing at your clit faster. you came. “mm fuck, right there” you moaned quietly holding rick’s hand.

“hush up baby” he demanded groaning. you did as you were told and eventually you were a mess. “please” you breathed out heavily as rick chuckled lowly and slapped your ass earning a whine from you. his thrust became sloppier but nonetheless they were still happening. you orgasmed, your body shaking a little bit. it was enough that he was in your butt, but him massaging you and rubbing everything all over? jesus christ. he pumped his shaft that for the most part, was still in your ass. after a few beats you felt him release in your ass. “fuck” rick dragged as your mouth fell agape.

“that..i never done that in my ass before” you breathed out leaning forward against the counter, rick smacked your ass again “glad to be your first” he winked with a lazy smile.

[jellyfishcake]

Mae x F reader

°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°

You and Mae got along pretty well when you met her. Mea was always by you're side when she didn't really have much to do.

Their was books in the military camp you would read alot because it was the only thing that made you keep you're hope's up. Space was the main thing you liked reading about you would always talk to Mae about the solar system and the different types of planets and what they were made of.

Mae would listen and just look at you with loving eye's.

You did find out you are very good at making bombs. The bombs are very unique you put different colors in them so when they explode many different colors come up. Mae helps you out alot you guys came up with silly designs of what to make next.

☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆

Mae was trying not to worry too much about you she knows you can take care of yourself but so many things were going on inside of her head. She watched you get taken by the apes they were trying to find her but she was hiding behind a bush and they got so close to her. You came out of hiding and yelled out so they can get you instead of Mae.

She watched you run until a big gorilla came up and grabbed you from the left. "Don't touch me," you screamed out loud.

"We got one. Let's go so the other one can follow," said the gorilla out loud. Mae didn't know what to feel she stayed their until they left she did want to follow but she can't.

She met this ape named Noa and an orangutan named Raka. She was going to bed until she saw Noa get up and walk somewhere she decided to follow him where ever he's going. Mae walked into the building where Noa was and looked around and she started to walk up to the telescope.

She looked down into the telescope and saw the night sky but it turned all bright. '[Y/n] said those are stars' Mae thought to herself she started to cry not because it was beautiful but it reminded her of you. She needed to get you back.

☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆●☆

You were being forced to walk along a sea side you knew where you were, you got sent to go on a mission with a group but they got killed and Mae and you were the only ones that survived. A rusty ship was in you're view rope was tied around you're wrists, looking around you see a village on you're left with many apes.

The ship is bigger then it seems you made it to the entrance and the ape that was pulling you got off the horse and walked to you. Fear start to come up in you're body the ape grabbed you're left arm and looked at you a knife cut though the rope they let go of you. 'So much noise' their was so many apes in this rusty ship you felt the gorilla hand tighten around one of you're arms and start yanking you to follow him.

You end up in a room 'This don't seem like a ape lives here' as you spin slowly to look at the room. "Do you read books" as you hear a male voice behind you turn around and see a man coming down stairs "Yes.." you said in a low voice "Hmm what kind?". "Machines but mostly space" he looks at you "Space.. I haven't heard that word in a long time"

"So what's your name?"

"[Y/n].."

"That's a nice name" as he turned around "Oh yeah their hot water so you can take a shower and clean clothes" as he raised his hand in the air to point.

"Aren't you going to tell me you're name?"

"Trevathan"

You took a shower and got ready you felt more clear then before. You were reading a book you had interest in you sighed 'He had more Roman books then space' you sighed "Trevathan why is their more Roman books then other books?" He stops what he's doing "Proximus is more interesting in those books then any other", 'oh' you jumped up when you heard big bangs come from the door "It's time for dinner" Trevathan pops ups as the door open the big gorilla came in view. You started to follow Trevathan slowly behind him as he made his way out the door you looked behind and saw the gorilla.

"[Y/n] it's not that bad just give him want he wants and you'll be fine" as he point his finger up "He probably be interested in space but he'll find you useful" you didn't really know what to say. You walked in a room and a low table was in the middle you see Proximus sitting in a chair "Welcome [Y/n] to my kingdom" as he raised both of his arms and walked down to the table.

"My apes tell me you're good with machines more so bombs?"

You didn't say anything

"You could be useful too me, like how Trevathan is useful to me" you felt you're lips tighten "Trevathan what have they told" Proximus said as he looks at Trevathan

Hey what's up I watched the movie my hyperfixated is planet of the apes yeah but I'm back I will finish the fortnite fanfic. But I wanted to post this before I forgot about this.

[buckyalpine]

18+ Minors dni. Buckys innocent neighbor who bakes him cookies and muffins just cause. The girl next door who has the coziest apartment he's ever been in. Shelves filled with books along with plenty of comfy blankets decorating the couches. Bucky has his own place right across but home is with her (even if she doesn't know it yet).

She's the type of girl he's going to take his time with, asking her out on a date, just coffee and a walk in the park. Nothing more than a kiss on her cheek at the end of the night. Another date. Dinner. Another kiss to her other cheek. He wouldn't dare rush anything, especially not someone as soft and sweet as her.

He feels like such a dirty little pervert when he thinks about her afterwards when he's alone in bed, all the blood in his body rushing south, and fuck he's so hard. He tries to ignore it, he didn't want to do something so debauched by thinking of her like that, he even tries to think about his grocery list, laundry, he'd probably wash his arm later, it would probably be fine in the dishwasher-

Nothing worked.

He groans, shuffling and kicking his sweats off, hissing when his hand goes down to tug at his aching cock, relief flooding his veins at the sensation. He lets his mind wander to how adorable she'd be, the way he'd take her apart in the most gentle way. Lay her against the pillows while he holds those soft thighs apart, giving her the most feather light suckles on that perfect clit, basking in all the sounds she'd make. He strokes himself faster thinking about the way he'd get her ready to take all of him. How he'd make it so good for her-shit he was going to blow-maybe if he was lucky, one day she'd let him put his cock in her mou-

"Fuck!!" Bucky threw his head back, spurts of cum shooting from his sensitive head, his post orgasm haze leaving him feeling like a filthy old man. She were here making him baked treats and he was jerking his dick off like a sick fuck.

Then the night finally comes. Bucky is ready to cuddle and nothing else but he's thrown off because never in his wildest fantasies did he expect this.

She is the girl who sends him reeling the first time he takes her clothes off one by one revealing dark ink on her back and hips. He has to suppress a growl, his eyes growing wide at the scantily clad lace that covers her body.

"Like what you see, Sergeant?" she practically purrs in his ear while he lets his han ghost over her bare skin, his chest heaving when his eyes fall to her perfect breasts, hints of silver peeking from under her lingerie, there was no way-

"Can I?" He asks breathlessly, his hand reaching behind to unclasp the bra, those pretty pierced nipples begging to be sucked.

Bucky who turns into a fucking menace, his entire world flipping upside down when she grinds down on his crotch not hiding exactly what she needs from him. He doesn't even have the ability to hide how feral he is, letting all his inhibitions slip.

-

"My little bunny's a slut, fuck, c'mere" He grabs you and tosses you over his shoulder, hauling you over to his bedroom like an untamed beast, tossing you onto his bed with no remorse. You're in nothing but your panties which he rips right off, your thighs squeezing together at the way he stalks over to you, his hungry eyes raking up and down your body without an ounce of shame. He tugs his sweats down to reveal his leaky cock, stroking it at the edge of his bed after tossing his shirt off.

"See this baby? Been fuckin' stroking and touching myself like a fuckin' teenager because of you-" He throws off his pants before climbing onto the bed and kneeling between your thighs, spreading them apart with his knees, "-and you've been here lookin' like God damn sin under those cute little sweaters"

He flicks his cockhead against your clit, humming at the clear beads of his arousal that drip onto your cunt.

"Fuck James, need more, pl-"

"Nuh uh, what was that you called me earlier, sweets?" He lets out a dark chuckle, the veins in his cock throbbing as he tightly holds the base, waiting to hear it again.

"Sergeant" you whine with mischief in your eyes and Bucky is a goner. He'll taste you later and most definitely feed you his cock another day but right now he wants to be nowhere else other than your pussy. He wants to watch you take every bit of him, rolling over to lay on his back while you straddle him, his length slotted against your cunt. He holds it up for you with a cocky look on his face, moaning when his tip breeches your tight pussy, your walls gripping his swollen, pink head.

"That's just the tip baby, c'mon, sit on it, wanna put all of my dick in you, that's it, good girl-shittt"

"Oh fuccckk,s'big" You moan feeling the stretch as you sink all the way down, panting and staying still while you adjust to his size.

"That's it bunny, that's it, ride me, ride your Sergeant" He grabs you by the hips, guiding you to grind down on him, making you feel his entire cock in your stomach. "You're a slut for big dick aren't you baby, acting all cute and shy when all you really wanted was the winter soldier's cock"

Bucky wasn't even sure where all the filth spewing from his mouth was even coming from but he couldn't stop.

"S'that it bunny? Say it baby, tell me how much you wanted my fat cock in you"

"Wanted it! F-cuk Sergeant, wanted your cock s-o-so bad!!"

"Fuck yes!!" His feet plant to meet your bounces, his hips thrusting up, slamming his entire length into you. "M'close, fuck bunny, gonna cum already, I can't hold it-

He doesn't have time to be embarrassed. You feel to good. He rubs your clit needing you to cum all over him so he can let go.

"Please, cum all over Sergeants cock baby, give it to me, be a good girl n'cum, c'mon, cum on my dick, yes, oh fuck yes I can feel it-milk it, shit touch my balls-"

You nearly collapse as your orgasm starts to wash over you, his sponge head hitting the most sensitive parts against your walls while he toys with your clit. His voice is muffled as you start to feel waves of pleasure consume you but you head just enough to reach behind, rubbing his heavy, so full of cum ba-

"FUUUCCCCKKK" He grabs you and wraps his arms around your body while he relentlessly thrusts up, biting down on your shoulder while he lets out the sluttiest, loudest moan with 0 remorse. It feels too good and he's sure the neighbors can hear but honestly, everyone should know how amazing it feels.

-

"I got you pretty baby" Bucky coos as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, a shiver running through you while you float in bliss. Bucky pulls the covers up, deciding to cuddle up with you for a bit before running a shower, his previous demeanor replaced with the far less debauched version of him.

Anyway, just an idea. Also, it's past my bedtime.

[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