Genre: Fluff
Word count: 775
Warning: N/A
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy! If you want to be tagged when/if I write more for Zayne, LMK!
His love is not loud, public or heavy.
His love in a quiet night in, rain peppering the windows, fire crackling as he reads with you, one hand on his book, his other hand threading through your hair as you rest on his thighs. Every time you move, he glances down, a small smile on his face as he watches you. “What’s so interesting?” You’d question, seeing him looking down at you, his gaze soft, but he would just chuckle in response, making a show to return to his book.
His love is a slow weekend morning when neither of you has plans - a morning spent on his chest, drawing circles on the skin of his stomach, in and out of sleep. It’s the way he chuckles, watching you fight to stay awake. “You can sleep, sweetheart. I'm not going to leave,” he would quietly tell you, planting a gentle, barely noticeable kiss on your forehead. You would smile and close your eyes, feeling his strong, sturdy hands holding you close. You wake again several hours later, only to see him sleeping, his face peaceful.
His love is lingering glances in busy rooms where his eyes meet yours, and the world ceases to exist for the briefest of times. It’s the way his green eyes soften every time they meet yours through the crowd, only to harden again when his gaze is stolen away by whoever he had the misfortune of conversing with.
His love is a warm bath after a tough day, candles burning in the bathroom, the simple scent of rose dancing in the air. It’s the way he sits on the side of the tub, his fingers meticulous and steady as he massages the shampoo into your scalp and threads the conditioner through your strands. The way he wraps the warmed towel around your frame, kissing your nose and towel drying your hair. It’s the way he brings you one of his shirts to put on so you can be enveloped in his scent.
His love is a warm cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter’s day, the way the chocolatey aroma lingers in the air, the soothing warmth between your gloved hands. It’s the way it just warms your soul and tints your cheeks a soft shade of pink. It’s the way your lips taste like chocolate after every sip, and the soft kisses he steals so that he can have a taste. It’s the soft smile he wears as he watches you watching the snow fall, catching a flake on your glove.
His love is a warm spring day, the sun warming your very soul as flower petals dance in the cool breeze. It’s the way the wind gently caresses your cheek, feather soft in its touch. It's the way the world comes back to life around the, the vibrancy that reminds you the bad times don't last forever.
His love is the safe arms you curl up in when the world is too much. It's the security of his hands, holding you close as you cry about everything and nothing all at once. It's the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear, grounding you, proving that the world isn't all bad, for he was still around.
His love is your favourite song, the one you’ve known by heart for all these years. That sense of recognition as soon as it comes on the radio randomly. It’s the way he’ll always play it first on road trips or when you’re generally feeling down. It’s the song you randomly sing throughout the day, the song that lives inside your heart.
His love is whole, it’s complete and fulfilling. His love is everything you could ever need, regardless of whether you even know what you need. His love is safety, it’s security, it’s knowing you have someone in your corner no matter what. His love surrounds you, but it’s never suffocating; it’s perfect. It’s the calm to your turbulence, it’s the sun on a stormy day.
Every time he says "I love you", you feel butterflies; it doesn't matter if it’s the first time or the hundred and first time. He doesn’t say it often, not wanting such important words to be used so flippantly, but he will always tell you he loves you when you need to hear it the most. He will sit with you as you cry, whispering I love you’s into your hair.
No, Zayne’s love is not public or exaggerated; it’s not loud or suffocating. His love is soft, warm, and gentle. You are worthy of his love, and he will love you completely.
Wedding Day - I am quite nervous. More nervous than I have been in my life up to this point. I have done and experienced many things in my time, but nothing as important as this.
In a few short hours, I marry my Promise, my beloved, Promise. The woman I owe my happiness and my very life to. If she hadn't defied everyone to stand by my side, I don't believe I ever would have left that cell.
While our life has had many eventful moments, moments where emotions won over logic and vice versa, she was always there, always by my side, both in this realm and the spirit realm.
Promise, I choose you, and I will choose you over and over. Without pause, in a heartbeat, I will keep choosing you. Thank you for choosing me, my heart.
6 more days. 6 more days before Promise becomes mine forevermore. She will carry my name and, if Fate allows it, my lineage. I have found myself looking quite forward to the future as of late.
We have finalized the guest list, the date, the location, and the ceremony itself. We are doing a mix of wedding traditions, but one thing we both agreed on was a hand-fasting ceremony that is public but a quiet, private moment to say our vows to each other.
Our place has been a revolving door of friends and family for the past few months. As I sit to write this, Promise is downstairs, drinking and going over final plans with Natasha and Wanda, her two bridesmaids. Having their help, plus Mother's has been a blessing during this whole event.
6 more days, my beloved. 6 more days.
Read the previous entries HERE.
Apologies for being so late with this buuuuuuuut.....
Warnings: throughline of domestic abuse, not explicitly mentioned, but it is heavily applied. Please, please PLEASE read with caution.
“To be loved is to be seen,” or so they said. It was a saying she had once believed in wholeheartedly, and one she always tried to live by. She always did her best to pay attention to the little things about everyone - her brothers, her classmates, her friends, but more specifically, her boyfriend.
Kristofer joined Hogwarts in her 4th year - no one knew where he came from, but the whole grade was enamoured by him at first glance. He was charismatic, funny and quickly won the heart of almost everyone, student and professor alike. However, one person caught his attention.
Arya Riddle.
Everyone knows who she is, the younger sister of the famed and rather feared Tom and Mattheo Riddle. Kristofer was warned about this specific fact, but it did nothing to dissuade him from pursuing her. In fact, it made him try even harder. He wanted to prove she wasn’t untouchable.
By their 5th year, Arya and Kristofer were attached at the hip - students would see her bringing him little gifts, things he would love or mentioned in passing while they were in Hogsmead. To the outside world, their relationship was solid, built on love and being seen by each other. And for the first while, it was. He was attentive; he would walk her to and from class, give her his sweaters if she was cold, all of the typical relationship things. Everyone believed them, except for Tom.
“There's something off about him, I just can't put my finger on it,” Tom mentioned to Mattheo one day, although his brother brushed him off.
“Relax, Tommy, she's fine. You're acting all weird about her dating some guy. She's a Riddle after all, no one would dare do anything to her.” Mattheo replied, none too worried about her. His brother's lack of concern was more reason for him to worry. There was something off about him; he just knew it.
So Tom followed them, at a distance, of course. He watched the way he would hold her close, his grip on her arm or her waist tighter than it ought to be; he watched how she'd try to talk to him, but he would either talk over her or just ignore her completely. He watched the light in his sister's eyes dim over the course of the semester, and he watched her shrink into herself. By Christmas, she had put distance between herself and everyone else in her life.
“Stay here for the Christmas break, Arya. I don't trust him,” Tom says, standing at the train station with her, his expression neutral but his eyes carrying concern. “I’ve seen how he treats you; you don’t deserve that.”
Arya looks at the ground, refusing to make eye contact with her brother. “It’s not what you think, Tom. He cares about me and just wants me to be better. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you after Christmas.” She said, her voice flat, quiet, afraid of making too much noise.
She flinches seeing Kristofer’s shoes step in line with hers. She looks up at him, fear rimming her eyes. As usual, Tom noticed. “I was just saying goodbye to my brother. I’m sorry I took so long.” She says, apologies falling from her lips. Her eyes never leave Kristofer’s face. No one else matters anymore; her attention was on him and him alone.
“We need to be going, darling.” He says, steering her towards the train before looking back at Tom. “Careful, or she won’t be coming back,” He warns, low and dangerous, before following Adyra onto the train.
Tom watches the train pull away, fear beginning to root in his soul. For once in his life, he was afraid, afraid of losing his sister, afraid of not being able to do anything. That fear, though, quickly grew into a quiet anger - no one believed him when he said something was wrong with Kristofer. The people who were supposed to look after her betrayed her. He was going to find out everything he could about this Kristofer guy.
Tom spent the majority of his break in the library and questioning prominent people in Hogsmeade. He needed something, anything, to prove he wasn't crazy. To prove that his fear was justified, but the more he looked, the less he came up with. Dead ends every which way he looked, no one knew Kristofer - it’s almost as if he just appeared out of nowhere.
Tom was standing on the platform, waiting with anticipation for his sister to step off the train, but it wasn’t his sister who stepped off. Technically, it was, but everything that made her, her, was gone. Fresh bruises bloom where none were before the break. She wouldn't look at him as she stepped off the train, her eyes trained on the station ground, only moving to look at Kristofer when he spoke.
The couple walked right past Tom, not even glancing at him as they made their way back to school, Kristofer’s hand possessively on Adyra’s waist, his grip bruising. It was clear to Tom that something had happened over Christmas break, and whatever it was had broken her. The sister he knew and loved was gone; in her place was a shell of the once vibrant, kind person.
That was the last time he saw her, however. For the remainder of the year, she was a living ghost. Never really seen in class or at meal times. When asked about her, Kristofer would brush off any concerns, saying that she was under the weather or that she was exhausted from classes. Tom was growing increasingly more fearful, and a fearful man with a dark mind is a dangerous combination, and Tom was a dangerous man.
---
“Kristofer, where are we going?” Arya questions as she struggles to keep up with the sprained ankle she got from “falling” down the stairs. Kristofer was there to explain to Madame Pomfrey that she was just clumsy, but the ghosts would tell a different story.
“I want you to meet someone, now hurry.” He takes her hand, pulling her along to the edge of the forbidden forest - one of the few places students were prohibited from going.
At the start of their 6th year, Kristofer became interested in the dark arts and that interest became an obsession in their final year. His only goal in life now was to become a deatheater, and tonight, that goal was going to be complete.
He unceremoniously shoves her over the threshold of the forbidden forest, stepping in after her. The moonless night offers little reassurance to her; the forest is ominously dark, and creatures of unknown size rustle around her. She reached for his hand, but what reached for her was not his hand. She carefully turns around, coming face-to-face with a cloaked man she has never seen before.
“My my, aren’t you a pretty little thing,” he smiles, a subtle flick of his tongue, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. Adrya freezes, her eyes scanning every direction for any trace of Kristofer. All she could hear was his voice, way off in the distance, conversing with people hidden within the shadows.
She opens her mouth to call his name, unable to believe he just left her there, alone. “Kristofer! Help! Please, Kristofer!” Her calls remain unanswered as more cloaked figures emerge from the shadows. Heartbeat in her ears, Adyra calls out for help again, hoping Hagrid or one of the friendlier centaurs in the forest would hear her.
“Unhand her at once.”
The voice wasn’t deep, but it held an unmistakable air of authority. The cloaked figure releases her arms. Adyra turns, trying to figure out where the voice came from. It sounded familiar, sure, but she could not place where it was from.
“Who are you?” Adyra asks, her voice weak and shaky. The figure belonging to the voice begins to emerge from the trees, tall, cloaked in darkness and carrying the same air of authority as his voice did.
“You dare question the Dark Lord?” Kristofer asks, appearing at her side once again. Adrya immediately clings ot his arm, hiding his face against his shoulder, her entire body trembling as she holds back her cries of pain and fear.
Kristofer pushes her away, raising his wand, pointing it directly at her. “You really were fun, darling, but here is where we part. I’m going to be the greatest wizard in the world, and you…”
He was lifeless on the ground before he could finish his sentence. Adyra spins around, coming face-to-face with her boyfriend’s murderer. “...Tommy…”
Author's Note: This took way too long to write, and I wish I could have made it longer, but it is what it is. Enjoy!
Everyone at Akso knows that very little bothers the renowned Dr. Zayne. He can remain focused on what he's doing 100% of the time - or so they believed. No matter if he was off doing surgeries in another hospital or if he had back-to-back surgeries at Akso, he stayed dialled in, focused.
That was, until you were injured on a mission. Until Zayne fears the loss of his sun.
It’s an open secret in the cardiology wing that Zayne was not available; many know, but no one speaks about it. They've seen you in his office, sharing a look before the door is shut and the curtains drawn. They see you two leaving early on a Friday, far too close for a simple patient and doctor relationship.
When Yvonne calls into the operating room, alerting Zayne to you being brought in via ambulance, his hands begin to tremble, barely perceptible to the people around him, but Zayne can feel it. Try as he might to force his hands to still and to continue with the surgery, his focus was elsewhere, drawn to a place of worry. What sort of condition would you be in?
Mistakes he would never have made began happening, small ones but mistakes nonetheless, and his usual calm, professional demeanour began to crack.
“...Dr. Zayne?” Greyson asks, hesitantly, looking over at him and seeing his jaw set in a tight line.
“I’m fine.” He answers, cold, detached, expressionless. Everyone who knew Zayne could see it; they knew he was lying. Greyson, in particular, could see the tension in his shoulders.
No one in that operating room dared to speak more than was necessary. All eyes were on Zayne, both to keep out of his way and to ensure he did not make any critical mistakes.
“Sew up his chest and send him to recovery.” Zayne orders, not even sparing the nurses a backward glance as he walks out of the operating room, leaving Greyson and the nurses confused.
“He never leaves without finishing a surgery. Do you think something happened?” One of the nurses asks, her eyes never leaving the door Zayne just walked through.
Greyson, already dutifully following orders, began sewing up the man’s chest. “It’s best not to speculate. We need to get back to work.”
Zayne walks through the hospital, lips set in a defined frown. He had to find you, and soon, before he completely unravelled. He needed to know the state you were in before his thoughts took over.
He had passed the same hallway 3 times without even realizing it. But Yvonne noticed. She was quick to find him, leading him directly to your room.
There you rest, eyes closed, face peaceful despite the bandage across your left eye. Stepping into the room, Zayne pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside your bed, moving the blanket gently to check for other injuries.
Dislocated shoulder.
Broken wrist.
Blood is soaking through your hospital gown from your stomach.
“What did this to you, sweetheart?” He asks, quietly, more to himself than to you. You couldn't hear him anyway; you were either asleep or in a coma. He wasn't sure yet.
Carefully pushing your gown to the side, Victor removes the bandage on your abdomen, inspecting the wound before replacing a clean bandage and pulling your gown back into place and covering you back up. His fingers linger on your cheek, ice particles slowly inching their way up his hand.
“No..” he mutters to himself, pulling his sleeve down. “Not now. Not when she can't help.” He closes his eyes, trying in vain to force his heart rate to slow down. Opening his eyes again, he looks over at you, touching your face gently, something, anything to ground himself. This can't be real; it has to be a dream, you can't be dying right in front of him, and there is nothing he can do about it.
He was angry, and he was scared—angry at who or what hurt you and scared that you were hurt.
“You need to survive..I can't live without you, sweetheart.” He says, softly. “You're the warm summer sun to my cold winter night. You're the only reason I finish work at any decent hour. You're my favourite thing to come home to. I need you to wake up, please…. Please don't leave me. I love you.”
In the quiet stillness of your room, Zayne breaks down. Tears silently roll down his cheeks as he stares at you, his greatest weakness. You had always been his greatest weakness, and that's what made him love you so completely. You saw him for who he was beneath everything - the awards, the stoic coldness, the suits, all of it. You saw him and loved him for who he was.
And now, now he was losing you.
He watches your heart monitor, the rhythmic beeping helping to keep the thoughts away. He sat there, consumed by his grief and emotions, when a hand, steady and firm, on his shoulder drew him back to the present. Glancing around, he sees Greyson standing silently beside him, hand placed on his shoulder, not speaking, just existing as comfort. The anxiety and helplessness slowly dissipated at the sight of Greyson.
