Do Not Sell The Hereafter For The World. دعك منهم. ستقابل ربّك لوحدك. Forget Them,

かわいすぎてスマホの背景にした

the whole world is silent right now.

there is almost no media coverage.

but we, as an ummah, cannot stay silent. gaza’s pain is our pain.

ya Allāh, shelter them from harm and grant them peace in the chaos. ease their burdens and heal their wounded hearts. feed their hungry, protect their children, and reunite their families. ya Rabb, turn this darkness into light, and make them victorious over their oppressors. آمین

02; the withering

Pairing: Yandere!Botanist x Reader Description: You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Abuse | Psychological Manipulation | Gaslighting | Isolation | Implied Stalking | Codependency | Unhealthy Relationship | Coercion Note/s: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think about this one. Oh. Also, I'll be posting the next chapters of sanctum on my ko-fi in advance while updating the holy week special on a daily basis.

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The first time you meet Elijah, your hands are buried in dirt and your hair sticks to your forehead under the heat of an early summer sun. The community garden is smaller than you imagined—two raised beds, a few vertical trellises, and a compost bin that smells like fermented greens. You’re there because you wanted something wholesome. Something grounding. Something real.

He doesn’t say much at first.

You glance over, catching him crouched by the snap peas, methodically checking their growth. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing pale forearms speckled with soil. A pair of glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is slightly too long, curling at the nape. You can’t help staring when he gently touches one of the vines, his thumb brushing along its fragile tendrils like he’s afraid to bruise it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and smooth, like soil soaked in rain.

“You’re digging too shallow. The roots will struggle.”

You blink, startled. “Oh. Sorry—I haven’t really done this before.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft but scrutinizing. “No need to apologize. You’re just new.”

He shifts closer and takes the trowel from your hand, demonstrating the motion with slow, deliberate precision. “Think of the plant like a child. It won’t thrive unless it feels safe. You have to give it enough depth to breathe, but not so deep that it drowns.”

You’re a little embarrassed at how seriously he takes it, but something about the way he talks—the reverence, the quiet care—it draws you in.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps his distance. But he always watches. Always helps when you’re struggling. The first time he smiles at something you say, you feel like you’ve coaxed a sunflower to bloom in winter.

“Elijah’s like a Victorian ghost,” your friend Lila jokes one evening when you meet for coffee. “Are you sure he’s real?”

“He’s… interesting,” you admit. “I think he just takes time to warm up.”

Nathan, your other friend, raises a brow. “He’s hot in that tortured poet way. Just don’t let him convince you that sadness is sexy.”

“He’s not sad,” you say, a little more defensively than intended. “He’s thoughtful. He talks about plants like they’re people.”

Lila sips her drink. “Okay, but does he talk to people like they’re plants?”

You laugh with them then. But a part of you remembers the way he’d touched your wrist last weekend, gently turning your hand over to examine a burn you hadn’t even realized you’d gotten from the kettle.

“You need tending,” he’d murmured. “You bloom better under the right care.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Your visits to the garden become regular. Every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday afternoons. Elijah’s always there before you, already working. You bring him iced tea once. He accepts it with a quiet nod, then takes exactly one sip before going back to trimming a stubborn vine.

It’s not romantic. Not yet. But there’s a rhythm to it. You talk about your week. He listens without judgment. Sometimes he says strange things—asks you what kind of soil you think your heart would grow best in. Wonders aloud if your sadness feels more like drought or frost.

But he’s never cruel. Never impatient.

Until you stop showing up.

It isn’t intentional. Work gets busy. You’re offered a freelance project and you start seeing someone new—briefly. Elijah texts you once: Missed you today. Then again, two days later: The lilies drooped without you.

You don’t respond.

Lila invites you to a birthday dinner, and Nathan brings his newest situationship. You sip wine and listen to them complain about dating apps and flaky coworkers and overpriced rent.

“So, have you seen your ghost gardener lately?” Nathan teases. “Or did he finally return to the soil?”

You hesitate, twirling your glass. “He texted a couple times, but I’ve been swamped.”

Lila leans in. “You ghosted him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to.” You laugh. “I just got caught up in things.”

“You should probably clear the air,” she says. “Guys like that? The quiet ones? They internalize everything. He’ll think it’s his fault.”

You glance down at your phone. No new messages.

Later that night, as you unlock your apartment door, you pause.

There’s a package on your welcome mat. Wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. Inside: your basil plant. The one Elijah helped you grow. Its leaves are shriveled. The soil is cracked and dry.

There’s no note. Just the plant. Dead.

You bring it inside anyway. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But the next morning, your heater breaks.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

It starts slow.

Lila stops responding to your texts. Nathan leaves your messages on read. You think they’re just busy—until your name is quietly removed from the group chat. Your landlord claims your rent was late, even though you paid early. Your emails to HR vanish into the void. Your favorite café closes down without notice.

You tell yourself it’s all coincidence.

But when you return to the garden one cold, gray Sunday, Elijah is there—waiting.

“You look paler,” he says, setting down a watering can. “Thinner.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

He nods, like that explains everything. “I noticed the apartment building next to yours has mold in the foundation. Black mold. Very dangerous.”

You freeze. “How do you know that?”

“I keep up with things.”

He hands you a cup of tea—your favorite blend. You take it without thinking, hands trembling slightly.

“I didn’t mean to ghost you,” you say. “I just needed space.”

He watches you over the rim of his glasses. “Space is a myth. Even the stars are drawn to gravity.”

“Elijah—”

He touches your wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop your words.

“I let you go,” he murmurs. “I let you wilt.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

He tilts his head. “Then why are you here?”

You don’t have an answer.

You sip the tea. It’s warm. Soothing.

But the aftertaste is bitter.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You start seeing him more.

Because when he’s around, things work. Your electricity stays on. Your fridge hums. The walls don’t creak at night. The outside world feels far away—muted, distant. You stop trying to reach Lila. Your calls never connect.

One night, Elijah brings soup. You haven’t eaten all day.

He sets the bowl on the counter, then steps closer. “You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

He frowns, brushing a thumb beneath your eye. “Insomnia is a symptom. Lack of care. Dehydration. Depletion.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just hands you the spoon.

Later, when you try to call Nathan, your phone screen glitches. The number says disconnected.

You turn to Elijah, who’s watching from the doorway, calm and unreadable.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whisper.

He steps forward, places his palm over your chest like he’s testing the pulse of a root system. “You’re not dying. You’re just malnourished.”

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“No,” he says, with that same quiet reverence from the garden. “You’re just being… repotted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The worst part isn’t that he keeps you.

It’s that you let him.

Because when he holds you, you’re warm. When he murmurs to you in the dark, you forget what loneliness feels like. He tells you that you’re doing better. That you’re stabilizing. That your eyes are brighter now, and your spirit more rooted.

He brings you a mirror one morning, tilts it toward you.

“See?” he says softly. “No more drooping. No more decay.”

You stare at your reflection. Skin paler than you remember. Cheeks hollow. Lips dry. But your eyes—yes. They shine. Not with life, but with devotion.

He touches your chin. “You needed pruning. That’s all. Just a little guidance.”

“I… don’t remember who I was before.”

“You were starving,” he says. “And no one noticed but me.”

You start to cry.

He pulls you into his arms.

“There, there,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. You’ll waste water.”

You clutch him tightly, because you’re afraid.

Afraid that without his hands, you’ll collapse.

Afraid that he’s right.

That all along, you were just a flower planted in the wrong garden.

And now… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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129 days and 75 years 💔

タケウチ　リョースケ on X: "九龍ジェネリックロマンス https://t.co/iPrIJhxqcg" / X

Ibn al-Qayyim said:

"A person's adab is a sign of his happiness and success. The lack of adab is a sign of his misery and ruin. The goodness of the dunya and akhirah is drawn by the likes of adab, and the deprivation of their goodness is drawn by the lack of adab."

[مدارج السالكين ٣٦٨/٢]

Mine to Protect, Mine to Own

art from pinterest

yandere mafia classmate x reader

Nicolò Dellabarca had always been a mystery.

You weren’t close. You had only worked together on a class project once. He was efficient, quiet, and surprisingly attentive, but the partnership ended without much conversation.

Still, something always felt off about him.

He was cold with others but different around you. He never spoke unless necessary, yet his presence loomed over you like a shadow. Whenever you turned your head, you found his sharp blue eyes watching you, unreadable but focused.

At first, you ignored it.

Then, small things started happening.

One night, when you were leaving campus late, a stranger had followed you for a few blocks—until a black car pulled up, and the man suddenly disappeared. The next day, a few guys from your class who had been bothering you stopped showing up. And once, when you almost tripped on the stairs, Nicolò had been there, catching your arm before you even realized he was close.

"Careful."

His voice had been deep, steady. He had let go quickly, looking almost flustered.

You should have put the pieces together then.

But you didn’t—until the night you were taken.

It happened fast. A car pulled up. A group of men stepped out. Before you could scream, a hand covered your mouth.

You fought, kicking and struggling, but everything faded into darkness.

Your first thought upon waking was: This is too comfortable to be a basement.

A thick blanket covered you. A fireplace crackled nearby. The room smelled of expensive wood and something faintly floral.

For a second, you thought you were dreaming—until the door opened.

"Mom, what do you mean you have a surprise for me? It better not be another—"

The voice stopped.

You turned your head—and froze.

Nicolò.

His blue eyes went wide. His usual cold expression shattered, replaced by something you had never seen before: panic.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

"Mom..." His voice was sharp, but there was something almost desperate beneath it. "What did you do?"

From behind the door, a light, cheery voice replied.

"Oh, relax, sweetheart. I just helped you a little."

Nicolò let out a shaky breath. "This is not helping."

He turned back to you.

You met his gaze, your body rigid.

"...What the hell is going on?"

The door opened again, and a woman stepped inside.

She was beautiful—dark-haired, elegant, and radiating control. She held a glass of water and smiled at you as if you weren’t just kidnapped.

"You must be thirsty," she said, offering the glass.

You didn’t take it.

"Who are you?"

Her lips curled. "You can call me Isabella. I’m Nicolò’s mother."

Your stomach twisted.

"And why did your men kidnap me?"

She sighed as if this were a mild inconvenience. "Because my son is terrible at taking what he wants."

You turned to Nicolò, waiting for him to deny it.

He didn’t.

His fists clenched at his sides, his breathing shallow.

You took a slow step back. "You let this happen?"

"I—I didn’t know—" He cut himself off, rubbing his face. "Mamma, why would you do this?"

Isabella chuckled. "Oh, Nicolò, don’t be so dramatic. You were never going to make the first move, so I gave you a little push."

You scoffed. "Push?! You kidnapped me!"

Isabella tilted her head. "And yet, you’re perfectly safe, aren’t you?"

Your blood ran cold.

She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. "Do you know how many people have been watching you? Waiting for you to be alone? Do you really think walking home alone at night was ever safe?"

You swallowed hard.

She smiled. "You needed to be taken, darling. If not by us, then by someone worse."

You clenched your fists. "That’s bullshit."

Nicolò finally spoke, his voice low. "It’s not."

Your chest tightened.

You turned to him, searching his face. "Then let me go."

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the truth.

There was no leaving.

-

The Dellabarca estate was suffocatingly grand. Every hallway was lined with paintings, every door guarded.

And now, you were seated at an impossibly long dining table, facing the people who had stolen you.

Nicolò sat stiffly at the head of the table, shoulders tense. Across from him sat a man you had yet to meet.

Giovanni Dellabarca.

His father.

The room felt colder with him in it. His presence was overwhelming—calm, composed, and dangerous.

"So," Giovanni finally said, swirling his wine. "You have fire. I like that."

You set your fork down sharply. "I don’t care what you like."

Nicolò inhaled sharply beside you.

Giovanni smirked. "Feisty. Just like your mother, eh, Isabella?"

His wife chuckled. "Oh, absolutely. I see so much of myself in them."

Your stomach churned. "I am nothing like you."

Isabella smiled knowingly. "Oh, but you are." She leaned in slightly. "You think I wanted this life? That I chose it?"

You stilled.

"I hated Giovanni at first," she continued. "I fought, I screamed, I ran—but in the end, I understood."

She turned to her husband, her gaze softening. "Love in this world isn’t sweet. It’s fierce. It’s possession. And once you understand that..."

She looked back at you, her expression almost pitying.

"...it’s easier."

Your hands shook.

Giovanni exhaled, setting down his glass. "You’ll come around. She did."

Your skin burned with anger. "I am not her."

For a moment, Giovanni studied you.

Then—unexpectedly—he laughed.

Nicolò stiffened.

"You know," Giovanni mused, "when Isabella first entered my life, she hated me just as much as you hate my son now."

You clenched your fists. "Good."

His smirk didn’t falter.

"Yet, here we are."

Your blood ran cold.

Nicolò suddenly stood. "Enough."

Giovanni’s brow lifted. "Touched a nerve?"

Nicolò’s hands curled into fists. "They don’t need to hear this." His voice was sharp, controlled—but his eyes flickered with something desperate.

He turned to you, his voice lower. "Come on. I’ll take you back to your room."

You hesitated.

Then, without another word, you followed him out.

As soon as the door shut behind you, Nicolò let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his dark hair. His shoulders, always so rigid around his family, slumped slightly.

"Dio mio, that was a disaster."

You folded your arms. "That’s an understatement."

He turned to face you. For the first time since you woke up in this house, he looked directly at you—really looked at you. His piercing blue eyes, usually so cold, held something else now. Something desperate.

"...Are you okay?"

The words were so quiet, so gentle, they made your stomach twist.

You wanted to lash out. To scream at him. To tell him no, I am not okay, you psychotic bastard—your family kidnapped me!

But something about the way he was looking at you—like he was hurting just from seeing you upset—made your breath catch.

You clenched your fists. "...No. I’m not."

His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides like he wanted to punch a wall—or worse, like he wanted to hold you but didn’t know if he was allowed.

"You—" His voice caught. He exhaled through his nose, composing himself before trying again. "You don’t understand."

Your eyes narrowed. "Understand what, Nicolò? That you let your mother steal me? That I’m being held hostage in your house?"

His expression twisted.

Then, before you could react, he moved.

Fast.

He was in front of you in an instant, his large frame towering over yours. One of his hands slammed against the door beside your head, caging you in. The other reached for your wrist, wrapping around it—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

His eyes, those sharp, ice-blue eyes, burned into yours.

"You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, rough, almost shaking. "You think I wanted them to touch you? To take you before I could—before I—"

He cut himself off, his breath ragged.

You swallowed hard. "Before you what, Nicolò?"

His fingers twitched against your wrist.

His lips parted like he was going to answer—but he hesitated. His breathing was heavy, his jaw tight.

Then, quietly—so softly it sent a shiver down your spine—he whispered:

"Before I could make you mine."

Your stomach dropped.

His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your pulse. He could feel how fast your heart was racing. His expression darkened, something dangerously close to satisfaction flickering across his face.

"You don’t get it, cara mia." His voice was almost gentle now, a sick contrast to the possessiveness dripping from his words. "You were never safe outside. They were watching you. Waiting for an opportunity."

His free hand rose, his knuckles grazing your cheek.

"I was the only thing keeping you safe."

Your breath hitched.

His fingers trailed down to your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away.

"You hate me now," he murmured. "That’s fine. You can hate me all you want." His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate. "But you belong to me, whether you like it or not."

Your entire body tensed. "I belong to no one."

His expression flickered—hurt, frustration, something deeper—but it was gone in an instant. Instead, his lips curved into something that made your blood run cold.

A smirk.

"Say that again in a few months," he murmured, voice almost teasing. Almost sweet.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

"We’ll see if you still believe that then."

And just like that, he let go.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, but he just straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders like nothing had happened.

His cold mask was back in place.

He turned away from you, walking toward the door.

"I’ll have someone bring you food," he said casually, as if he hadn’t just claimed you as his own. "Get some rest."

You gritted your teeth. "I’m not staying here."

Nicolò stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he turned his head to the side—just enough for you to see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"You don’t have a choice, amore."

And with that, he walked out, locking the door behind him.

This is inspirated by c.ai bot and it was made by @Strawberry_88

this hadith is mainly about kindness, the aspect of forgiveness is one that i struggle to do.

it's always hard for me to forgive those who wronged me. in my case, i always thought it is much better to return the pain they inflicted upon me, if not, a thousand times worse.

those were my thoughts back then.

while still incredibly hard to do, small improvements is better to none.

how do i do it? simple. remind myself to forgive others, as many times just as how i want Allah to forgive me. that i am just like them, a sinner, who has fallen short—worthy of receiving Their forgiveness.

i could give more hadiths about it, to showcase the words that inspired me. but i never write this long for a reblog, so that's that. limit reached lol (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Why do you forgive easily?

Prophet Muhammad said:

"Whoever is easy-going, easy to deal with, and kind-hearted, Allah will forbid the Fire for him."

[Sahih al-Jamih no. 6484]

The Flame-Chase Journey won’t end with my departure. Golden blood will not be shed in vain.

劇場版カードキャプターさくら 封印されたカード Cardcaptor Sakura Movie 2: The Sealed Card (2000)