#not that a replacement would be as nice as having her back but it would be better than nothing

[ghosty-writes-23]

Kneeling Before Her. - Leon S Kennedy.

Ghosty's Notes: okay so this was a random idea I had randomly thinking about Wife!FemReader + Older!Leon (Between Damnation & Vendetta.) also I wrote this on my phone which is something I don't normally do, but it's like 2am and I can't be stuffed grabbing my laptop, so please forgive me if their is alot of spelling mistakes.

Summary: Y/n and Leon had been fighting alot lately, but even with how much they where fighting it didn't stop them from desiring each other.

NSFW Tags: Smutty Content, Eating Out, Pleading, Body Worship, Desperate!Husband!Leon, Hope for the future, Happy Ending.

Used Pet Names: Darling, Sweetheart, Princess, Love, Good Boy, My Wife.

| ID!PROFESSOR!LEON COMING IN 2 DAYS |

!Unedited!

Word Count: 1.9k

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Thank you for all the support, it means alot❤️

-Ghosty :] ❤️🦝

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Y/n and Leon had been fighting alot recently, from small things such as dirty dishes in the sink to Y/n tripping over Leon's alcohol bottles and she had enough. Tonight was like any other night, Leon was coming home from a mission and smelt like a brewery, the pair had argued yet again, Y/n was upset Leon had come home drunk and Leon was trying to justify he wasn't that drunk yet he could barley walk a straight line, she had guested one of the staff from the bar had called him a taxi because there was no way in hell he would be able to drive in the state he was in.

Sometimes she felt as if Leon treated her as if she was dumb, she knew this wasn't what he really thought of her, but when he was drunk he would treat her as if she was an idiot and it was getting on her last nerve, there is only so much a person can take before they snap, as Leon passed out on the living room couch Y/n had thrown a blanket over him and left a bottle of water and Advil on the coffee table before going upstairs to what used to be their shared bedroom.

Leon mostly slept in the spare bedroom when he was home, it was strange feeling to feel alone in her own house even with Leon home. Shaking her head Y/n closed the door and started to get ready for bed, such as doing her nightly routine of showering, changing into comfortable pajamas, drying her hair and doing nightly skincare and brushing her teeth and taking the last of her medication for the day.

When she got into bed, she couldn't help but wonder how did her and Leon's relationship end up like this, she knew Leon had alot of trauma before they had met, he had warned her that he wasn't the most easiest person to get along with but that didn't stop Y/n, she didn't see Leon as the government agent or the weapon that most people seemed too, but just a man that had the worse timing most of the time but once he started to open up he was a complete sweetheart.

When they had gotten married Y/n and Leon had gotten married in 2006 she thought everything would be perfect, they would have a house maybe out of town, maybe a fixer upper they could do together as a couple project, like an old historical cottage that has a nice front yard where she could plant flowers, maybe have a dog or a cat.

Leon would have left the government and got a less dangerous job after he found out she was pregnant, everything was meant to fall into place, but sometimes promises are broken even by the people we love the most, this had lead Y/n to start wondering was Leon still the man she had fallen in love with and married all those years ago, or was that man gone and replaced with an drunk, anger hollow shell of his former self.

Shaking her head Y/n turned off her bedside table lamp and layed back in bed, all this thinking was hurting her brain so she decided to try and get some sleep, even if she had to force herself too.

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Later on in the night the small city apartment was quiet, the only sound was a ticking clock and the soft hum of the fridge, but upstairs their was a soft buzzing sound and muffled soft mews filtering from under the door. Y/n had her eyes closed as she worked the toy on it's medium setting, after forcing herself to sleep only to end up tossing and turning, she knew the perfect thing to put her to sleep.

It was the ultimate relaxer or so she thought, her bottom lip was between her teeth as her middle finger and ring finger where working her clit, her other hand was working the toy inside her quivering walls. She couldn't remember the last time she had to use her toy to get off, usually her fingers would work just fine but she knew her body was craving something or somebody else.

In her mind was replying the last time Leon had touched her, when her hands where gripping his pillow as her hand was buried in it, his hand was in her hair, tugging firmly but not to roughly as he thrusted into her from behind, he had come home from a stressful work day and needed to let off some steam and who was she to say no to her husband, with Leon's stamina they would at least go for 2 maybe 3 rounds.

But she was soon pulled out of her fantasy when she heard footsteps, she slowly turned off the toy before hearing a soft knock on the door. "Come in." Y/n spoke softly soon the door opened and Leon sheepishly walked in only wearing his briefs and no short, he looked more sober but their was still bags under his eyes. "Did I wake you?" Y/n asked causing Leon to shake his head as he closed the door behind himself.

"I'm so sorry sweetheart." Leon spoke as he started walking towards their old shared bed, Y/ was at a lost for words this was the first time he apologized for anything in the past few weeks, so she was a little surprised but before she could get any words out, Leon slowly lowered himself to his kneeled in front of her, his head down as if he couldn't make eye contact with her.

"I'm so sorry for being a shitty husband, I know I should have come to you, I just didn't want to burden you with my problems, I wanted to protect you from them, but instead I did the exact opposite." Leon says before he shakes his head before finally he looks up at her. "I know I don't deserve you Y/n or your forgiveness, but I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you." Leon says causing her heart to skip a beat.

"You really hurt me." Y/n started and Leon put his head down like a puppy that was in trouble, "I know princess." Leon says shamefully. "But I am willing to forgive you if you promise this behavior stops now okay, I want you to go to counseling and get help." Y/n says and Leon listens and nods his head. "I'll start looking in the morning." Leon says causing Y/n to smile ever so slightly and nod her head, maybe this wasn't the end of their marriage.

"Good." Y/n said and just as she was about to move over in the bed, Leon reached out to grab her wrist to stop her, but as he did she knew he felt her hand was wet, she saw his eyes widen slightly before he started to bring her hand to his lips. "Leo-." she tried to protest but soon his lips where around her fingers.

the warm and soft feeling of Leon's mouth on her fingers caused her to gasps softly, their was something so erotic about a man on his knees lapping and sucking his wife's juice's off her fingers, especially a man that hasn't tasted her in months. she watched Leon her thighs clenching together as his tongue gently gliding between her fingers.

But soon Leon let her finger's go with a soft pop, a string of his saliva was between her now drool covered fingers and his lips, he looked up at her she could see the desperation and the lust in his eyes, because her were probley mirroring the same look ad if she was honest she was too pent up to let this moment slip through her fingers.

"Can I have more." Leon asked his voice was more husky but still had a slightly desperateness to it. "Will you be a good boy?" Y/n asked with a small tease in her voice but Leon nodded his head quickly, instead of getting up onto the bed so he could be comfortable, Leon was still kneeling on the ground but moved her so she was sideways on the bed but her ass was on the edge of the bed.

Leon started peppering kisses down her ankle, to her legs and then to her thighs, her body was starting to warm up, her thighs clenching with every soft press of his lips, she was nearly about to put him in a headlock between her thighs. When he finally got the edge of her panties that she knew where soaked, she let out a little mew as she could feel his warm breath against her.

"Please can I taste you now sweetheart." Leon softly pleaded as he looked up at her, she knew he was pulling the puppy dog eyes but even with the bags under his blue eyes and the stubble on his face that she knew would be scratching against her inner thigh. Y/n nodded her head again biting her lips.

She could see a small smile come onto Leon's face, as his index finger hooked into the side of her panties, he then lent in and placed a gentle kiss on her aching clit and quivering folds causing a soft moan to leave her lips and her fingers to go into his dark hair. She heard Leon groan softly as he started to lick and suckle as if he was savoring every moment of this.

His name falling off her lips in sweet moans and mews, the sound filled the bedroom as she gently gripped his hair, this was what she had missed the most between their fighting, she missed the intimacy between them, the love, affection, desire, want and need for each other what they can only get for each other, it almost made tears spring to her eyes.

Looking down Y/n saw Leon's face was buried between her holds, his eyes closed as he feasted on her like a starved man, she knew she wasn't going to last long as she already felt the familiar knot forming in her stomach. "It's okay, darling you can come for me." Leon grunted against her flesh, his stubble starching against her inner thighs.

With Leon's permission she came on his tongue with a high pithed cry of his name, her back slightly arching off the bed as her thighs trembled around his head, Leon helped her ride out her orgasm before he pulled away after placing a gentle and loving kiss on her folds, his face was coated in her slick but their was a small blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, there was a slightly glazed over look in his eyes.

But when she looked down, saw that Leon's cock was straining through his brief's he shook his head before slowly standing up. "Tonight was about you, I'll do deal with this." Leon spoke causing her to pout slightly but she nodded his head, he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead before he headed to the bathroom that was connected to their bedroom.

Maybe this was the start of the new beginning, maybe their was hope for their relationship, Y/n could only hope and pray but this was a good start and it could only get better for here....

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©Ghosty-writes-23, 2025. all rights reserved. !I DO NOT! consent to translations or replications or reproduction of my work on any other social media platforms and or make AI Bots without my explict consent and permission.

[wands-natsthing]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

HEYYYY HIII HELLOOOO long time I KNOW IM SORRY LSKDKD AND I KNOW I SAID THE WEEKEND BUT I GOT SICK

buttt just to give a lil info, since it has been so long since I updated I put the last bit of chapter 2 at the beginning of this just as a refresher I guess!! And more overall story info (R=23) (W=30) (N=34)

I also wrote kinda like a Wanda’s POV of what happened in the janitors closet so let me know if you want that!!

Feedback is more than welcome!! I love reading all your comments they make me feel like my writing isn’t shit 🤓 and they make me smile :)) I also tried to make this as open as possible this is for everybody!! (I hope I worded that right) I mean as in there rlly no descriptions of r

Warnings: I really don’t think there are any besides maybe it starts to seem a little homewreckery BUT ITS NOT I PROMISE!!

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: You guys come out the closet and have lunch idk

"Who's the woman standing outside the door with you?" you asked.

You can tell Wanda hadn't been expecting your question by the way her eyes widened.

"Oh um, that's Natasha, After you graduated I started teaching a co-taught English class and well she's the co-teacher." She paused before confirming the suspicion you had earlier. 

"She's also my wife…" 

Your heart dropped. 

“Your- your wife…You got married? You ask with a tremble in your voice. 

“Yeah, I did um just a few years ago…” 

“Oh- that's uh, that's cool. Um, congratulations.” 

Wanda’s smile faltered slightly as she sensed the mix of emotions swirling inside you. The joy in her eyes seemed to dim ever so slightly, replaced by a hint of concern.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” she said quietly, her voice softening. "Maybe we could talk more about everything over Lunch?"

Your eyes snapped up at that. The thought of having lunch with her again all these years later was just too enticing to pass up, no matter how many messing feelings it brought again.

"Lunch? Are you- are you sure?" You asked with a hopeful smile on your face.

"Yes, I'm more than sure. I am positive." She reassured you with a gentle touch of her hand running up and down your forearm.

"Okay, then yes I would love to."

"great! What about this weekend at 1:00 at the cafe we saw each other last week? (a/n: Its Wednesday)

"That's perfect!"

"Okay good then it's a date." She said scrunching her nose up in a way that always made your heart melt.

Date.

"I am so sorry, but I better get back, can't leave Natasha by herself for too long with all those parents and kids out there, But I can't wait for our lunch date!"

Date. There goes that word again.

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry for keeping you for so long,” you replied, trying to shake off the rush of emotions swirling in your mind.

Wanda smiled warmly, as if she could sense the turmoil within you. “No need to apologize. It’s nice to catch up, I've missed you."

You both stood there for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. The bustling sounds from the school faded slightly as you locked eyes.

“Alright, I better get going,” she said after a pause, and you could hear the softer undertones of sadness in her voice. “But I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it,” you replied, offering her a genuine smile.

Wanda gave you one last look, her expression revealing a mix of excitement and a hint of uncertainty before she opened the door of the janitor's closet.

You took a deep breath, calming your racing heartbeat. You had so many thoughts swirling through your head but at the same time, you felt as if you couldn't think.

As you finally turned to head out back to your car, you felt a strange sense of hope take root inside you.

You couldn’t help but replay the moment in your mind, the surprise of learning she was married mixed with the thrill of the upcoming lunch. It was complicated, but one thing was clear: you wanted to explore this. No matter how much it might hurt in the end.

The rest of the week felt like an eternity. You replayed snippets of conversations you had shared over the years, moments of laughter, and even the unspoken feelings that had lingered in the air. Each thought made the anticipation for the weekend grow stronger.

Finally, Saturday arrived. You stood in front of your mirror, carefully selecting your outfit for lunch. The end of summer's warmth lingered in the air, but a hint of fall was beginning to whisper in the breeze. You chose a lightweight mustard-yellow sweater, perfect for the transition between seasons. Its soft knit hugged your figure comfortably.

For pants, you chose a pair of high-waisted, olive-green corduroy pants that offered both warmth and style. The slightly flared legs provided a retro vibe, making them an ideal choice for early autumn. On your feet, you wore your black Converse. Always a staple in your outfits.You topped everything off with a silver chain that went slightly past your collarbone and small gold hoops that reflected off the light.

Never understood the big deal about mixing silver and gold.

And a light spritz of your favorite fall-inspired perfume, with notes of vanilla and sandalwood, completed the look, a warm scent perfect for the season.

As the clock ticked closer to 1:00, doubts and anxiety started creeping in.

What if she doesn't show?

Is my outfit bad?

Does my breath smell? You make sure to brush your teeth one more time before leaving.

When you arrived at the cafe, a wave of shyness washed over you. You spotted Wanda almost immediately. She was sitting at a cozy table, her reddish auburn hair catching the sunlight, and you wondered how someone could look both familiar and new after all this time.

You exchanged hesitant glances. The soft murmur of conversations around you felt louder than usual, amplifying the butterflies in your stomach.

As you approached, her face lit up, the warmth of her smile easing your nerves.

 “You made it!” she exclaimed, standing up to greet you with an embrace that felt both comfortable and electrifying.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you replied, taking a seat across from her.

For a moment, the air was thick with unspoken words. Both of you are unsure what to say.

Fortunately, as if sensing the tension in the air, a waitress approached to take your order.

"I'll have a hot caramel latte and a turkey and cheese sandwich, please," Wanda said with a soft smile. You returned her smile, appreciating the familiarity of her order.

Both Wanda and the waitress turned to you, waiting to see what you'd chosen.

"I'll have the same, please. Thank you."

*****************************

You sipped your coffee, the warmth seeping into your hands, trying to ground yourself. Slowly but surely the conversation began to flow just like how it had all those years ago.

It was as if nothing had changed. 

As if neither had gone through drastic changes.

Yet, even as the conversation deepened, the thought of her marriage lingered at the back of your mind and the fact that they worked together. Soon within a day, they both would be your coworkers.

Curiosity nudged at you, and you found yourself leaning in.

“What’s it like? Teaching together, I mean? That must be… interesting.”

Just like in the janitor's closet, she was surprised by your sudden question.

Though she laughed softly, easing the tension. “It is, we balance each other out. She’s all about structure, while I tend to go with the flow. It makes for some creative lesson plans."

Though you were more so wondering if they shared any lunches like the two of you did; 

You'll take it.

Gathering up as much composure as possible you try to sound as "mature" as you possibly can. “Sounds like a great dynamic,” you replied, picturing the two of them in a classroom full of students, bouncing ideas off each other.

"Yeah it is, we make a great team." Wanda smiled, her eyes lighting up.

 "You know, I would love for the two of you to formally meet."

Your heart raced and your mind went blank.

What the fuck?

"Wait...I'm sorry, what?"

Wanda repeated herself slowly, not sure how to take your response.

“Oh, um, really? Your wife?” You stammered, shocked from the sudden/not so sudden twist in conversation. "I mean are you- are you sure that is a good idea? You know, me being me?"

Wanda smiled at you comfortingly. "Of course, it's a good idea, I mean besides you were gonna meet her soon anyway with school starting Monday-"

She stops mid-sentence playing with the necklace adorning her neck, a telltale sign 

She's nervous.

"Natasha also already knows exactly who you are to me." 

♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎

𝐨𝐨𝐩 🤓

𝐋𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯!!

@nebthetautora @esposadejoyhuerta @w4ndsversew0nder

@skz-xii

[baxxartist]

A short story based on @aychama 's royal au and comic.

Part 1 Part 2 here

Part 3 here

(thank you for being an inspiration, your art and story is amazing and this has been on my mind forever)

✨Disclaimer✨

THIS IS VERY MUCH NOT CANNON FOR EITHER AUs

I do not speak for the creator

This is a fan creation of a fan creation. I do not expect this to ever be cannon and please never treat it as such.

I am writing this on my phone, instead of sleeping, so this will very likely be bad writing and under researched.

If you don't like oc x cannon in any universe, keep scrolling

Ari was watching from afar, he's been a loyal servant since he could remember. Abandoned by his nobal family due to being a hybrid, despite this Ari still did his best to hide his horns and wool-like fur mostly to blend in. Ari is trying to avoid harassment, but his family essentially wiped their hands clean of him...accept for his grandmother. Who took Ari into her care, despite it causing her to be disowned herself, and through many trials and errors. She got a job as one of Narinder's servants and trained Ari so he would be able to support himself after she died. Landing the job as her replacement quickly as all he ever knew was to serve.

He's been loyal...well despite occasionally sneaking off to meet with his "siblings" who are more his close friends. Sal, the oldest is an advisor of Shamura, Kay, is one of Kallamar's husbands, Harper, she's mostly in charge of the farms and villages ensuring they're all running properly, and Levi, the youngest, who was sent by Shamura to protect Leshy and to act as a guard. Despite this Levi acts more as a guide and personal serveant

They all taught Ari most of what he knows now, though most of his knowledge he keeps to himself. Despite being a skilled fighter and having a vast knowledge on medicine, scavenging, and hunting. He only plans to say something if needed.

Despite Ari trying his best to focus on his work. He kept glancing over at Aym who was sparing with a few of the knights. Mentally going over every mistep, wrong swing, bad form. Yeah that's why, he was looking for weaknesses in the knights that needed improving...not focusing on Aym, his perfect form, quick thinking...yeah Ari's not looking at him at all.

Ari snaps out of his thoughts, mumbling to himself before continuing his tasks for the day, though occasionally his eyes wonder back to Aym. He smirks seeing many struggle against Aym. "He's easy if you watch him long enough and not focus on him..." Ari mumbles as he felt his face getting red as he snaps his thoughts back to his tasks. "That's completely ridiculous, I'm a servant. I shouldn't know any of this" Ari says softly to himself, but he can't help but want to spar. But doing so could make things very bad for him as this is knowledge he's never told anyone he has.

Ari tried to get his mind of what was essentially the kingdoms military leader, before getting flustered again. Aym was so nice every time they interacted, speaking occasionally when they were younger.

Later that afternoon, as Ari finished his tasks, he snuck off into he forest. Occasionally he'd travel to the more monster ridden lands, but that was more for a day off. So for now he made his way to a clearing a good distance from the kingdom before reaching into a tree stump, confused. He kept the sword his grandmother gave him...the only sign of his noble heritage...now gone? He panicked, no one could've known about that until Ari heard a voice behind him.

"Looking for this?" Aym asks, his tone dark, protective. Ari knew he was screwed as he turned around, looking at the sword in Aym's hands. A silver handle with a red gemstone, protected by a leather sheath, prayer and symbols of protection and strength in an ancient language.

Ari knew he was fucked, if only he could think of an explanation

[gingerteafairy]

butterfly effect (tate langdon x reader)

You've seen enough time travelling movies to know you would get out of this loop if you fix something and maybe this thing is stopping Tate from his destiny.

tags n warnings: angst, bullying, time travel, family issues, depression, murder house references, platonic relationship. word count: 5.2k

April 1st, 2000, 8:00 PM

You step into the subway, hands buried deep in the pockets of your coat. Finding the nearest empty seat, you drop into it with a tired expression, the dark circles under your eyes betraying how desperately you needed rest. Your friend sits beside you, her cheerful smile seeming untouched by the exhausting day at work.

You close your eyes, hoping to catch a moment of peace, but your attempt is swiftly interrupted by sharp, boisterous noises. Groaning inwardly, you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, already knowing what caused the commotion without needing to look: teenagers being loud and rowdy.

“What does a person have to do to get some peace?” you mutter irritably, cracking your eyes open and throwing a glare full of quiet disdain at the group of carefree teens.

“Talking about the school kids?” your friend chuckles at your annoyed expression, turning to glance at the teens herself. “Don’t be mad—they’re just like we were once.”

“Not like this.” You scowl, crossing your arms and sinking back into the seat.

She laughs, the sound carefree as she leans her head against the subway wall. “I kinda wish I was like them again… so happy. I liked school.”

“I didn’t,” you counter, shaking your head. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling as a faint heaviness settles in your chest. “It was all so confusing, so chaotic. We had hormones, college applications and rude teachers.”

“You sound ancient saying that—you’re 24. It wasn’t that long ago.” She teases, her grin infectious enough to tug a reluctant smile from you. “Let me guess, you were the quiet kid.”

“Not the quiet kid exactly,” you reply, your brow furrowing at the memory. “But I did deal with some bullying. That’s why I just wanted out.”

“Wow… I’m sorry about that,” she says softly, her playful tone replaced with genuine sympathy. She pats your shoulder warmly.

“It’s okay,” you reassure her, your lips twitching into a faint smile. “I had a few friends. Bonnie and Neil. They were really nice. We had some good times, too.” Your gaze returns to the teenagers, now practically climbing the walls in their excitement. “Yeah… every now and then, we were just like them.”

“There’s the confession we were waiting for,” she jokes, laughter bubbling out and pulling a chuckle from you as well.

“They got married, Neil and Bonnie. That's just so funny, they were like salt and pepper. Inseparable.” You remembered.

“This is awesome. One of my school mates is waiting for twins. Oh, time flies, isn't it?” 

“Yeah… There was one boy…” you begin, your voice trailing off. “He was the quiet one. I can’t remember his name anymore, but I found out later… he died. It was awful.”

“That’s terrible…” she murmurs, her gaze turning distant. “He must’ve been so sad.”

“He was,” you admit, your voice quieter now. You couldn’t remember his name, but one thing had stayed with you all these years: his eyes. They were deep, haunting, filled with a sorrow that felt older than the universe itself. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still 18.”

“It’s like we never really grow up,” she agrees.

The nostalgic conversation carries on until the subway screeches to a halt at your station. Together, you step off, parting ways with your friend as you begin the walk home.

The silence of the night envelops you, your thoughts turning inward. You sigh, gazing up at the sky, remembering how much you loathed high school. Life had improved dramatically since then, and yet…

You couldn’t help but wonder: what if you’d taken more chances? What if you’d made a fresh start or even saved a depressed teenager like yourself? But there’s no going back. Maybe you were okay with that. Maybe.

The sound of your alarm clock jolts you awake, and you groan, bracing for yet another monotonous day at work. As your mind clears, something feels… off. Your brows furrow, eyes blinking into focus as you realize your head is resting on a wooden desk—not your bed. You sit up abruptly, taking in your surroundings. Teenagers, vaguely familiar, bustle around the room, grabbing books and stuffing them into their backpacks.

“What the hell is this?” you murmur, disoriented.

“Aaaand guess who’s gonna be prom queen this year? Paris Hilton!” A familiar voice snaps you out of your daze. You turn, squinting at two faces you hadn’t seen in what feels like ages.

“Neil… Bonnie… Is that you?” A wide grin breaks across your face as you stand and pull your friends into a tight hug. “I missed you so much! Where have you been? You guys look exactly the same as in high school!”

“Uh… okay?” Bonnie chuckles nervously, pulling back with a bewildered look. “We saw you, like, five minutes ago. Are you drunk?”

“Drunk? She passed drunk hours ago, she's freaking high,” Neil teases, giving you a playful squeeze before stepping back. “Gimme some of this weed you're consuming, girl. Maybe I can gain courage to ask Bonnie out.”

“Stop it, you nuts. She's gonna say we will marry again someday.” She giggled, nudging him.

“Oh, we’ll definitely get married, shawty. Just wait for it.” He winked at her. “Anyway, in case you missed it—Paris Hilton, prom queen!”

“Seriously?” you ask, your voice tinged with disbelief.

“April Fools!” they laugh in unison, their teasing grins infectious as you blink at them in surprise.

“Come on, math class is starting,” Bonnie says, tugging on your arm.

“April Fools…” you echo softly, your brain racing to make sense of what’s happening. Your gaze lands on the calendar at the front of the classroom, and your heart nearly stops.

April 1st, 1994.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath.

Your hand flies to your hair—it feels different, lighter. You glance down at your outfit: a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans you distinctly remember throwing away years ago. “I’m back in high school,” you groan, the weight of the realization sinking in.

“Man, she’s really out of it,” Neil comments with a laugh, shaking his head at your dazed expression.

You barely register his words, your body moving on autopilot as you follow your friends into the bustling hallway. The noise and chaos feel overwhelming, and before you can fully process it, someone slams into your shoulder, sending you stumbling to the ground.

“What the hell?” you snap, glaring up as a mocking laugh pierces the air.

“Oops,” the girl sneers, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Thought the janitor had already picked up the trash.” She laughs again, flanked by two other girls who mirror her smug expression.

Your eyes narrow as recognition dawns. Jade Beryl. The queen bee who made your life miserable.

Fury flares in your chest. You stand, brushing yourself off with deliberate slowness before locking eyes with her. “What’s your problem, Jade? Blind, or just plain stupid? If you need glasses, I can hook you up with a number. Might help you see past those dollar-store contacts you’re wearing. Seriously, fifty cents? Pathetic.”

The grin slips from her face, her confidence faltering for the first time.

“Looks like someone finally grew a backbone,” she mutters, throwing a nervous glance at her silent companions. She elbows them to follow her, but they remain rooted in place, stunned by your sudden boldness.

“Once trash, always—wait!” she yells after you, but you’ve already turned on your heel, marching toward your next class without a second glance.

“Dude, that was epic!” Bonnie beams, grabbing your arm as you push open the door to the classroom. “You totally owned her!”

You manage a small smile, but your mind is racing. What the hell is going on? How did you get here? And, more importantly, what are you supposed to do now that you’re back in 1994?

Neil laughs along with Bonnie. “It’s a shame we don’t sit together in this class.”

“Yeah, she’s paired with the weirdo,” Bonnie whispers, glancing around to make sure no one overheard her comment.

“Weirdo?” you ask, curious, adjusting the strap of your backpack.

“Tate Langdon,” she murmurs into your ear, and you freeze.

Tate. The boy you were partnered with back in school, the one whose life ended so tragically after the school shotting. You remember him as a quiet, sweet boy who rarely opened up. You’d always felt too shy to try and befriend him, too afraid of overstepping. He always sat alone and seemed so tired and sad.

Your legs seem to move on their own as you make your way to the back of the classroom, where he’s sitting alone, quietly reading a book. He doesn’t notice you at first, his focus completely absorbed by the pages. When you stop in front of him, he finally looks up, his expression unreadable.

“Hi, Tate,” you say with a polite smile. He tilts his head slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Mind if I sit here with you?”

He hesitates, glancing between you and your friends, who are still staring from across the room. His brows knit together slightly before he murmurs, “I guess you’ve already completed the dare.”

“Dare?” you repeat, baffled. The weight of the moment feels almost crushing, as if the air around you has grown ten times heavier.

Tate sighs, closing his book and resting it on the desk. “Sometimes people come up to talk to me as part of some dumb truth-or-dare game.”

“Pffft. That’s so immature,” you blurt out, immediately regretting the words as they leave your mouth. You let out a nervous laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “Sorry, that… sucks.”

“Sucks?” he echoes, and to your surprise, he chuckles. His smile transforms his face, making him look younger and more carefree even with the eyebags. You can’t help but notice how good looking he is. Caught staring, you quickly sit down beside him, trying to regain composure. “Cool shirt.”

“Oh…” you smile, catching his shyness through the monotone voice. “Thanks, Tate. But you have a good set there. Normal people…”

“Normal people scare me.” He completes, slightly blushing at the corny t-shirt. “It 's a fact.”

“Totally.” You beamed with the opening, maybe being his friend wasn't as difficult as you thought “So… what are you reading?” you ask gently, determined to keep the conversation going.

“A book about birds,” he replies, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. He shows you the cover, and with a moment of hesitation, places the book on your desk. “You can read it if you want.”

“Thank you, Tate.” You smile, picking up the book as if it’s a piece of him. Opening to the first page, you skim through it, feeling a glimpse of the depth in his quiet personality. You remember how talented he was in literature, how he’d write the most hauntingly beautiful poems.

“I’ll read more when I get home. Can you give me your phone number so I can call you later?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

His reaction is immediate—he swallows hard, his eyes widening slightly as he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He looks at you, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Oh no,” you stammer, realizing how uncomfortable you’ve made him. “I didn’t mean to be pushy… we don’t even know each other that well. I’m just some random person who came up to you out of nowhere. I’m sorry!”

“It’s not that…” he mumbles, glancing at you from under his lashes. “It’s just… no one’s ever asked for my number before. I don’t even know it by heart.”

Your initial embarrassment fades into relief, and you laugh softly. “That’s okay…”

But to your surprise, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small piece of paper. “I wrote the number down, my mom told me. I keep it in my bag,” he explains quietly, placing the paper on the desk.

You take it carefully, your fingers brushing his for a split second. “Thanks, Tate,” you say, your voice soft, your smile genuine.

For a moment, his lips quirk up again, and you realize this might be the beginning of a chance you never thought you’d have.

You carefully folded the small piece of paper and slipped it into your pocket, planning to call him later from home. Tate pulled out his math notebook, setting it on the desk with a hesitant expression, clearly struggling with something on the page.  

“Need help?” you asked instinctively, and he nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. You picked up the notebook and scanned the problem. “Holy fuck, what kind of demonic sorcery is this? I don’t remember math being this bad.”  

“You sound like my mom,” he chuckled quietly, his gaze softening. His laugh caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were reminded of the subtle age gap between you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make this setting feel slightly surreal.  

“Well, looks like we’re just two idiots stuck figuring this out together,” you teased, letting out a dramatic sigh and giving yourself a playful facepalm.  

Tate smirked, shaking his head slightly. “Great, my only help probably doesn’t even know what two plus two is.”  

You gasped, feigning offense, then laughed at his unexpected sarcasm. He wasn’t anything like you remembered—or like the rumors you’d heard.  

“Alright, genius, let’s see you tackle this one.” You pointed to a particularly nasty equation, raising an eyebrow at him.  

“Nope, that’s all you, Einstein,” he shot back, arching an eyebrow.  

You clutched your chest in mock hurt, then grinned. “We should study at your place sometime. Might make this easier.”  

The lightness of the moment shifted instantly. His expression darkened, the shadow of something heavy crossing his face. His jaw tightened slightly, and the familiar pain and turmoil you remembered seeped into his features.  

“Okay,” he said shortly, his voice clipped. Realizing how abrupt he sounded, he cleared his throat and attempted a half-hearted smile. “Sorry… it’s just… my house is kinda… you’ll see.”  

You nodded slowly, sensing you’d touched on something sensitive. Maybe it was his home life. Maybe this was part of why things went so wrong for him.  

Before you could say anything more, the classroom door swung open, and Jade strutted in with her usual arrogance. Her eyes landed on the two of you, and her lips curled into a cruel smirk.  

“Well, well, the weirdo and the loser. What a perfect pair,” she sneered, raising an eyebrow.  

Tate’s jaw tightened again, his gaze fixed on the window as if willing himself to disappear.  

“Hey, is your home life so bad that you have to bring other people down just to feel better?” you snapped, standing from your chair.  

Jade faltered, her smirk wavering as her eyes flickered with uncertainty. “My life’s fine, thanks. Better than yours, clearly.”  

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you retorted, your tone sharp. “Truly good people don’t tear others down to lift themselves up.” You paused, softening slightly. “Look, I’m not trying to be mean. If you need help, I can help you. I know people like you usually have… complicated histories.”  

Jade’s expression froze, her confident demeanor cracking. For a split second, her fake blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she quickly brushed it off, straightening her posture and walking away briskly.  

You sighed, sitting back down, and noticed Tate watching you with his head resting on his hand. His lips curved into a faint, amused smile. “You’re… really weird.”  

You laughed nervously, smoothing your clothes and shrugging. “I just… know some things.”  

“Right.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment, his smile growing just a little.  

It wasn’t much, but it felt like a breakthrough. For the first time, you saw a glimmer of something lighter in his eyes, something that hinted at hope.  

The moment was interrupted as the teacher entered the room, starting the lesson. But as you turned to your notebook, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, you were changing things—one small moment at a time. You've seen enough time travelling movies to know you would get out of this loop if you fix something and maybe this thing is stopping Tate from his terrible ending. 

When class ended, you found yourself walking alongside Tate to his house. The building was grand and beautiful, with a timeless, antique charm. Yet, something about it felt wrong—like the air was thicker here, carrying an unshakable weight. The moment you stepped inside, the emptiness of the house struck you, but it didn’t feel like you were truly alone. A chill crept up your spine as if unseen eyes were watching.

“I’ll grab something real quick,” Tate said, disappearing down a hallway without waiting for a reply.

You stood there awkwardly, the silence pressing down on you. A strange urge pulled you toward the staircase. Slowly, you climbed the creaking wooden steps, each one groaning under your weight, amplifying the eerie stillness.

At the top, you found yourself in a long corridor lined with closed doors. You reached out to touch a doorknob, curious about the house’s secrets.

“That’s not Tate’s room,” a voice said suddenly, sharp and cutting through the silence.

You jumped, spinning around to see a tall woman with fiery red hair standing behind you. Her pale face and piercing gaze made your heart leap into your throat.

“I… I wasn’t—” you stammered.

“His room is that one,” she interrupted, pointing to a door further down the hall. Without another word, she turned and descended the stairs, disappearing into the shadows below.

You swallowed hard, your unease growing. The house seemed to pulse with its own life, every corner shrouded in an unexplainable darkness.

Taking a shaky breath, you moved to the door she had pointed out. You opened it cautiously and stepped inside. The room immediately screamed Tate. Posters of grunge bands lined the walls, stacks of CDs and books were scattered across the shelves, and the air smelled faintly of incense.

Your gaze was drawn to the desk, where a pile of papers sat. You stepped closer, your fingers brushing over the edges of handwritten notes. They were poems—raw, emotional, and hauntingly beautiful. As you leaned in to read one, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

Before you could react, a sudden presence loomed behind you. A hand covered your eyes, and you let out a startled scream, spinning around to find Tate standing there, grinning mischievously.

“Boo! Did I scare you?” he teased, his smile laced with a boyish charm.

“You scared me a lot! What the hell, Tate?” You pushed his shoulder lightly, your heart pounding as you tried to calm yourself.

“Sorry,” he said, though the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement. He plopped down onto the floor, motioning for you to join him. “I just couldn’t resist.”

“You’re such a dork,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help but laugh. Still, the tension in your chest hadn’t fully dissipated. Something about this house lingered, heavy and oppressive.

As you sat across from him, your gaze inadvertently dropped to his wrists. Faint scars crisscrossed his pale skin, and a lump formed in your throat.

“You can ask,” Tate said softly, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

You snapped your eyes back to his face, feeling a rush of guilt for staring. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, offering a small, almost fragile smile. “I can tell you the stories behind them if you want.”

“You don’t have to… if it makes you uncomfortable,” you said gently, returning his smile in an attempt to ease the tension.

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. 

The room fell into a quiet lull, but the weight of that unspoken conversation lingered. Despite the unease that clung to the house like a shadow, sitting here with Tate felt like the beginning of something—something that might just change everything.

"You… tried to kill yourself?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, cutting through the silence like a knife.  

Tate looked down at the scars on his wrists, his fingers brushing over them unconsciously. He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the weight of the truth.  

"Once," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. It felt like a burden was being lifted off his shoulders, like he was letting someone in for the first time. "I took a bunch of pills, and, well… it didn’t work. I remember thinking, ‘Fuck, I can’t even do this right.’”  

You let out a small laugh at his dark humor, but your worry lingered beneath it. "I’ve… felt that way before too. I tried to kill me once, but I stopped.” 

"Why?" he asked, his tone curious but gentle.  

"I don’t know," you sighed, hugging your knees to your chest. "Mostly family stuff. I’ve got some serious daddy issues, you know? And then there’s school… the bullying…"  

"But you totally owned that girl today," he pointed out with a small smirk.  

"Not always," you admitted, your voice softer now. "It used to really get to me."  

"Well, you’ve changed," he said firmly, meeting your eyes. "You’re strong now. Strong enough that nothing can break you."  

The words hit you in a way you didn’t expect. You’d never really stopped to think about how far you’d come.  

"Why did you say that about your house?" you asked, changing the subject gently.  

He leaned back, his arms wrapping around his knees. "Mostly because of my family," he admitted, his tone dropping. "My mom’s… well, she’s a bit crazy. Major mommy issues."  

"Looks like we’re a perfect match," you joked, trying to lighten the mood.  

"But I feel like my family is stranger than most," he added, his expression growing serious again.  

"Aren’t all families strange?" you teased, and he chuckled softly. But there was still something heavy in his gaze.  

"I think mine’s… worse," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, after a moment, he looked back at you, his expression unreadable. "Fun fact: this house is haunted."  

"Haunted?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Like a horror movie?"  

"Worse," he said with a straight face, leaning in slightly. "The difference is… this one’s real."  

"Oh, of course," you laughed, rolling your eyes.  

"I’m serious," he insisted, but there was a flicker of amusement in his expression.  

"Right," you said sarcastically, crossing your arms.  

Tate clicked his tongue, sitting back with a small smirk. "Don’t worry, though. I’ll protect you."  

"My hero," you said, laughing at the absurdity of being "protected" by an 18-year-old boy. He laughed too, the sound soft but genuine.  

The conversation shifted to lighter topics after that—about the oddities of his house, the nightmare that was high school. By the time the day ended, you felt like you’d seen a completely different side of Tate. He wasn’t the boy everyone whispered about; he was kind, complicated, and surprisingly funny.  

Later that night, you couldn’t help but worry about him. You dialed his number just to make sure he was okay, but no one picked up. Maybe it was too late. Even Tate Langdon needed to sleep eventually.

The alarm clock blared again, dragging you reluctantly from sleep. Groaning, you sat up, rubbing your eyes and taking a deep breath. Relief washed over you as you scanned your room. It was familiar—your apartment, your life. Everything seemed normal again.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you checked the date.

April 2, 2000. 

“So, it was all just a dream,” you muttered with a faint smile, a serene expression softening your features. You got up, shaking off the lingering haze, ready to face another day at work.

At the station, you met your colleague, who greeted you with her usual cheerful smile. The world felt steady again, routine and predictable. Yet, deep down, a small, stubborn part of you wished that dream had been real. That Tate hadn’t died. That he was still out there somewhere, and maybe—just maybe—you two could have been friends.

“I’ll take the next train,” your friend said suddenly, glancing at her watch. “I need to stop by somewhere first.”

You nodded, watching her walk off in the opposite direction. Shrugging, you turned your attention back to the arriving train. Today was important—you couldn’t afford to be late.

Once inside, you scanned the carriage for a seat. Your usual spot was free… almost. A tall man stood near it, engrossed in a book, large headphones covering his ears. He seemed so absorbed in his own world that you hesitated, unsure of how to approach.

“Excuse me, can I sit here?” you asked politely.

He didn’t respond. You tried again, louder this time, but he remained oblivious. Mustering a bit more courage, you lightly tapped his shoulder.

The moment he turned to face you, your breath caught in your throat.

“Fuck,” he squeaks, blinking in surprise as if he’d seen a ghost. He quickly removed his headphones, his piercing eyes locking onto yours.

“I'm so sorry. Shit you were on headphones. Did I scare you—” you began, but your words faltered as you truly saw him.

It couldn’t be.

“I think that’s the first thing I said to you when you came to my house,” he said, a faint laugh escaping his lips. “But… I guess you don’t remember me.”

Your knees felt weak. That voice. That laugh. The same sharp eyes, the familiar golden curls.

“Tate?” you whispered, your heart racing.

A knowing smile spread across his face, and you stepped closer, unable to believe it. It was him. Tate Langdon. The same boy you thought you’d never see again.

“Tate, oh my God,” you breathed, pulling him into a hug before you could stop yourself.

He froze for a moment, clearly caught off guard, but then he hugged you back, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

“You’re alive,” you murmured, almost in disbelief. “You’re really here.”

He laughed softly, stepping back just enough to look at you. “Yeah, alive and kicking. Sorry if I made it seem otherwise.”

“What happened?” you asked, sitting down beside him, still stunned.

He sighed, leaning back slightly. “After our conversation that day, I packed up and left. Same day you left my house. I didn’t even think twice about it. I grabbed what little savings I had, took the first train out of town, and came to New York. No goodbyes, no looking back. I just… I had to leave all the bad behind. That town, that house, my parents…”

You nodded, hanging onto his every word.

“So that’s why you didn’t answer my call,” you murmured, the pieces falling into place. It all made sense now—why your phone call went unanswered, why he seemed to vanish without a trace.

“I had to disappear for a while,” he admitted, glancing out the window as if the memory was still fresh. “But it was the best thing I could’ve done. I needed to start over.”

Looking at him now, you could see the difference. Tate seemed lighter, freer—his smile was genuine, his laughter no longer tinged with sadness. He was still the quiet, thoughtful boy you remembered, but the weight he carried back then seemed to have lifted.

You couldn’t help but smile, a bittersweet feeling swelling in your chest. Tate had survived, and he’d made it out. Somehow, against all odds, he’d found his way to a better life. And now, as if by fate, you’d found him again.

"I got this terrible job at McDonald's..." Tate chuckled, lost in the memory as he stared ahead. "Got fired, of course, but eventually landed a spot working at a record store."

"That’s a much better fit for you," you teased, grinning at him.

"Yeah... but can you believe I got fired from McDonald's for putting pickles on the wrong sandwich?" He turned to you with an exaggerated look of disbelief.

"Honestly, it sounds fair. A lot of people hate pickles."

"You're supposed to be on my side!" he protested, feigning indignation.

You laughed, but his tone shifted to something softer. "Still, it was for the best. I met the manager at the record store after that, and we really hit it off. He told me I might even be promoted to manager someday."

"Tate, that's amazing!" you said, beaming with genuine pride.

"Eh, maybe. But sometimes I see a Nirvana record and feel this weird sadness," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "You know Kurt Cobain died just days after we talked about him back then? I haven’t been able to listen to Nirvana since."

"Seriously?" you asked, tilting your head in surprise.

"Not once," he nodded, his tone serious. "But I do listen to Foo Fighters now. Dave Grohl was the drummer, so... it feels like keeping a small piece of Kurt alive."

You laughed softly, leaning back against the subway wall. "I’m really glad I ran into you today, Tate."

"Don’t say that like we won’t see each other again," he said, pouting playfully as he mimicked your position. "This time, I’m not disappearing or leaving the city. You’re stuck with me now."

His words struck a chord, filling your chest with a bittersweet warmth. You squeezed his hand, trying to blink away the sudden tears welling in your eyes.

"Thank you, Tate," you whispered.

"No," he said, clasping your hand tightly with both of his. "Thank you. In fact, as a proper thank-you for being my friend back then, I’m giving you a record from your favorite band."

After work, you couldn’t resist checking out his record store. The moment you walked in, you were greeted by the scent of vinyl and the warm glow of nostalgia. Tate waved at you from behind the counter, his hair slightly disheveled as he rang up a customer.

“Give me a sec!” he called, motioning for you to look around.

You browsed the aisles, running your fingers along the spines of old and new records until you stumbled upon a display of Foo Fighters albums. Grinning, you picked one up and walked back to the counter just as Tate finished.

“You’ve got good taste,” he joked, taking the record from you. “But this one’s on me.”

“Tate, you don’t have to—”

“Ah, ah, ah! It’s my thank-you gift, remember?” He held up a finger, his grin mischievous.

“Fine,” you relented, rolling your eyes playfully. “But only if you recommend something new for me to listen to.”

He brightened at the challenge, quickly disappearing into the shelves and returning with an album you’d never seen before.

“This one. Trust me, you’ll love it,” he said confidently, sliding it into a bag along with your Foo Fighters pick.

“Guess I have homework now,” you said, laughing as you grabbed the bag.

“See you soon?” he asked, leaning casually on the counter.

“Count on it,” you said, smiling as you headed out the door. “And Tate…”

“Yeah?”

“I still listen to Nirvana.” You chuckled, stepping out and missing Tate's laughing, shaking his head as he came back to work on his discos. 

[cryinthevortex]

Never the Nonna (Part 2 : Caterina)

“The child is pretty,” Caterina thinks, looking at the small thing hanging off her legs. “It has Lucanis’ eyes.”

She chastises herself and corrects herself, “She has Lucanis’ eyes,” it is not the child’s fault that half of her is made out of Rook. 

The little girl is trying to open the clasp of her shoe. Caterina remembers training lockpicking with Lucanis when he was too young to hold a blade. That job is now his if this girl were to become a Crow, like his father, but Caterina suspects, it is not a path Lucanis wants for her. Fatherhood suits him. He appears composed and pleased, despite the stories to the contrary she heard, about his nervous breakdown during Rook’s pregnancy.

So, Lucía Illaria Dellamorte, their tribute to her daughter and his cousin. It is an unnecessary sentimentality as Lucanis does not even remember his mother, but… Caterina’s mind pauses for a moment. It is admittedly a nice gesture.

If Lucanis had remained as the First Talon long enough, he would have found out that despite her explicit orders to the flock not to tell her the child’s name, there is always one who comes and slips it to you anyway. In this case, that someone was Andarateia. It was of little consequence, as she hears it now from Lucanis too, which is what she wanted.

“Nonna.” Of course, Rook would taunt her and Lucanis had stood up for his grandmother. Caterina felt a momentary contentment for his backbone before the feeling disappeared again to that dark place, where all emotions within her died. Once upon a time, she would have never accepted to be called Nonna, but perhaps it was time to stop that particular nonsense. 

“Fine. Now, Lucía, let Nonna show you where your father’s room is. You can destroy everything within it at your leisure,” she tells her granddaughter. What Lucanis does not know is that Caterina had the neighboring room decorated to fit a baby girl the day after she saw her for the first and only time, just in case this day would arrive.

The day she went to see this child her parents were incapable of stringing together coherent sentences due to their ridiculous crying. She gave them room to continue as they were, pathetic, but happy. The child had Lucanis’ eyes and that gave Caterina too large a dose of reality at once. Lucanis had again made something out of himself, without his grandmother and Caterina did her utmost to replace her pride with anger.

“Hello?” Caterina hears a voice from a hallway, as they go hand in hand with young Lucía down the stairs. She had enjoyed her room next to his father’s old bedroom. While they were looking around, Lucanis was searching for that unremarkable statue of Wyvern. Based on him throwing items across his room, swearing, and turning drawers upside down, he was not successful. Only Caterina had placed it into his daughter’s new room months ago. She however felt it appropriate that Lucanis gets his exercise in dealing with lost causes, so she let him search for it.

Lucanis would of course spot his statue immediately after leaving his room, as she left his daughter’s new room door ajar. Like this, Caterina does not have to deal with Lucanis blubbering nice words and thank you.

“Mommy!” Lucía yells happily. Caterina sighs. Another person Rook makes happy. She lets go of the child’s hand but intends to get it back soon. Something in her small hand profoundly warms her. 

“Hello, Caterina, and hi my baby,” Rook says, opening her arms wide as the child speeds up within. She wraps herself around her little body. 

Caterina shifts her weight uneasily and moves her cane, as suddenly her balance seems to be off. She remembers holding her own children in more innocent times. She had felt their love seeping in, their laughter warming her heart and their tears, aching for hours after they had dried.

She was not a good mother, but harsh, brutal, and heartless, like her parents before her in a good Crow tradition. But in those innocent years of theirs, when becoming a killer was not in the cards yet, she lived for her children. Their clean hands purified hers, if only for a short while. 

She looks at Rook: how she talks nonsense with her only half-perfect child, how young Lucía looks at her mother in awe. That was Caterina five times over, but never in such a loving way. But she remembers their scent, the softness of their skins, and the little sounds they made when they slept. She remembers it all even now when they were dust for almost four decades. Her recollection of their faces is no longer accurate, but yet they haunt her. They are but echoes of memories of a mother she once had been.  

She sits on the stairs of her grand mansion that once housed so much life. The world falls still around her. Her eyes glaze over and she remembers the day, she has spent a lifetime suppressing.

“Caterina,” the messenger says as he approaches. She feels the chair's leather under her hand and the fireplace is blasting heat from its stony gills beside her. Caterina glances at the messenger’s face. Something is wrong. He carries such a familiar tone as if she was suddenly lesser. Nobody below her station dares to call her by her first name– until today. He hands her a parchment and walks away swiftly, as if afraid. 

Caterina unfurls the message and reads it:

“They are all dead. Your children and their children are gone– all but two. House Velardo succeeded.”

Caterina reads the slip of paper a few more times, but the words escape her. It was as if the note was written in an entirely different language, but she recognized the words, they just made no sense whatsoever. 

Her skin suddenly feels cold, but there is no breeze other than the just-opened door. She sits down and places the paper on the table.

“Caterina,” she is being addressed. Her ears are humming and her blood gushes in her ears, blocking all sounds and creating an eerie soundscape. 

“Caterina!” someone tries aggressively to get her attention, and only when the table is being slammed she hears through her haze, “They are all dead!” And then she understands the message. 

House Velardo killed all her five children and eight out of her ten grandchildren. 

She walks in among their bloodied bodies, hearing her own footsteps, but feeling nothing but the cold that refuses to leave her, and smelling the metallic odor of their blood on their clothes.  

Many knives had flashed in the night. They were all taken at once, without any forward warning.

Caterina pictures a clock tower of Treviso hitting midnight and dark shapes moving into their positions to erase the Dellamorte family from existence and succession. They worked so cleanly, but yet imperfectly, as Caterina and two grandchildren survived the night of the synchronized daggers. Her family went down from thirteen and their partners, to just two in one single night, and those boys still slept in their beds without knowing their parents were gone. 

Yesterday, her daughter Lucía embraced young Lucanis in front of Caterina. She had given a kiss on his always messy, dark hair, and the boy's eyes had sparkled out of affection as he looked at his mother. That gentle peck does not exist soon. It will be forgotten, and so will be his mother's love. The only knowledge he will have of her is that her parents died together, but both he and his cousin Illario will be too young to remember their parents, and it will be as if they never existed at all. 

“Caterina, what will we do with the boys?” 

“Bring them to me, The Dellamortes still stand together,” she says, and adds, “what’s left of us.” It was both a question and a statement.

Caterina wishes the final good night to her children. To bring them to this world, she labored. For her, it never became easier, during some she nearly died. The pain in her body as they were born, was sucked out of her the moment they took their first breath, only to be returned to her now, at this moment, when they had taken their last.  She falls to her knees, screaming as her womb that carried them all contracts in pain under the weight of the years they lived. 

Then, in the light of the candles in the hallway of the Dellamorte Villa– the only place large enough to hold them for the last time, she wipes her eyes and decides not to bend. 

She stands up. She clears her mind and from emptiness, conjures her box for memories. She opens it and visualizes the grief as a solid substance. She takes her dead children and grandchildren and locks them within it behind the lock and a key, and swears never to open it again. 

“Caterina,” Rook’s voice pulls her back to the staircase, back to the days of her elder years, bringing her hand back to holding her cane.

Rook helps her up, and Caterina does not resist. She sees Lucía, a child who will live. 

“What happened?” Lucanis comes down holding his wyvern statue in his hands. He gives it quickly to his little daughter and grabs Caterina by the cheeks, checking her eyes, his own full of worry. Caterina notes kindness and care in his. She has always thought of his softness which she tried to eradicate for years, as a weakness, but she now realizes what it truly stands for: Life beyond death.

“I am fine, Lucanis,” she says. “Shall we have coffee?”

“Absolutely, Caterina. Lucía, would you like to go with Nonna?” he says and takes Rook’s hand. Caterina looks at Lucanis smiling gently as he looks at his wife. He might have not felt his mother's love, but Rook has stood by him all these years. Any lesser woman would have left because of the torment Caterina had put her through, but she stayed for him.

Caterina feels the little hand taking hers and realizes that the day she locked her emotions in, all her grandchildren went into her little mental box- including the two that lived. Perhaps it is time to consider letting them out. Before that, she has a question she demands an answer:

“I insist on knowing, unfiltered, why my granddaughter walks as if holding on to two hands,” she sighs. She knows she will not like the answer. 

“Spite!” Lucía exclaims. 

“No. No,” says Caterina. “I will need something stronger.”

@pixiedurango

[redraspberryleaf]

This is relatable, right? This happens to everyone, right??!!!

[lesbians-all-the-way-down]

My life won't be complete until I name the other lead in the historical fiction I've decided I'm going to write.

[chuluoyi]

𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍��� 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

- zayne x reader

he is your husband and you are his wife. but of course you know the bitter truth—you will never be able to replace her.

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—angst, hurt/comfort, unrequited love, drunken sex, mentions of injury, blood, hunter!reader (not l&ds mc -> l&ds mc is zayne's late ex-girlfriend here), spoilers! from zayne’s bond story nostalgic sweetness

note: wc. 8k ! i've been having these bits and pieces scenarios for zayne in mind and then i thought what if i combined it all into one angst joyride? :)) tagging per request: @kissxcore @rjreins @i2s2m @tom-pls-fuck-me @yueyoonie @sanriosatoru

07.15 p.m

Zayne would be getting off work soon. He had just finished an emergency surgery, and it had been exhausting. Now it was quite late.

“Dr. Zayne! Great job today!” Greyson exclaimed, suddenly strolling into his consultation room with a grin. “Want to grab dinner with us?”

Honestly, he was starving too. “Where?”

“Oh, you know, that new place that just opened nearby! They have the tastiest tiramisu, or so I’ve heard. C’mon, we’re inviting the nurses too!”

He knew he needed to head home soon, but fatigue and hunger blurred his thoughts at the mention of dessert.

“Alright.”

. . .

08.25 p.m

Getting together with the hospital staff was always nice. They were rowdy, but it was definitely a great way to unwind after a hard day.

The tiramisu was as great as Greyson said. Speaking of his assistant, he and Yvonne were having a blast. Other doctors were getting drunk. Zayne could only shake his head, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had been here quite a while.

It was only when he turned on his phone and saw the time that he realized, with sinking heart that—

He was supposed to meet you at six.

If you were asked how you felt about your life now, you’d be hard-pressed to say you were completely content.

You were a stellar fighter in the Hunter Association, more than content with your job, and you had a good husband. To some, you had what they would call the perfect life.

The wife of the Dr. Zayne. True, it was a flattering title, yet unbeknownst to everyone, also a humbling one.

And the notion struck you once again when your husband of almost two years stood you up on your dinner date without so much as a notice.

“Miss... we’re about to close now...” The waitress approached your table for at least the third time, and you nodded sheepishly, finally finishing your meal.

You paid for it and left the restaurant. The chilly night air hit your skin, giving you goosebumps as you walked home. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Granted, Zayne had a packed schedule, and you figured he might've had an urgent matter to attend to that he forgot to let you know.

Still... it hurts. Knowing you were not a priority in your husband’s eyes wasn’t a fun feeling.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket the moment you arrived at your shared home. Your husband’s name flashed on your screen. The time now was 08.40 p.m.

“Hello, Zayne?”

“Y/N?” Your husband’s voice sounded frantic. “Are you still at the restaurant? I’m going—”

“Ah, no need to. I’m going home.”

“I’ll pick you up then. Stay there—”

“I’ve already arrived.”

An awkward silence settled between you, and you could clearly hear the noise on the other end. Greyson’s laughter was unmistakable.

You forced a laugh, still trying to sound cheerful for him even when realizing that he had completely forgotten about you. “It’s totally fine, Zayne! Are you heading back?”

“Yeah...”

“Take care then. See you at home.”

You ended the call with a sigh, trying to shake off the sting in your heart. As you made your way upstairs to your bedroom, you passed by a large portrait on the wall, and a bittersweet sensation washed over you.

Your wedding photo. Both of you were smiling on what was the most wonderful day of your life. Zayne’s smile was reserved, but yours was radiant.

It is the most wonderful thing that has happened to you... but is it the same for him?

At that time, despite everything, you were convinced a lifetime of happiness awaited you, yet now... it got harder to fool yourself into believing it.

Your marriage has always been lukewarm.

Zayne wasn’t an overly excited person, and you were his opposite—but try as you might, some things between you just didn’t work out. As a result, both of you tended to keep certain things to yourselves.

Most days, this didn't bother him. He valued his privacy, so the way things were suited him just fine. However, several days later, when Greyson approached him with a worried expression and a news, even Zayne had to draw the line.

“Dr. Zayne? Uh, how do I say this? I think I saw your wife being wheeled in earlier with the injured from the hunt zones raid…”

. . .

“Your husband is a doctor here. Why aren’t you calling him?”

Xavier, your fellow Deepspace Hunter who was partnered with you in this mission, questioned you with a hint of annoyance as he observed your pathetic state on the stretcher and crossed his arms. “Why do you have to bleed out in ER when you can get him?”

You winced, pressing the bloodied cloth against your stinging abdomen as you felt yourself growing faint. “He’s... a surgeon,” you panted. “He’s busy.”

Above all, you didn’t want Zayne to see you like this. You could already imagine his angry face, and that mental image alone made you recoil.

“What sort of husband is busy when his wife is injured?” Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Did you at least notify him?”

You shut your eyes, feeling a migraine coming.

“I will then.”

“No.”

“Y/N, you—”

“Shut up, Xavier—”

The curtain was suddenly pulled back, and you braced yourself for whoever had come to check on you next. To your surprise, the cloth in your hand was snatched away, and you felt your uniform being torn open with urgency.

When you opened your eyes, you barely made out your husband’s figure through your hazy vision. “…Zayne?”

His expression was stern, unforgiving even, as he started to disinfect your wound. Despite the tension, you couldn't deny the relief that washed over you. You knew you were in good hands, even if you had to face his fury later on.

Your consciousness slipped away not long after that.

. . .

The next time you woke up, you found yourself in a private room, with a nagging itch where you had been injured.

You groaned, your limbs stiff and heavy, and the room slowly came into focus—along with your husband's face.

"Zayne?" Your voice came out barely above a whisper. He stood pristine in his white coat and glasses, assessing you with a scrutinizing gaze.

"Your wound is, thankfully, shallow," he said flatly, his tone lacking any real concern. "You'll be discharged tonight. I'll take you home as soon as my shift is over."

"Ah..." You blinked several times to clear your head. "Good then. Sorry for showing up out of nowhere. Xavier and I were on a rescue mission, and I accidentally—"

He walked away before you could finish, the abruptness snapping you fully awake. He was furious, that much was clear.

"Ha ha..." You forced a laugh, fiddling with your fingers, trying to ease the awkward tension between you. "It doesn't hurt much, actually. You're right—I'm fine..."

Zayne shot you a sharp glance. "You passed out due to blood loss."

"This isn't the first time it has happened and nor will it be—"

"And it didn't even occur to you to inform me at all. I found out that my own wife was wounded because Greyson passed by the ER and saw you."

His words left you silent, caught red-handed, but your annoyance was reaching its limit. You had imagined how nice it would be if he panicked about you, showering you with care when he found out. But instead, Zayne chose to rebuke you the moment you woke up.

“I’m not a child,” you reasoned, keeping yourself calm. “I’m a hunter. This is nothing new, and you should understand that.”

“The least you could’ve done is to tell me—“

“Do you know why I didn’t? It’s because I know how you’ll react!”

“—and it would do you better to prioritize your safety and not rush headfirst into danger.”

“Believe me, I do but—!”

Suddenly, Zayne spun around to face you, his eyes blazing with fury as he raised his voice. “I’ve told you so many times already, you have to stay back, or you’ll end up—!”

He stopped abruptly, leaving his sentence hanging in the air, but right at that moment, you knew all too well who he meant, and what the implication was.

His, without a doubt, greatest love. His childhood friend, a hunter like yourself, someone he had vowed to save but succumbed to her illness before he could do so, died on arrival.

The irony was sharp. You had become everything she once was. You knew her well, too. When she passed, the entire Hunter Association mourned her loss. And more than that, on the night she died, you had been with him.

Looking back, you should have seen it coming. Still, it hit you like a splash of cold water. Your husband was still preoccupied with thoughts of his ex-girlfriend, and worse yet, he saw pieces of her in you.

And you suspected he had for a while—perhaps even, from the very beginning.

For a second there, not for the first time, you felt your heart shatter.

“I don’t have Protocore syndrome,” you stated, steeling yourself against the heartbreak. “My heart won't suddenly fail because I get injured. I’m not that weak.”

You turned away as Zayne refused to respond, missing his look of disdain as he stormed out of the room.

That was when your first tear fell.

Right from the start, you knew you had to brace yourself for this. You knew that eventually, this tragedy would overshadow your marriage. Because while Zayne might be your husband by law, deep down, his heart still belonged to someone else.

To her.

You two are too much alike.

It wasn’t the first time he had noticed it. And it wouldn’t be the last.

On bad mornings, when his eyes were bleary and he hadn't had a good sleep, he would see her instead of you in your shared bed. And with that mistaken sight came a fleeting sense of relief... until his vision cleared and he remembered she was truly gone and it was you.

Zayne knew how wrong this was on so many levels. It was terribly unfair to you.

Still, his concern for you was genuine. Seeing you lying still on the stretcher brought back that very same nightmare, and really, he truly never wanted you to be hurt.

After his outburst and your clipped response, the two of you barely exchanged any words for the rest of the week. To make matters worse, he was sent on a business trip the following week, and all in all, you went two weeks hardly speaking to each other.

And before he knew it, her death anniversary was only a couple of days away.

. . .

"How much is this?"

"Ah, the bow is 50,000 Gold, sir!"

Inside the airport's souvenir shop, Zayne examined the intricate light blue and white bow clip. Made of tweed and adorned with small pearls, it looked nice.

He thought it'd suit you well.

"I'll get this then."

"Right away!"

As the clerk went to wrap the trinket, Zayne reflected on these past two weeks. A nagging feeling twisted in his gut as he thought about how curt he had been with you in text messages and how often you had left him on read.

Husband and wife shouldn't be this way. He wanted the unbearable air between you to end. Determined to resolve things, he planned to talk to you when he returned. He was on his way to the airport taxi when—

"Zayne!" He stopped in his tracks, recognizing the familiar voice, and turned around.

There you were, waiting by his car with a smile.

It was never in you to stay angry for long. It was a blessing and a curse, really, because while you no longer wished to give your husband silent treatment, a part of you still felt conflicted.

"How was your trip?" you asked as you started the engine, pushing the events of the past two weeks to the back of your mind.

Zayne didn't immediately answer, and you felt his gaze on you as you drove the car. "It was okay."

You hummed in acknowledgement, and he followed up with, "How is your wound? Do you dress it daily?"

"Mm-hm. It's getting better."

"I'll have a look at it later."

"Sure."

Silence. Usually you would ramble to distract him, but now, even you weren’t sure if you should.

Then, he said, "You really didn’t have to pick me up. I could have made my way home on my own."

To that, you pasted on a smile. “You always pick me up whenever I have to go on business trips. It’s only fair I do the same for you, husband.”

Ah. Was it the wrong move? The word had slipped out so easily that you didn’t realize it until after you said it.

But to your surprise, Zayne let out a chuckle and played along. "Well, thank you then, wife. It certainly felt quite off without a certain someone the past week."

So, he actually likes having you around...? The thought made you almost giddy. Despite his usual taciturn and sarcastic demeanor, you knew he was genuine in his own way.

"Bet you missed me," you teased, grinning.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Are you sure it's not the other way around?"

"Nope. But I did miss getting new snowmen."

"...why do you like them so much? I've made plenty for you already."

"No particular reason. Snowman just kinda reminds me of you somehow."

The tension between you had melted away, and you felt a sense of relief. Beside you, even Zayne couldn’t hide his smile. For the rest of the drive home, you chatted like you used to.

When you arrived back at your shared home, he suddenly stopped and presented you with a little box. "I got you something."

"Huh?" you paused, bewildered, as he took your hand and placed the box in it.

"Open it."

With curiosity, you lifted the lid, and were surprised at the sight of a pretty bow clip inside. "Whoa, how cute..."

Zayne eyed you expectantly. "Do you like it?"

Your eyes lit up with delight, and a smile spread across your lips.

"Yes!" you beamed at him with zero hesitation, and in that moment, something struck a chord within him. Zayne had always thought you were easy on the eyes—

—but when you smiled like that, you were truly charming.

"It's healing nicely."

You felt somewhat self-conscious as your husband examined your bare abdomen, where your injury was, as you lied on your bed. His hands, cool and practiced, tenderly removed your stitches.

It wasn't as if Zayne had never touched you. You two had been married for almost two years, and of course you had been intimate several times, but it wasn't as if you were a passionate couple to begin with—so you often found yourself flustered.

"Mm." Despite yourself, you squirmed. Noticing this, he looked up at you, his unfazed eyes meeting yours with a frown.

"Does it still hurt?"

"No, not really... It just feels as if you're tickling me."

He was positively unamused. "I'm not trying to tickle you."

"I know!"

Zayne wrapped your midsection securely with the bandage. When he was done, he let out a sigh and you felt like you had to show him your gratitude somehow.

“Thank you, Zayne…” you mumbled, avoiding eye contact. But in the next second, your heart skipped a beat as his hand rested gently on your head.

"You can thank me by being more careful next time." Your husband looked at you with the smallest of smile. "Your safety comes first, always remember that."

Without either of you realizing it, you both had tried to bury that argument from two weeks ago, yet it was still gnawing at you all the same. The thought that he too was bothered with it made you warm.

"Noted," you cheekily grinned. "If I'm not safe and sound, a certain iceman will get angry at me."

Zayne shot you an unimpressed look. “If you come to me injured again, I’ll start charging you fees.”

You let out a dramatic gasp. "How stingy! I'm your wife, not just some stranger!"

"A very uncooperative wife, you are."

You huffed, and he chuckled. You really thought all was well between you two now, until Zayne suddenly stood up and grabbed the car keys. “Well then, rest. I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to stop by the florist—”

And it hit you. In two days. The day everything ended three years ago.

Zayne seemed to realize it too, but you quickly masked your falling smile with a faux one. "O-oh, right..."

No matter how, it's still going to be an important day to him. You had nothing against it, really. Your husband's late girlfriend had once been your colleague too, and you mourned her just like everyone else did.

Still, even with that understanding, in your heart of hearts, it remains just as bitter.

You didn't want to, but you needed to find closure. You hoped that by doing this, it would finally put an end to all your insecurities.

"Let's go together, Zayne. I want to pay her a visit too."

Two days later, you and Zayne, a bouquet of flowers in hand, stood before the grave bearing many colorful flowers and postcards.

You supposed you knew already, but seeing it firsthand, you realized just how deeply she was loved still. The outpouring of respect from the Hunter Association was evident in the tribute left behind.

"It's been a while," Zayne, dressed in his most formal black suit, said solemnly, his gaze fixed on the name etched into the pristine stone.

You watched as he knelt to place his flowers and then brought his hands together in prayer. You followed his lead, placing your own bouquet beside his.

What should you even say to her? Your mind raced with countless thoughts, but none felt right to voice before the woman who had so deeply captured your husband's heart.

In the end, when you sensed that Zayne had finished with his prayer, you decided to remain silent and rose with him.

. . .

“Does it get easier?” you asked out of curiosity afterwards. “Three years has passed already.”

Although Zayne wasn’t one for drinking, even the need won today. He didn’t meet your eyes as he sipped his wine, humming thoughtfully. “Somewhat. As they say, time heals.”

You two stopped by a fine restaurant after visiting the grave. The cemetery had been a two-hour drive from Linkon City, and now it was already evening.

“She loved jasmines,” you remarked, recalling the pot of them you once saw on her desk and the flowers overflowing at the grave earlier.

“She did.” The alcohol seemed to loosen his tongue as he continued, “She loved old popsicles and macarons too.”

“And you like them as well.”

“To be honest, I started liking them back when we were kids…” Zayne had this pained, faraway look in his eyes as he had another sip. “She cried over her melted popsicle and it got me to wonder if it was really that tasty...”

The idea that you had to compete with a dead woman for your husband’s affection left a bitter taste in your mouth. You felt like you had failed thoroughly as a wife.

Despite hating yourself for asking, you needed to know. “Do I help you… in any way at all?”

Zayne was clearly taken aback by the question. His sharp, gray eyes locked onto you, mind whirred as he tried to grasp your meaning.

“Y/N, you...”

It was foolish, you knew. But you waited with bated breath for his response, even when one wrong word could shatter your heart beyond repair. You were ready for any sort of unfavorable answer, but then—

“I... am glad it is you.”

His words made you look up, and you found yourself caught in his gaze. Zayne’s ashen eyes were steady, piercing into you.

“You were there on the hardest days. And ever since, you’ve always stayed by my side.” He held your gaze firmly, voice was thick with emotion you couldn’t quite name. “I’m grateful for that.”

And then, with a sincerity that pierced through every uncertainty, he added, “What I want to say is... I’m glad I married you, Y/N.”

You have loved him for so long. Since the days when you know he isn’t yours to love, until now.

Your heart swelled with so much warmth that tears brimmed in your eyes. His acknowledgment of your presence filled you with a profound sense of belonging you never knew you needed before.

Was it the alcohol?

You suspected it might be, because in nearly two years of marriage, Zayne had never lost his control like this. As soon as the bedroom door was shut, he pushed you against the wall and devoured your lips hungrily.

“Mmph!” His hands gripped your arms while his lips and tongue pried yours open. The kiss was searing, almost forceful, with the faint bitterness of wine still lingering.

“Zay…ne…” you gasped between his kisses—teary, breathless, your voice trembling.

But your breathy grunts only seemed to spur him on. His dark eyes, clouded with lust, fixed on you as his hands slipped beneath your blouse, deftly unclasping your bra with a flick.

He is hot. Your husband was everything a woman desired in a man. Cool, handsome, blessed with hands that could do wonders—

In no time, he had you naked and wet before him, and with alarming speed, he too discarded his own suit and pants, throwing them away in flurry. And you could hardly believe what you were seeing next.

He spitted on his hand, ran it along his member—stroking himself with a practiced ease, never breaking eye contact with you. The next thing you knew, he yanked you into another burning kiss and made you topple on top of him—

“Ah!” his hands guided your hips with precision, positioning you and entering you. The instant he did, you whimpered at the sudden, sharp sting of pain.

“Does it hurt?” he asked almost in a growl when you clung to his shoulder with uneven breaths.

It was too sudden, and you hoped the discomfort would pass, so you timidly shook your head.

“If you don’t want this, tell me to stop.” Zayne tangled his fingers in your hair, turning your face to his. “Understand?”

There was always a distinct, almost commanding aura about him whenever the two of you were in your marital bed. Perhaps the way his voice sound lower, but it just hit different.

And you are a willing prey... whenever he becomes that beast.

He inched inside you slowly, making you moan with each instance. He was thick, warm, and taking him in was a challenge in itself. And when he finally sheathed himself fully, your nails had made its first scratch on his skin.

You felt full, and the way your womanhood stretched and clenched around him with each breathe you took made you dizzy. Panting, you finally met his gaze. Zayne’s gray-hazel eyes were still clouded with desire as he placed his hands firmly on your hips. Unable to resist, you reached out to caress his face.

"Hmm..." he subconsciously leaned into your touch, pressing his eyes shut together. "You smell nice," he huskily muttered.

Right this moment, all negative thoughts eluded you. It felt gratifying that your husband sought your touch like this as you towered over him.

And yet, despite that...

“Do you... finally see me now?” you asked, trailing your other hand down his toned chest and starting to grind against him. Zayne drew in a sharp breath and groaned, his fingers gripping your bum tighter.

Depending on his response, you would either find peace or face another heartbreak. You had placed your happiness on this pedestal more times than you could count, and it was a cross you had to bear.

But you never received your answer.

Your husband merely gazed up at you with a dangerous gleam. And oh, you could've sworn, this sight of Zayne eyeing you as if he were about to ruin you right then and there, would live-free in your mind for many days to come.

He then buried his face in your bosom, sucking on you with such fervor that your hands instinctively reached for his head to massage his scalp. The room was soon filled with your erotic groans and the squelching sounds from where your flesh were joined together— as he thrusted inside you over and over.

Right in this moment, you felt truly desired and wanted.

You are so happy. Incomparably so.

At the crack of dawn, Zayne woke with a start.

The first thing he noticed was how spent he felt, his limbs stiff and a throbbing headache pulsing at the back of his head.

Then he turned to his side, and the sight that met him twisted his gut in such a way that snapped him fully awake—

You were beside him, barely dressed and still deeply asleep. Your hair was a mess, and love bites were scattered across your skin, some on your chest looking almost like bruises.

It dawned on him that he, too, wasn’t decent. A sudden coldness gripped him, though it wasn’t just the morning air.

Him and you... last night...

Yesterday marked the third year. He meant everything he said to you, but the fact that he did this, with you, on the day of her death...

There was... nothing wrong with what he had done. You were his wife, no one could condone him for what he instigated. Yet, it still made him shiver.

And to make it worse, his thoughts from last night echoed back with vengeance, and—

He suddenly feels so immensely guilty.

. . .

It was the best sleep you’d had all week.

When you woke, sunlight had seeped through the window, and you discovered yourself already in pajamas, tucked snugly under a blanket. Still groggy with a dull ache in your lower belly, you relished the lingering afterglow, sighing in pure contentment, until you noticed Zayne wasn’t beside you.

Where did he go? You wondered amidst your haze. Sluggish, you stumbled out of the bed, flinching when your foot met the cold floor.

You eventually found him downstairs, sipping coffee at the dining table still with messy hair. "Zayne?"

He glanced up at you and nodded. There was something different about him, a subtle shift you couldn’t quite place. As you took a seat across from him, you hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Before you could find the right words though, he spoke first.

"I'm... sorry," he said, his tone laced with regret, causing a sharp pang of unease inside you.

"What?" you stared at him, feeling small and unsettled. "What are you sorry for?" you questioned as you gripped the hem of your shirt.

And then came the killing blow—

"Last night," Zayne muttered, avoiding your gaze. "I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. It was a mistake."

Mistake. The word echoed in your mind, but it was still hard to grasp its full weight.

"How was that—" you faltered, trembling, as the realization hit you like a truck and you gasped in disbelief. "Oh..."

Her. Again, and again, and again! Even when he was married to you, even when you were the one next to him each and everyday— even so!

Your husband considers that a night spent with you—his wife—a mistake!

The last of your patience snapped, as you broke down in sobs before him. "You're the worst!" you screamed at him amidst your mournful tears.

Zayne seemed taken aback at your outburst, his eyes wide. "Y/N, wait, you don't—"

"Screw you!" But you were beyond explanations at this point. You fled back to your bedroom. Zayne followed you suit, but you slammed the door in his face and locked it. As you collapsed onto the floor, the realization hit you with full force.

No matter what you did, you would always come second—or not at all.

The fracture in your marriage was undeniable.

Things had changed. Your home felt colder, and the tension was so stifling that you sometimes spent the night at the Hunter Association’s dorm just to escape it.

Zayne initially tried to reach out, but you were unwilling to listen, and eventually, he gave up. Before long, nearly a month had passed with this strain in the air.

You threw yourself into more rescue operations, using work as a distraction from the turmoil that lingered in your mind. Despite your best efforts to distract yourself, the unresolved thoughts and feelings clung to you.

"Xavier, am I lacking as a woman?"

Your frequent partner these days cracked open an eye despite his attempt to nap before today’s rescue mission. "What...?"

"No, forget it."

Things couldn't go like this forever. It was obvious by now—as long as he couldn’t let go of his past and you couldn’t accept him as he was, this marriage couldn't be saved.

Just as you headed towards the printer in the room, Xavier responded. "You talk a lot, eat a lot, and always bothering me when I'm about to sleep..."

You shot him an irked glance, disbelief evident on your face. "Hey!"

"But—" his clear voice cut through the air as he turned to you with half-lidded eyes. "You're exceptionally kind. If anyone can't appreciate that, then it's their loss."

At that moment, the ice inside your chest melted. To know that your own co-worker thought that kindly of you gave you a little boost of confidence.

But then Xavier added, "Sometimes you're stupid too. It's funny to watch."

"—?! You're so mean!"

A subtle smile curved on his lips as he turned to his side, ready to resume his nap. "Anyway, what are you printing?"

You feigned a huff as you gathered the papers and brought them to your desk. "Just something I need to submit when necessary."

A part of you wasn’t fully committed to it, of course—it was just that your emotions had no proper outlet even until now. As you pushed the drawer shut, a wave of bitterness washed over you as you reread the title on the blank form:

Petition for Divorce.

Zayne genuinely wanted to treat you well.

You were a nice girl. Too nice even. From the moment he laid his eyes on you some years ago, as a friend of a friend, he knew you were nothing but kind and cheery.

He still remembered that morning vividly: the hurt on your face, the tears welling up in your eyes, and then you breaking into inconsolable sobs. That sight inflicted something in him—it felt as though his own heart had been split in two.

Believe it or not, he cherished you too.

That night, even though he didn’t show it, he was still mourning her. When alcohol took over his mind and he saw you, you seemed like a perfect escape. He thought that even if he forced himself on you, there would be no consequences.

He hated that he had thought that way. He hated that how, in the end, you had become a means of relief for him.

Now you couldn't even look him in the eye, and Zayne didn't want to risk trying to coax you further. You were angry with him and rightly so, but when you ignored him and went home late more often, he was worried.

It was what drove him to volunteer for the rescue mission. When he saw your name on the hunter list, he felt compelled to make sure you were okay.

. . .

It was strange to see you on duty.

With your hunter uniform and your hair tied up, you were the picture of a very capable hunter. Zayne found himself unexpectedly following your movements as you came and went.

"Dr. Zayne, are you checking your wife out?" the EMT next to him teased with a grin. "Well, when you have a pretty wife such as Y/N, of course..."

He cleared his throat and the EMT giggled as he sauntered away.

So, you were also considered attractive here. Of course you were. Zayne knew it, but he just didn't expect that anyone here would blurt it out so openly.

But that wasn't the most surprising of all—

"Xavier, shush!" you playfully punched the blonde man next to you in the chest, your broad smile lighting up the moment. The two of you whispered closely, and Zayne found himself feeling uncomfortable, like being prickled by several needles.

He has never made you laugh so openly like that. The nagging feeling inside him grew stronger as he watched you—even if it was just in a platonic sense—with another man. It stirred something within him, making him want to pull that blonde aside, give him a word or two, and overthrow him altogether.

Amidst the growing storm inside him, you suddenly turned sideways and caught his eye, and Zayne could've sworn... he felt time stopped at that moment.

It was so candid that it took his breath away. The way your earnest, unclouded eyes met his. How natural you were while loading your gun...

Ah, they were right. His wife was exceptionally pretty.

But before he could fully appreciate it, you broke the eye contact and turned away, pretending as if you hadn’t seen him at all.

Zayne wondered then, why did he feel so hurt all of a sudden?

Battlefields were always a place of chaos, and Zayne was no stranger to it.

He was on standby at the makeshift hospital as patients surged in, continuously aiding first-aid. Some were hunters on duty, and his heart was in his throat the entire time, anxiously hoping you wouldn’t be among them.

"Doc... it still hurts," a little girl sniffled right after Zayne wrapped her injured arm with the gauze. Despite the anxiety, seeing this tearful girl softened his frown.

"It's just going to take a while, hmm?" he patted the kid in the head. "It's going to be better soon enough."

"My mom is still inside..." she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "Doc, will they get her out?"

Zayne hesitated, his thoughts briefly drifting to you. He managed a reassuring smile. "Don’t worry, they’ll—"

Crash! —all of a sudden, a loud explosion shook the hospital, the sound echoing through the chaos. The little girl clung to his coat in fear.

"Call for retreat!" someone suddenly shouted from outside. "Alert all personnel immediately!"

Retreat. The thought that you might be safe soon brought him a sense of relief. He turned to the girl, trying to keep his composure.

"Look, the hunters are retreating, it means most are already evacuated." Zayne managed a reassuring smile. "Stay here. I'll help you find her later, okay?"

He went to the survivors' camp outside, attending to the wounded and keeping a vigilant eye on each returning hunter. Even until 30 minutes later, he still hadn't seen you. Thinking to contact you, he reached out for his phone.

"Who hasn't gotten out?" Jenna, your team leader, demanded the receiver with a stern voice, standing tall several feet away from the camp, and Zayne overheard the snippets of her conversation.

A frantic voice responded, "Xavier is still inside! Y/N too!"

"Those two! They are always—!"

What?

Zayne almost dropped his phone when he heard your name. Terror gripped him instantly, and then suddenly, again, it was his greatest nightmare realized.

You are still inside. You could be hurt. It was possible you had no means to get out of there.

He didn’t register letting go of his coat or crossing the police line—all that mattered was getting to you. He sprinted away, ignoring the shouts of those trying to stop him.

No. Not again!

Debris flew everywhere, and the roars of Wanderers grew louder as he neared the building wreckage. As a splinter was about to hit him, ice shot through his palms, creating a barrier that shattered it.

"Y/N!" he shouted your name, his voice cracking with panic. "Where are you?!"

All he could think about was the memory of you bleeding out in the ER. Zayne never wanted to see that again. Should anything happen to you now...

He didn't want you to be hurt. He hated seeing you cry. For the past weeks, it had torn him apart to see you so unhappy. He wanted to be the one who made you smile, the one you looked at with love.

The realization washed over him like a tidal wave. Yet it wasn’t an epiphany but a simple truth he had always known but never fully grasped until now.

If he lost you now, it'd destroy him.

He continued screaming your name over and over. And then, after turning several turns, he finally saw you, standing alone in the middle of the wreckage—

You turned to him in surprise when you heard your name in his shout, and were rooted to the spot, in disbelief that your husband was right before you.

Zayne felt a wave of relief wash over him, until a hollow croak from above caught his attention. He squinted—

A glass panel had crumbled and was falling directly towards you.

A sense of dread so great overwhelmed him, a lump formed in his throat, and the smoke made it hard to breathe. He sprinted forward, and with everything he had, he pushed you out the way.

The next thing he knew, everything went pitch black.

"Zayne? Zayne!"

A memory flashed in his mind's eye. The one memory he wished he didn't have to relive ever again.

Sitting on the deserted hospital bench, his eyes were vacant. Utter hollowness choked him, leaving him motionless. It was over. There was no blood on his hands, yet it felt as if there were.

Your grip on his shoulder was tight, shaking him. "Zayne, snap out of it!" and only then he brought himself to meet your eyes.

"She died." That was the only thing he could mutter, pain woven in each word. "She really died."

Your eyes widened in horror, an inaudible gasp left your lips. "Oh..."

He didn't really know what happened next, but he remembered the warmth from when you pulled him to your arms, when sobs wracked his body as he thought the world was ending.

Since then, you have always been there.

And subconsciously, he may have regarded you as his lifeline.

. . .

Another memory.

"Are you awake...?"

His mind was hazy, but he recognized your voice. He blearily opened his eyes to find you placing a cool compress on his forehead.

"Who would have thought the great Dr. Zayne can get a fever?" you said with a soft laugh, patting his hair. "Don’t worry about me. Go back to sleep."

You came to see him. He remembered telling you not to. But you still did, and the fact thawed the ice in his heart.

Just as you were about to leave, his hand reached out and pulled you closer. "Don’t go."

"Are you trying to make me catch your cold too?" you teased with a soft laugh.

"Hmph. Who told you to come here...?"

"Ah, so you're whiny when you're not feeling well," you observed with a smile. "Okay, I'll stay! But only if you agree to nurse me if I catch your cold!"

You were noisy, but endearingly so.

. . .

"Don't pay her any mind," you fidgeted on your seat, a frown on your face. "My mom always does that."

There was never any talk about the nature your relationship between the two of you, but it was clear to everyone nevertheless. You were always around him, and he seemed to enjoy your company just as much.

And not for the first time, your mother pushed him towards marriage with you.

"People are always getting the wrong idea," you grumbled. "Sorry, Zayne..." you lowered your head, seemingly in regret.

He was puzzled, because to him, it wasn't necessarily false. All things you did together lead to this.

"What if it isn't a wrong idea at all?"

You looked at him with slight surprise. "Huh...?"

Your presence was a gift. That tragedy was devastating, but having you constantly by his side made it bearable. He was fond of you, and the thought that if it's you, then surely...

In this memory, he was more sure than ever. What he said then, it came from the truest place in his heart.

"What if I told you... as of right now, I can't imagine being with anyone but you?"

The side of his head was throbbing with pain. Everything hurt, the hard asphalt was bruising his face as the headache set in. He could smell the scent of blood and sweat, but more than that—

"Zayne! Ah, hah— Please, please! No!"

Your voice, choked with tears, blared in his ears as you desperately shook him. You sounded so heartbroken, so utterly panicked, and your voice gradually pulled him back to consciousness.

Opening his eyes took tremendous effort. At first, everything was a blur, but then it came into focus—the sight of you disheveled, smeared with soot, with tears streaming down your face. But still you— the woman he had married two years ago.

Yet his heart lurched. You're crying again... why is it that whenever with me, you're always crying?

"Are you... alright?" he rasped, lifting his hand to touch your face.

"Why did you—" You were startled by his question, your gaze fixed on the blood pooling on the side of his face. "Your head is bleeding!"

Ah, so you're fine. The sheer knowledge brought him relief, a faint smile forming at his lips. "I'm glad..."

"I'll help you get back! Hold onto me—" you said after brushing away your tears, lifting him up and draping his arm around your shoulder. "Can you walk?"

"I'm... fine..."

"You're not!" you refuted harshly, voice trembling. "You have to go back!"

You made him lean on you as you made your way back to the makeshift hospital, each step accompanied by your sniffles as you supported his waist.

Zayne glanced at you, feeling a warmth in his chest despite the migraine. "D-Don't cry... I'll be fine."

"You're an idiot!" you choked out, struggling to hold back your tears. "Why did you even come out here?"

"I... have to find you. They said you haven't returned."

"There are still civilians inside! I'll return eventually!"

"I can’t wait for that. I... have to know you're safe."

His response only fueled your frustration. "You don't have to—!"

"You are my wife—" he snapped, turning to you sharply, his eyes flashing with anger. "How can I not worry— for you?"

The forceful tone in his voice went straight to the most tender part of your heart. It really struck you at that moment that he had come out here for you, that his concern for you was that profound.

And that after all these weeks, he still keeps you in his thoughts.

He had pushed you out of the way, even at the cost of himself, barely missing the fallen billboard in that violent crash. If he was in the wrong position, he could've lost his life.

You stared at him, tears glossing your eyes.

"That's enough... Don't cry again." Zayne reached out to wipe your cheeks. His hands, however, were smeared with his own blood, leaving streaks on your face. "Ah... I got blood on you..."

But in that moment, you couldn’t care less. There was this indescribable sting of grief, but also paired with a sense of relief so great in your chest the very second you realize that now, he sees you.

You threw yourself into his arms, hugging him tightly as you sobbed, calling out to him in broken voice. “Z-Zayne...!”

“Why are you crying again...?” he let out a resigned sigh, but still embraced you regardless. “What a crybaby...”

You buried your face deeper into him, shaking uncontrollably. “You... saved me...” you managed to say amidst torrent of tears. “Y-You... got hurt...”

“I’ll be fine,” he retorted in your ear albeit in a hoarse voice, holding you close, even as blood trickled down the side of his face. “And I’d do it again. I refuse to see you hurt.”

You cried harder, and he pulled you tighter, his chest aching at the sight of you so inconsolable. And in that moment, he made the decision right then and there.

He will protect you so long as time will allow him to.

It was as if the invisible wall between you had crumbled to dust after that incident. You stayed by Zayne's side night and day, monitoring his condition.

And one night, several days later...

"Here, don't move..."

You carefully dressed the wound on Zayne's temple, sitting close beside him. He quietly observed your worried eyes and trembling fingers without a word.

"You even need stitches..." you lamented, biting your lip as you wrapped the bandage around his head. Tears pricked your eyes, overwhelmed by the concern you were pouring into the task.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine," he gruffly insisted in an attempt to erase your mournful expression. He felt the delicate, almost hesitant touch of your fingers on his face. "It'll heal with time."

Even as he said that, a part of you was still troubled at the sight of the wound on his head and cheekbone. No matter what he said, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow your fault.

"I'm done. Now go rest," you said softly, your voice tinged with bitterness after tying the gauze. You rose to put the kit away, but even after you finished, Zayne remained upright on the bed, so you leveled a frown at him.

"What, why aren't you— Ah!"

Before you knew it, he pulled you by the arm, and you tumbled into his chest in surprise. "What are you doing?!" you yelled at him, clinging to his shoulder and looking up at him with ire. "You could've hit your head!"

He looked down at you with a flat expression, or is that a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes? “Can't a husband cuddle his wife?”

You blinked dumbly, caught off-guard. “Yes, you can, but...”

His arms then enveloped you, fitting you on his chest and he sighed against your hair. “Then there’s nothing wrong with it. Let’s just stay like this for now.”

And so, that was how he decided to sleep throughout the night—with you on top of him, held close. You felt self-conscious as Zayne had never initiated this closeness with you since that night.

"Are you sure you want to sleep this way?" you wriggled a bit in his grasp.

He draped an arm around your waist, pressing his eyes shut. "Mm-hm."

"You..." A part of you recoiled at the vulnerability but decided to ask anyway. "Won't this be… a mistake...?"

That caught his attention, as Zayne's eyes fluttered open. He looked down at you, who avoided his gaze with a pout and a torn expression, making yourself small in his embrace.

It dawned on him then that this persisting issue in your marriage was thoroughly his fault. His past was something he could never—and would never—trade for anything, but right now, you were that sense of peace that grounded him.

At one point, he has to let it go. These feelings inside him… they drive him to.

He softened, his gaze full of understanding as he gently brushed your hair back. "No," he said quietly, his voice tender. "We’ve come too far for it to be one."

Your clear, innocent eyes reluctantly met his, and at that moment something akin to clarity resonated within him.

He once thought nothing could ever mend the hollowness in his heart. And once, he indeed hoped that being with you would provide some form of relief or replace what he had lost.

But right now, feeling how vulnerable you were in his arms like this, he understood that you were not, and could never be, a replacement for anything else. Even before he realized it himself, what he felt for you was something entirely different— something dear that had grown and evolved into a genuine affection different from what he had felt for anyone else before.

Those times spent with you, wanting to protect you... Now that he reflected on it, it was never about filling a void, after all.

“I... want to treasure you better.”

Oh. Your heart thumped loudly as those words left his lips, warmth spreading through your entire being. Overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice, you clung to his chest, feeling a surge of love and a profound sense of being freed from the chains of insecurity that had taken you hostage all these years.

Most precious. Zayne smiled at you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“This time for sure... I will.”

And at last... he could say it without any lingering guilt.

[charmedimsure]

We're Okay

pairing: Kang Dae-ho x f!reader

summary: Things go wrong during the third game

word count: 2.1k

warnings: mingle game, character death, blood, squid game stuff

A/N: this man is the only thing in my head rn. posted this before when tags weren't updating so reposting now. also this is only sorta proofread so if you see any mistakes no you didn't <3 **this is sorta a p2 to "a welcome distraction" but can be read as standalone**

We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round

The platform stops turning suddenly, and you grab onto Dae-ho to stop yourself from falling over.

"Eleven"

You and Dae-ho lock eyes for a split second before you both start looking around for more players. Together you were six, meaning you needed four more.

Gi-hun turns to a player behind him. "How many are you?"

"Four," the woman replies.

"That makes us ten!" Jung-bae whimpers.

A man from another group comes running over. "Are you five? We need five!"

Before any of you can answer, another player yells back. "We have five people! Come with us!"

The two groups go running off towards a door.

"We have to hurry!" Gi-hun says.

"There's no time, Gi-hun!" Young-il tells him.

"We need one more!" the tall woman yells. She spots someone by herself near the center of the platform and grabs her. "We have eleven now!"

"To the green door over there! Hurry!" Young-il yells, already running off in the direction of the door.

Before you know what's happening, Dae-ho grabs you and pulls you along after him. You rush after him into the room, pushing yourself against the wall to make room for everyone else to get inside. You look up at the man next to you before turning your head towards the beeping sound coming from the back of the room. The clock runs out, and the lock clicks on the door.

You breathe out a sigh of relief that you made it in time, but jump and yelp when you hear the screams coming from outside the door, along with the gunshots. Looking towards the door, you watch Gi-hun's reactions as he watches the people outside. The sounds of gunshots are soon replaced with the sounds of the forklifts coming in with the coffins.

Your heart begins to race. If Dae-ho had not taken you back to his friends and added you to his team, you surely would be one of those bodies out there. You look up at Dae-ho to see him already looking down at you. He saved your life.

Dae-ho looks you over to make sure you're okay before you both look around at the others in the room with you. You smile a bit when you see the nice lady and her son with you, as well as players 120 and 095. You had watched them during the six-legged race and watching them cross the finish line had filled you with hope that you could do it too.

"You're alive thanks to me!" a voice yells from inside your room, making you and everyone else jump. You turn and see the creepy lady standing in the middle of the green room, looking you all over one by one. She speaks to Gi-hun, making everyone look at each other with a mix of fear and confusion. This lady doesn't seem to understand that it is not the time for this.

The eliminated players are announced and you are let out of the rooms. The floors are already covered in blood. Red is splattered all over the walls as a morbid reminder of what will happen to you if you lose.

Everyone steps onto the platform and it starts moving again as the music starts up. Looking around, you see that weird purple-haired guy and his friend dancing together. You don't know whether to smile that people can find happiness even in a moment like this, or to be horrified that they can dance in the blood of all those people.

The platform stops again and you are shot back into the game.

"Four"

Your team looks around at each other. Just as you're about to volunteer to find others, Young-il and Jung-bae separate, shouting about needing two more people.

The rest of you run towards an open room with a purple door, taking deep breaths. Gi-hun keeps the door open and looks outside to make sure that the others found another room in time. Right before time runs out, Dae-ho pulls Gi-hun into the room and closes the door, hearing the lock turn immediately after.

The room is tense with none of you knowing whether your friends made it in time. You look at Dae-ho, seeing the worry on his face, and gently take his hand. He looks towards you and squeezes your hand, not letting go even when the doors unlock and you are let out.

Dae-ho starts yelling for Young-il and Jung-bae before a voice calling Gi-hun's name grabs your attention. You look over with relief to see that both of them are alive.

Young-il turns to Jun-hee, asking her if she is alright.

"Wait a minute," Young-il says, "if the next number is seven, we won't need anyone else, will we?"

You all smile as you understand what he's saying, and Jun-hee holds her swelling stomach, a warm smile on her face.

The number for the next round is three, making it easy for your team to split up into two groups and get into rooms with time to spare. You nearly cry as the mother and son are reunited after the round ends, and Dae-ho pulls you towards him, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and rubbing his hand up and down your arm.

Your team grows after that, quietly adding the old lady and her son and players 120 and 095.

The platform starts to spin again as the next round starts.

"I hate this fucking song," you mumble under your breath.

The platform stops as the voice announces the next group size.

"Seven"

"Two men and five women! Go!" Gi-hun yells to the team.

"Which two men?" Jung-bae asks.

"I'm going with my mom!" Yong-sik says, holding onto his mother tightly.

Dae-ho holds up your joined hands. "I'm coming." You're dragged in the direction of the group as you run along. Dae-ho opens an orange door, but stops seeing that it's full.

The old man from before pushes Dae-ho out of the doorway before shutting the door. You keep Dae-ho from falling and instead pull him in the direction of an open room that player 120 found. As you run, you can hear the voice counting down. You make it with just a few seconds to spare.

You sigh in relief, but freeze once you turn around. Instead of two men and five women, the room contains two men and four women. Player 120 is standing near the door, ready to run outside when a man pushes her into the room and closes the door just in time for them to lock.

The crying eyes of player 095 look through the slot in the door.

"Young-mi!" Player 120 screams, running towards the door and desperately trying to open it.

The girl outside continues crying until a gunshot is heard and she slides down the door.

Player 120 screams as the woman cries with her son over their lost friend. Dae-ho pulls you close to him as player 120 starts screaming at the man who came in. As sad as his is to see the girl die, he's relieved that it wasn't you out there looking at him through the slot.

The doors unlock and you walk out silently. The others smile when they find you, but immediately notice the missing girl and frown. Without a word, you all step up onto the platform once more as the voice announces that this will be the last round and the music starts up again.

"What do you think it'll be this time?" Jung-bae asks Gi-hun.

"Two," Young-il answers, getting our attention.

"Why?"

"There are 126 people left, and there are 50 rooms. So there won't be enough rooms for everyone, only 100."

You and Dae-ho look at each other. He tightens his grip on your hand, silently telling you that he will bring be with you. You nod at him and get ready to run.

"Two"

Everyone immediately starts running towards the doors in a mad sprint. You stay with Dae-ho, keeping your hands together so you don't get separated.

Dae-ho opens a red door, but you're pushed aside before you can get in with him. You look up as another man pushes inside the room and closes him and Dae-ho in.

Fear like you've never known before takes over your body. You're about to die. Dae-ho can be heard inside the room, screaming your name and trying to open the door, but the man keeps him from getting out. The voice starts to count down from ten. As you accept you're fate, a pair of hands grab you and drag you into a yellow room, throwing you in before throwing the lone person inside out and closing the door.

You gasp for air as you pull yourself off the floor, staying on your hands and knees as you try to get a grasp of what just happened. Someone had saved your life.

Turning to see who your savior is, your eyes grow wide when you read the '246' on his chest.

He kneels beside you, putting a hand on your shoulder. "Are you alright?"

You nod frantically. "Thanks to you."

The gunshots begin outside and you throw your arms around the man in front of you. You'd be one of them if it weren't for him.

"Thank you," you cry into his shoulder as he hugs you back.

"There was enough time. I watched you get pushed and I just had to do something," he says.

You want to say thank him a million times, but words won't come out as you just stay in each others arms.

Two rooms over, Dae-ho's knuckles are stained red with blood as he punches the door over and over. There's no way that you made it in time, he knows that. He turns and screams at the other player in his room for pushing you, attempting to hit him before his cries take over and he falls into the corner of the room, sobbing into his sleeve.

The doors are eventually unlocked and everyone makes their way out. Dae-ho walks out slowly, looking at the floor and feeling empty. He couldn't save you.

The others run over to him, but they all frown and let out a few gasps when they see that the other person coming out of his room isn't you.

Dae-ho finally looks up at his team, though they all look blurry from the tears in his eyes. He must look like a wreck, but he can't even bring himself to care about that.

Jung-bae walks up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Dae-ho breaks down again, sobbing into the shoulder of his fellow ex-marine. The area around them is silent except for Dae-ho's cries. That is until door opens behind them and a small gasp is heard in front of him. Dae-ho looks up at the woman holding her son and sees her looking past him.

"Dae-ho."

Dae-ho freezes when he hears the voice. He slowly turns around, not wanting to get his hopes up and believe that it's you. But there you, alive and standing in front of him. You look at each other for a few seconds before Dae-ho rushes towards you, throwing his arms around you as you do the same.

The man breaks down again as he hugs you. "I thought you were dead. I'm so sorry."

You rub his back as he cries, quietly telling him that it's okay.

He pulls back and cups your face with his hands, making sure to look you over. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, Dae-ho, it wasn't your fault," you reassure him. "And I'm okay. Everything is alright."

He nods, though tears continue to fall down his cheeks. "How did you find a room?"

You smile and look behind you at the man walking towards your group. "This man here picked me up off the floor and saved me at the last moment."

Player 246 just smiles. Dae-ho pulls you back into a hug as he thanks the man over and over for saving your life.

The other players start filtering out of the room. You break away from Dae-ho and pull him along with you towards the door.

As you're walking, he throws an arm around you and pulls you against him, placing a desperate kiss on your forehead that makes you blush. "I can't believe you're alive," he whispers against your skin.

You smile at him and take his hand, squeezing it. "You said it yourself, we're going to get out of here. Together."

Dae-ho keeps you close to him as you walk, the others from your team patting you on the shoulder as they tell you they're happy you made it. Dae-ho keeps his eyes on you the whole time, determined to get the both of you out of here. Today.

~

Dae-ho tags: @gudfornuthin

[bunny-jpeg]

simon riley knew the years were catching up to him. he could feel the dull throb in his knee. his back started to hurt when he sat in the wrong position for too long. he even would a grey hair the other day. he honestly wondered if his boys were still working, or were the years of drinking, smoking and combat the thing that killed them all. he wanted to put that to the test. and you were his little test subject. it was hard for you to deny your commander, especially when he shoved you into the cramped areas that only became more cramped with his large body in them, and his cock drilled into your poor achy cunt. he'd often comment about how your sweet cunt drooled for him, coated his cock in slickness and practically begged to be filled, to be bred.

he'd often shove his fingers into your mouth as he fucked you from behind. his gruff voice in your ears, telling you to shut up mixed with promises of a stuffed cunt. up against shelves, over desks, in the back of military vehicles. on your knees, on your back. anyway he could have you, he was going to take the chance. if you have one more period, he's going to tie you down the bed and use you until that poor pussy of yours is drowned in his cum. you don't get it, you're too young and stupid to be worried about your biological clock. you think your breeding days are forever, but simon's wants to make sure every second counts as he has you bent in half with a milky ring around the base of his cock.

that soft little stomach of yours is gonna get nice and filled with his brats. little rileys running around, their grabby hands all over mama. you'd be off base and some place where the little ones can run around. and while they're down for their nap, simon's gonna make sure his woman gets some loving. as he spit in your mouth before he bruised your hips as he had you shoved over the edge of his bed. his hand in your hair as he made you whimper. maybe he was a sick man, but he had to make sure you got pregnant before he threw out his hip or knee. he could twist you into positions that allowed him to be more comfortable, you were young and flexible. you could handle being almost upside down while simon lapped at your cum soaked pussy, pulling a fifth orgasm out of you that night alone. his cum thoroughly stained your bed sheets and the lips of your pussy. your hole tender and coated in the creamy film of simon's cum. a promise of things to come.

it only took less than a year before you were feeling the aches of pregnancy replace the aches of sex. now he kept a broad hand over your swollen middle. you were gonna be a mama soon. and simon had the privilege of being the father. even with you on your back and your ankles over his shoulders, his cock drilling into you, you looked more beautiful than ever. a good woman always looked better on her back.

a/n: "what's a bunny's favourite music genre? hip-hop!"

[suguann]

✎. he tells you they’re the problem and leaves it at that before sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, but he's also kinda sweet?? [18+ only]

You like your new roommate.

Simon’s surprisingly better to have around than the last person who lived with you—a girl you knew from college who had an affinity for stealing your clothes and conveniently never had money for rent. He’s the type to make you soup when you’re sick, acknowledge you if you’re in the same room, water your flowers while he rolls his cigarettes on the fire escape, and carry your groceries up the four flights of stairs to your floor. 

He’s attractive, too, in the not-so-conventional sense, but in a disarming way, all small smiles and knowing looks and soft hair you know he doesn’t put much effort into—that sometimes curls around his ears when he lets it get too long—yet it still manages to look better than yours on the best days. 

He never tells you what he does for work, and you’re too polite to ask. But you have a feeling he makes enough to afford a place on the less crime-infested side of town—somewhere nicer than your cramped apartment with its outdated appliances, leaky faucets, and the bright neon sign atop the building across the street that shines through your windows all times of the day—but he says he’s not ready to live alone.

Something tells you there’s more to it than him being a lonely bachelor, but again, you don’t pry.

“Does this place have wi-fi?” is all he’d said the first time you meet, in a voice so smooth and only slightly broken up by his accent, clad in a shirt that looked two sizes too small around his arms and clutching a duffle bag in one big hand. 

Your brain was this shaken-up box of words and syllables that when you answered him, it came out in a nervous stutter. “Y-yeah, I’ll, er…I’ll give it to you—the password, I mean—once you've moved in. If that’s okay.”

He’d dropped his duffle bag in front of the room that would be his. “Consider me moved in.”

The smile he gave you, crinkling eyes and chuckling lightly, only made the stutter worse. 

You let his charm roll off you; you always figured it came naturally to him, a characteristic that comes with being attractive and good.

A handful of months later—of finding a routine around each other and lazy smiles in the morning—something changes the night you go out with a guy Mary from work eagerly sets you up with. 

His name’s Robb, he’s a doctor, and you both love cats; he has a house in Spain. Did I mention he's my cousin?

(A dull no way concealed behind your teeth.

If you hadn’t said yes, you feared your entire lunch break would consist of her waxing poetic over a man you're unsure about meeting.)

For a flicker of a moment, there’s an unreadable expression on Simon’s face as he watches you touch up your makeup in the hallway mirror and slip your hand into the crook of your date’s elbow at the door. There’s a slight glint of something uncharacteristically cold behind the mask of indifference before a small smile replaces it.

“Have a nice night,” you throw over your shoulder, except you don’t notice that he never says it back.

You mope around the apartment when Robb—who surprisingly exceeded your expectations of mediocre dates, not that you ever plan on admitting that to Mary—doesn’t reach out to you for three days. Then a week. You’re at that age to understand when people get busy, and a nice night doesn’t always mean it’s mutually reciprocated. But you liked him, and it felt promising after he’d kissed you goodnight against your front door. 

It had to have been the kiss that turned him off. Maybe he realized it was too much too soon.

When Simon finds you curled up in a ball under your comforter, one thumb gently wiping away your tears, he doesn’t even bring up your date. Instead, he orders your favorite take-out and puts on a sitcom you’d mentioned to him once—somewhat surprised that he remembers—the dreamy doctor who’d ghosted you blissfully forgotten with greasy food and a warm, comforting chest to rest your head on.

Simon’s there again—sweets in hand and a soft voice to soothe you—when another date (Rin from finance on your floor) a month later is a no-show, and a few weeks after that when Rin tells you without context that he can’t see you anymore. 

The third time of let downs feels worse. It’s worse because maybe there’s something wrong with you, and when you ask Simon, he’s too nice to rub salt in your wounds. He tells you they’re the problem and leaves it at that before sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of you.

You've been Simon's roommate for a year, and he doesn't take it well when you tell him you're looking for a new place.

It’s after he comes home from a three-month work trip. The shadow that crosses over his face should’ve been your first hint that something is wrong.

Had you noticed the signs sooner, you wonder if you’d be less like prey caught by the softness of your underbelly, kept in place by the scruff, and sharp teeth at your neck.

"Beg me. Beg me not to cum in you."

"S-Simon," you whimper wetly, "don't cum in—ah—me."

His fingers hold your chin with an unyielding grip, ensuring your gaze doesn’t stray from his in the cracked mirror. You’re embarrassed by what you see, how spread open you are to his dark, inkwell eyes hungrily watching as you twitch when his other hand slides between your thighs.

"Don’t stop begging, love,” he growls, squeezing you tighter, “or I might forget."

There’s that dark look again, the one that sends a shivery feeling up your spine, possessive almost with how he traces every inch of you as if burning the image of you into his memory, the softness washed away by something more sinister. 

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to flee, but another knows he'd find joy in catching you. 

No one would ever think your sweet, attractive roommate would be the same man staring at you now—everything you thought you knew about him stripped away to reveal a new canvas, bare for splashes of paint to fill in the cracks—teeth marks imprinted along the curve of your jaw, on the inside of your thighs.

He hides it well. His humble personality doing the trick of being the impenetrable mask for what he’s concealing underneath: a raw obsession, an addict finally getting his hands on his favorite drug, someone who can’t recognize defeat and knows how to take.

“What do they have that I don’t? Hm? Must be a desperate little thing. My pretty slut,” Simon’s voice rumbles low against your ear, shy of unhinged. “They won’t treat you as good as I do. Don’t I treat you good?”

You whimper when his grip grows tighter, but he doesn’t seem to notice—like he’s not fully here with you. No trace of the soft, gentle man who keeps the freezer full of your favorite ice cream, who runs to the store when you run out of tampons and comes back with chocolate and a new pair of fuzzy socks. A few words have turned him into someone you don’t know. Perhaps you never did.

“Answer me.”

An indiscernible  squeak is the only sound you make. 

He chuckles darkly, his head dipping down to rest his lips against the fluttering pulse in your neck, a finger slipping through the alarming amount of wetness between your thighs where his cock rends you down the middle, and begins rubbing firm, tight circles over your clit, pulling a moan from your throat. 

“It’s okay, love,” he mumbles, words barely audible above your heartbeat swimming in your ears. “I’ll be everything for you. Everything you need. I’ll show you why I’m better.”

[libidinous-weeb]

same with male writers who write all their female characters as the exact same girl with long hair and pale delicate skin whose sole purpose is to ensure the male characters can live happily ever after while making all of the male characters have diverse and interesting storylines that have major effects to the plot with paragraphs of descriptions about what they look like and how they think. btw.

male artists who draw every woman/slightly femme looking person with the same yassified disney elsa face while having the decency to draw men in different and interesting ways are not seeing the light of heaven. btw

[deosilplanarglitches]

Reason #345734 why I don't tell my mom shit.

Her pain and suffering is the only kind she cares about, and she'll play stupid games with me like ghost me for 3+ weeks after a minor surgery, just to make sure I'm worried enough about her life to check, so she "has permission" to start in with the talking my ear off about her problems without boundaries or preamble. She won't know shit about my issues til after they're over (if she hears about them at all) bc she never asks a damn thing about my life, and literally only ever leaves room for herself and her feelings in any equation literally ever and then peaces tf out like. Bitch I'm permanently disabled and in a degenerative spiral that's gonna last my whole fkn life, and you're still bitching about yourself? Wanting me to cater to your emotions when you haven't even spared a CRUMB of consideration in return?

FUck all the way off.

Should have known that if she had died or sth bad happened, I'd have heard something right away. After 30+ yrs of her pulling the "yeah my kid tried to kill themself for the 7th time, but have you asked ME how hard it is to raise them doing the nothing I have been, bc I still don't know them as a person at all or even try to? Where's the compassion?!" shit... you'd think I would know better, but my compassion gets me fucked over YET AGAIN.

If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty.

Back to no contact.

Let the bitch suffocate if she can't self soothe.

[thundersoothers]

spike, the dog (still derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: continuation of this fic and this thought about john price being a softie for his wife and the dog you found on the side of the road (y’all LOVEDDDDD this, thank u omg)

word count: 0.9k

“We are not naming the fucking dog Gremlin.”

“Pooh Bear.” 

“No.” 

You and John are sitting in the living room, staring at the dog you picked up from the side of the road a few days ago, trying to come up with a name for him.  

Convincing your husband to let you keep the dog was a challenge.  It felt like you were debating with judge, jury, and executioner.  Stakes were high.  He was sitting across from you at the dining room table, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.  His eyes were narrowed at you and his face was expressionless, giving nothing away as you plead your case. 

Somehow, you won. 

So now, here you both are, brainstorming names to replace “Puppy”.  You’re holding the dog in your arms on the couch and John is sitting across from you in his chair. 

“And where the hell did you come up with these names?” 

“I have a list.” 

“You have a list?” 

“I have a list,” you say, “of dog names and baby names.  Every girl does.” 

And then, for just a second, the room stills. 

“Baby names?” John asks. 

A shiver runs up the bottom of your spine and you sit up a little straighter.  You feel the air buzz and John’s heavy gaze on you. 

“Yeah,” you say, glancing at John and then back at the dog in your lap.  “But—Pooh Bear?” 

After a long second, he says, “No.”

“Georgie Banks.” 

“The actress?” 

“Wha— no, fucker, Georgie Banks from Mary Poppins.” 

“… I’ll consider it.  What else.” 

“Ja’Marcus.” 

“My love,” he says, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together, looking at you seriously.  “What the fuck are you talking about.  It’s a dog.” 

“Tra’davious.” 

“I’m making a list,” he scoffs, sitting back again.  “Jesus.” 

“It’s a nice name!” you exclaim.  “What are you gonna name him, Scout?” 

He looks at you.  

You look at him. 

“No.”  Your face drops and you almost shudder.  “No, John, that’s not even funny.” 

“Oreo?”  The corner of his mouth twitches but he quickly steels himself. 

“Stop.”  You hold the dog close to your chest, horrified. 

“Rocky?” 

“No!” 

“Buddy?” 

“John.” 

“We could just call him Puppy.” 

“What is this, Bird Box?  When Sandra Bullock named her kids Boy and Girl?  We can’t just name the dog Dog.  We would sound like neglectful parents.” 

“Your friend has a dog named Cat,” John says. 

“And that gets confusing because she just got a cat.  I think she’ll have to rename Cat.  And by Cat I mean the dog.  Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head, eyebrows furrowed.  What a mess that would be. 

“We could name him after your team…?” you say, the idea popping into your head.  Then, you frown.  “I’m not calling him Kyle, though.  That’s too human.  Ghost?  He is—you know.”  You rub over the dog’s mangey back gently.  “A little ghastly, still.” 

“Riley?” 

“Who’s Riley?” 

“No one.”

You eye him.  “Must be one of your other wives…” 

He ignores you.  “It would inflate their egos too much.  They’re already insufferable enough.  And,” he adds, “they don’t need another reason to suck up to you.” 

“They don’t suck up to me,” you say. 

“Sweetheart,” he says.  “They suck up to you.” 

“A pun with Price?  Uhhhh… High?  Low?  Buy one get one?  Bogo?”  You hold up the dog, as if to present him.  “Bogo Price, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Price?” 

“You think you’re funny,” John says. 

“I think I’m hilarious.” 

“How about Mackie?  For Mack?  Soap’ld love that–Scottish for ‘my son’.” 

“… I’ll consider it.” 

“You did find him near Notting Hill.  Maybe Notting?” 

You shudder.  “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Knotting.  It’s a—I’ll explain it to you later.”  

(By later you mean never.  Explaining A/B/O to your husband who doesn’t have any social media?  And has never heard of the website Ao3?  He’d have an aneurysm and then wonder why you know about it.  And you cannot have that conversation.) 

“What are the characters from Notting Hill again?” he says, scratching his chin. He needs to shave—well. You need to shave him, rather. “We just watched it.  William Thacker, Anna Scott, uh, her shit husband, what’s his name—“ 

“Jeff King.” 

“Jeff King, yeah.  King, maybe?” 

“Look at him, John.”  You turn the dog to face him.  He wiggles in your hands and yips, his tongue falling out of his mouth.  “He’s not a King.” 

He sighs and shakes his head.  “He’s not a King.” 

“What about William’s weird roommate?  Uh, Spike?” 

“Spike,” John repeats slowly. 

You nod.  “Spike.” 

You both focus on the dog. 

“I like Spike,” you say. 

“I like Spike, too.” 

You hum, considering this.  “Spike…”  You narrow your eyes and study the dog closely, holding him tighter in your hands. 

He yawns with a high-pitched whine and then hacks.  

“Jesus,” John mutters, shaking his head. 

“Better than Georgie, Banks, or Mackie?” 

“Yeah,” John says, “look at ‘im.  He’s a Spike.” 

“He’s such a Spike,” you muse.  “He’s gonna be huge, too.  I mean, look at his ears and paws–they’re already too big for him.  Shit, he’s probably gonna be 70 pounds or 30 kilos.” 

“We need to train him.” 

“Yeah.  I can hire a trainer?  Find one online.” 

“I could get a trainer from base.” 

“I do NOT want an army dog.” 

“It wouldn’t be an army dog.  It would be a dog trained by the army.” 

You eye him.  “John.” 

“Love.” 

You sigh.  “Fine.”

“Good girl.”

note: prob gonna make wife!reader and spike a universe/series bc i loveeeee them. I hope you enjoy!!!!

posted 01.02.2025.

do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.

to masterlist.

[femmeroll]

who else up thinking about face fucking w/sevika

sevika x fem reader

cw: amab sevika, reader is referred to as a girl but no genitals r mentioned, facials, dick slapping, this is so nasty sorry i’m horny

sevika is a big woman. she stands well over six foot, her biceps are the size of your head, and her ego is large enough to fill a room.

naturally, her dick would be just as big as the rest of her. a full ten inches long and thick enough to barely fit your hand around. like everything else about sevika, it’s huge.

and sevika loves nothing more than watching you stretch your throat open on it, gagging and drooling just to make her feel satisfied.

sevika’s legs are spread for you, hard cock mere centimeters away from your wanting mouth. her tip is drooling precum, she wants you just as bad as you want her.

“open that pretty mouth, baby. stick out your tongue” she commands.

and of course you oblige, tongue lolling out as you wait for sevika’s next move. you look fucking stupid, like a dog waiting for her bone. if you had a tail, it’d be wagging right now.

sevika takes her cock in hand and slaps her head against your tongue.

“do you deserve it, slut? do you deserve to have me down your throat? maybe i’ll just keep smacking you with it.”

you groan. sure, you’d appreciate her dick anywhere near you, but you crave it in your mouth. you crave it deliciously bruising the back of your throat.

“okay, okay. i get it. you just need my cock all the way in your mouth, huh? need it so badly?”

you nod, tongue still hanging out of your mouth. sevika chuckles lowly and palms your cheek with her calloused hand.

“dirty girl…i’ll give you what you need. keep that mouth open, nice and wide for me. good girl.”

she slowly pushes her length into your mouth, letting you adjust. her hand affectionately strokes your face, helping you relax your throat so you can take all of her without hurting yourself.

“there you go…i’m gonna start fucking your face now, alright? tap my leg if it gets too much, i don’t wanna hurt you.”

sevika laces her fingers through your hair and begins fucking your throat. she powerfully thrusts into your needy mouth so fast you almost pass out. saliva spills down your chin and she brutally pounds your throat, grunting praises and degradations in the process.

“good fucking girl. so pretty with your mouth full.”

“you’re nothing but a warm hole for me to stick my cock into, baby. just a whore for me.”

her balls are slapping against your chin with every thrust, tightening at the feeling of your warm mouth against her.

“baby…baby…you’re gonna make me cum” she growls, fucking your face even harder.

“fuck,” she brokenly groans, “gonna paint your face. cover you in my cum, shit!”

she pulls you off of her cock with a wet pop, replacing your mouth with her own first. she jerks herself off vigorously, cock twitching as she approaches her orgasm.

“sevika…” you whine, “please cum on my face.”

and she does. ropes of warm, white cum splatters onto you face. some gets on your lashes, in your hair, all over you. it’s filthy, and sevika loves it.

“oh, good girl. so pretty covered in my nut” she praises as she comes down from her high. her defined chest moves up and down slowly as she catches her breath.

“let me wipe your face, sweetheart. you did so good for me.”

sevika uses a warm towel to wipe your face, whispering praises and kissing the top of your head lovingly.

even when she destroys one of your holes, she always takes care of you after.

“took it so well for me, sweet girl. my best girl.”

[the-witty-pen-name]

Meddling Mr. Munson

Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Wayne is your favorite regular at work. Plus- his nephew is really cute.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff and good feels you’ll get a toothache, allusions to pregnancy, alcohol mentioned, mentions of bullying

The first time you meet Wayne Munson, you’re eight hours into your six hour shift at the only diner in Hawkins that's open twenty-four hours. You’re working the overnight shift, and you were supposed to be relieved at 4:00am, but the waitress who was supposed to relieve you called from a payphone to tell you her bus broke down and she can’t get to work until the replacement arrives. So now, you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee for the only patron you’ve had before the breakfast rush- which hopefully you’ll be missing.

You chit chat with Mr. Munson while he sits at the counter nursing his black coffee. He works overnight at the plant you’ve learned, and he asks you questions about your college classes. He doesn’t admit it, because he’s not the type, but he really enjoys the daily chats with you as stopping at the diner after work becomes one of his routines.

“You should come meet me for breakfast on your way to school,” Wayne suggests one night when he and Eddie are watching TV. His suggestion is met with Eddie blowing a raspberry and a grumble about not wanting to wake up that early. Wayne tosses his hat at Eddie, harmlessly making Eddie jump. “I ain’t asking,” Wayne reiterates and Eddie nods sheepishly, sinking into the couch.

Your eyes light up when you hear the bell on the front door. You already know it’s one of your favorite regulars before you even look up. “‘Morning, Mr. Munson,” you say cheerfully, “Take a seat, I just put on a fresh pot.” You look up and you’re surprised to see he isn’t alone. “Oh, hi Eddie,” you say with a grin, surprised to see Wayne isn’t alone. Eddie’s brain short circuits because he doesn’t know how you even know him, and you are very pretty.

You step out from behind the counter with two mugs in hand as they slide into a booth. “You don’t remember me,” you tease, filling both the mugs with coffee. Eddie fumbles over his words apologetically and Wayne smirks to himself. “That’s okay, we weren’t really friends,” you explain and tell him your name, “You sat in front of me last year in Ms.O’Donnell’s class. We didn’t really talk much.” He’s silently thanking you for omitting that you didn’t talk because he was hardly there. However, he’s practically soaring that despite that you somehow remembered him and aren’t recoiling in disgust.

“Eddie’s got her again this year,” Wayne interjects and Eddie wants to roll under the booth. He’s suddenly embarrassed that he’s repeating senior year again and he wished you didn’t know that. Wayne means nothing by it, literally just making conversation, and the news Eddie is in her class doesn’t seem to even phase you.

“She’s brutal,” you exhale, “If you want, I think I still have my notes somewhere. They’re all yours.”

“T-that’d be great,” he manages to get out. You smile at him and his limbs feel like clay.

“Yeah, of course,” you wave it off like it’s nothing. “I’ll come back in a few and grab your orders, take your time.”

Wayne is using his menu to hide his grin from Eddie. He didn’t know if Eddie and you would hit it off, he just had hopes. He’s not one to meddle, especially in his nephew’s love life, but when you had told Wayne you didn’t have a boyfriend, he immediately wanted to introduce you to Eddie. He knew Eddie would just reject the idea, so he didn’t say anything.

“She’s cute,” Wayne says after a minute when you disappear behind the door to the kitchen.

“God, cut it out,” Eddie exclaims, dramatically covering his face with his hands. His face is bright red. This seriously can not be happening right now. “Wayne, seriously, you are not seriously trying to set me up right now?”

“I’m just trying to treat my nephew to breakfast, I thought it would be nice. We haven’t done this in a while,” he says evenly, but Eddie knows the truth. “I think I’m gonna get the meat lover’s omelet,” he muses, acting oblivious to Eddie’s antics.

Eddie’s nervous bouncing of his leg is making the booth shake, and the coffee spills out over the rim of the mugs ever so slightly. Wayne slides over extra napkins, and chastises Eddie about leaving rings on the table.

“Are you all set?” You ask, getting your notepad out of the front pocket of your apron. Wayne nods and Eddie is staring blankly at the menu in front of him, paralyzed.

“The pancakes are really good if you’re still trying to decide,” you offer, thinking Eddie is actually reading the menu.

“U-uh yeah, that sounds good,” he replies. You nod and scribble it down on your pad.

“Your usual Wayne?” You ask and he nods.

“You’re the best,” he smiles, passing you the menus.

“It’ll be right out,” you reply, “Do you want me to top these off?” Wayne offers you his empty cup and Eddie manages to shake his head no. You disappear behind the doors again to ring in the order, and Wayne nudges Eddie to snap out of it.

“You’re being rude,” he says, “Look I get it, I’ll stay out of it. But you don’t have to freeze her out. She’s being lovely.”

Of course you’re being lovely, Eddie screams internally. You are lovely! He can’t bring himself to correct his uncle that he’s not ignoring you to spite him, but he’s actually tongue tied and completely fumbling. He can’t give Wayne the satisfaction of being right and he also doesn’t want to say anything out loud in utter fear you’d hear him.

“Food should be right out,” you say with a sweet smile. You walk over to the opposite side of the diner and wipe down a few of the empty booths. Eddie flexes his fingers over his thighs repeatedly to try to relax. Wayne watches Eddie, starting to notice he’s a lot more twitchy than he usually is. Eddie’s always animated but this is new. Maybe, Wayne muses, his little plan might actually be working.

Wayne really only ever wants Eddie to be happy. He’s had a front row seat to the abuse Eddie has received from his peers his whole life. Under the tattoos and the hair and the ripped jeans, Wayne still sees the little boy he tucked into bed and the little boy who sat on the kitchen counter while he helped clean his scraped knees. He wished the pain he had to help Eddie navigate was still that simple. Wayne thought maybe you’d see Eddie the way he did.

You’re nice, and genuinely so. Wayne thought if anyone could see Eddie, truly see him for the amazing kid he was, it would be you. Even if this whole stupid plan of his amounted to nothing more, you’re treating Eddie with such a normal level of human decency and you have no idea how much that means to the both of them. For Wayne, that’s more than he could ever ask for. He knows as much as he’s resisting, Eddie will leave here and go to school feeling a little bit better. For a brief moment in an empty diner, he can see the world isn’t always out to get him. Sometimes, the world is nice- with pretty girls to talk to and uncles who love you more than life itself.

When you bring out the food, Wayne watches the way your eyes linger on Eddie. You’re also being a little shy. He smiles to himself, keeping his head low while he starts to dig into his food. You ask Eddie about his band, and Wayne watches his nephew’s eyes light up, his usual confidence returning to the forefront as he tells you all about Corroded Coffin. You listen, and Wayne realizes you’re not just placating Eddie, you actually care.

“I’ll have to come to another show sometime,” you say, “I say you guys at The Hideout like a couple months ago actually.”

“Really?” Eddie’s eyes widen in disbelief. You giggle, and nod.

“Yup, you guys were awesome,” you assure him. “If you guys ever sell a tape, let me know. I want one.”

As they finish up their breakfast, you drop off the check, and Eddie thinks he might die when he sees you’ve scribbled your number on the receipt for him. The check has been comped and the note read:

“Wayne, Happy to treat my favorite customer! Eddie, in case you’d want to go out sometime? No pressure.” With your number underneath.

The most recent time you saw Wayne Munson, he pulled you into a hug and thanked you for inviting him over. It’s the first time you and Eddie are hosting a holiday in your new apartment.

He smiles as he looks around. You and Eddie have really done an amazing job making a cozy little life together. He smells the turkey finishing up in the oven and he can’t believe he can finally witness his nephew this happy. The two of you insist he sit in the living room while you both finish cooking for him. He’s enjoying watching the two of you work in the kitchen together, moving synchronously like you’ve done this dance a million times before- and you have.

He settles in and Eddie brings him a beer. Wayne looks around at Eddie’s and your new home and he can’t help but beam with pride. This is all he could’ve asked for Eddie- all he’s ever wanted to see him have. Eddie’s still as dopey grinned and smitten as he was the first day back at the diner. Wayne knows you’re the one- he knew before you or Eddie knew.

Eddie’s his son, even if he’ll never be called Dad. He doesn’t want that anyways. But, he knows your the best daughter-in-law he could have ever asked for. A best friend and a confidant from the first day he met you. He’s so glad to have you both together in his life. Little did he know, that tonight after dinner when he’s long past just full- but not too full for pie- Eddie would hold your hand and you’d both sit across from him, giving him the best news he could possibly hear in this lifetime.

His small trio, will shortly be adding a fourth band member.