#Intercom for Apartment Building | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

notiddygothgf · 19 days ago

Text

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

| Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was.

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout��s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation.

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real.

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it.

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better.

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @mrshayakawaa

wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

#notiddygxthgf ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚#dante dmc #dante sparda #dante x reader #dante devil may cry #dante sparda x reader

1K notes · View notes

calwoso · 1 month ago

Text

disappointment

you show up on your sister's doorstep in the middle of the night with no explanation

Someone is knocking on their door, incessantly and loudly. Which would be a bit odd at any time of day considering most people would use the intercom outside the apartment building so Caro and Marta would know they were coming up.

It’s made worse now, because it’s a little before 4am and who the fuck is knocking on the door?

The sound stops as Caro steps closer, peering up to the peephole to see who is on the other side. Behind Marta has grabbed the heaviest object she could find, a lamp, holding it tightly between both hands prepared to swing.

But Caro deflates as she sees who is on the other side before rushing to unlock the door and swing it open to haul you inside.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” She hisses as she shuts the door behind you, locking it once more.

“Wow, nice to see you too.” You grin. “You took your time answering the door.”

“It’s the middle of the night.” Caro snaps. “How did you get here?”

“A plane, mostly.” You pause to peer behind your sister to where Marta is standing with the lamp in one hand. “Hi Marta, sorry for waking you. Nice pyjamas!”

A bubble of laughter escapes the Spaniard even as Caro continues to glare at you. The pyjamas had been a bit of a joke present from Caro, adorned with little Barcelona crests that she actually cherished.

“Focus!” Caro pokes your shoulder to draw your attention back to you. “What are you doing here?”

“So I can’t visit my sister, now?” You snark back, you shoulder past her and stride into the apartment flicking on lights as you go. “This is nice, why didn’t you tell me you’d moved?”

“It’s Marta’s place-“ Caro begins, mouthing an apology to her partner as she follows you as you make yourself at home on the sofa. “Wait, how did you get here if you didn’t know I’d moved?”

“Oh, well I went to your old apartment and when you didn’t answer the intercom I just tried your teammates until one of them woke up. Have you got anything to eat? I’m starving.” You can see the moment your sister seriously contemplates strangling you.

But then Marta’s hand is squeezing at her shoulder and some of the murderous intention leaves Caro. The Spaniard disappears towards the kitchen to fix you something to eat and you keep talking.

“You should probably apologise to Frido for not telling me you’d moved. She was the one who answered in the end.” You stifle a yawn.

“I should apologise? I’m not the one who woke her up!” Caro throws her hands up. “Why didn’t you just call me and tell me you wanted to visit, we could’ve arranged something better than this.”

You hesitate for a beat. “Can’t a girl be spontaneous! I would’ve called when I landed but my phone was dead.”

Your sister eyes you suspiciously for a moment before sighing that same sigh that seems to be endemic to your family whenever they are faced with you.

She slumps onto the sofa next to you, yawning widely and you do at least look a bit guilty at waking her up at this hour. You have always liked to prod and poke at your sister to get reactions, she called you insufferable, you called it part of your charm.

But you didn't now, mostly because Caro looked halfway back to sleep already, and you knew when to be mature...sometimes. When Marta reappears with a small plate of leftovers from dinner, she settles it on the coffee table, her gaze lingering on Caro first and then you.

"Go back to bed, amor. We've got to be up in a few hours." Marta tells her partner gently.

"Yeah, amor, wouldn't want you to sleep through kickoff." You chime in, already helping yourself to the food in front of you. You duck, mouth full of food, just in time for Caro's lazy swing for your head to breeze by.

"Oye, no fighting." Marta chastises although she can't help but grin. "Caro, bed. You - be quiet for once and eat." She tells you sternly as Caro gives you one last withering look before disappearing.

Marta waits until most of your plate was clear before speaking.

"You want to tell me why you're here?" She asks eventually.

You speak enough Spanish to talk to your sister's partner. It had been something you had made a point of learning the first time you'd met the woman a couple of years ago. It seemed only fair when, even back then, she had been trying her best to speak Norweigan to you and your family - stilted though it was.

(And besides, Caro seemed smitten with her and if Marta meant that much to your sister than you wanted to make her feel welcome too. Although that information would have to pried out of your cold, dead hands before you admitted it.)

"I missed Caro's sunshine demeanour." You grin even as Marta rolls her eyes. "Besides, that looked like some impressive lamp swinging I saw you gearing up for. How could I miss that?"

Usually, Marta was easy to make laugh. You liked the Spaniard immensely, she was in all ways, the polar opposite to your sister. She was easy to talk to, funny, personable and always smiling.

Except now, now she looked uncharacteristically serious.

"Talk, nena." She tells your firmly.

You stretch your arms above your head for a long moment, whilst you thought about what to say.

"Can't a girl just...exist? Spontaneity! Adventure! Seizing the-"

"Seizing the day does not involve terrorising Frido at 3am." Marta interrupts, although the corners of her mouth twitched a little at the idea of it.

"It could do." You reason with a smile, faltering when Marta raised an unimpressed eyebrow at you. "I just wanted to see my sister, is that such a bad thing?" Your voice wavers just a fraction at the end, a barely there break in it that you would deny vehmently.

And your ever present smile slips a bit too. The Spaniard watches you for a moment as you shift in your seat before offering a hand to haul you to your feet.

"Come on, trouble." She sighs. "Sleep first, talking tomorrow. You can come with us to the match and watch. Caro will like that."

You go easily, letting Marta point you in the direction of the bathroom and the guest room before bidding her a goodnight, if only for a few hours.

You awoke too few hours later to the pillow being wrenched from underneath your head and then it flying back down to smash you in the face.

"What the fuck?" You glare up at your sister who stands over you, arms crossed and looking seriously pissed.

"Watch your language." She snaps.

"I'm 18!" You complain, trying to roll over and go back to sleep.

"Only by a few months! Besides, you want to act like an adult, maybe you can explain to me why Mamma called me in hysterics this morning because you had disappeared from the house without a trace."

"Well I came here, I thought that answer was obvious." You snap back, immediately regretting it when you realise you were trapped in this room with a now furious Caroline.

As kids, Caro and your brother had fought non-stop, but you had, for the most part, always been left out of it. In part because you didn't have that same competitive drive as the other two which led to so many arguments. But also being a good 12 years younger than Caro had meant she was constantly reminded not to fight with you in case she hurt you. It's not your fault if you took that advantage and ran with it by pissing her off at every opportunity.

Now though, you were fucked because Caro looked even more furious than she did at 4am. You were in actual fear for your life. You could see the way Caro had to force herself to suck in a calming breath.

"Call Mamma and tell her you're fine - and then get ready. We leave in 15 minutes." She just about manages to get out through gritted teeth before storming from the room.

You didn't want to be here, it felt too familiar even though the crowd was bigger than you were perhaps used to as a child. But it was all the same, gather round and watch your sister - the superstar - play football.

It made an ugly part of you bitter, warring with the part that was and always had been immensely proud to be Caro's baby sister.

You tried not to be offended when Caro had sat you down in the stands far before the match and told you to stay put without so much as looking at you. But then Vicky had appeared, injured and out of action today, and apprehensively told you in stilted English that she was supposed to be watching you.

"I'm pretty sure we're the same age." You replied in Spanish with a small grin when she looked relieved to be spoken to in a language she understands. "You don't have to babysit me. Caro's just pissed off."

It seems Vicky doesn't quite know what to say to that and the pair of you sit in silence whilst you watch the teams warm up. Only when the teams disappear back down the tunnel does Vicky say anything else.

"So how long are you visiting for?" She asks.

"Don't know...until Caro has enough of me, which will probably be tomorrow." You laugh. "Not got anything to go back to Norway for, my schedule is wide open."

Yeah, wide open and it's all your fault, you remind yourself grimly. But it makes Vicky laugh too and so you keep trying to do that instead of focusing on what will happen after the game is over.

You make Vicky laugh and you let her talk your ear off about the match when it starts, and at the end she even leads you down to the pitch where she introduces you to some of the other younger players. You like meeting new people, everyone is impressed with your Spanish, and it has the added benefit of prolonging your life because there's no way your sister can kill you in front of these many people. Even if she keeps glaring at you from a few feet away where she stands beside Marta.

It's nice and it's easy and talking to people is about the only thing you're good at. Drawing laughs out of the players makes you feel accomplished for the first time in a long time.

And you try not to let the disappointment show when everyone begins to head down the tunnel to shower and change and you're left alone once more.

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

this is my first ever fic, i'd love to continue this but i am v much testing the waters with this first

#woso x reader #caroline graham hansen x reader #marta torrejon x reader #caroline graham hansen x marta torrejon #woso fanfics #woso imagine

651 notes · View notes

acid-ixx · 6 months ago

Text

"how to become a target to the wayne family"

series masterlist

you, depressed and lonely, out of your mind laying on top of your apartment bed after a hard day of juggling multiple minimum wage jobs to pay their rent and dealing with 10 pending assignments:

you: *sighs* wish there's someone out there who loves me enough to take me somewhere far away to a place where i don't have to worry about the crippling weight of capitalism.

you, adding the next phrase to ward off your stalkers: AND I HOPE THOSE PEOPLE AREN'T MY FAMILY WHO ESTRANGED ME! they don't even count.

bruce wayne, "billionaire, not millionaire", popping out of the background as batman ignoring the last statement: your father would like to—

conner, totally not stalking you the entire day whilst planning your marriage despite not meeting you yet, right outside your apartment windows and talking to himself: don't even need to ask twice baby! we're getting married soon and everyone's invited except for your dumbass family!

tim drake, a building away from conner, spotting his best friend by the distance with his binoculars: WHY THE FUCK IS KON THERE, AND WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?!

jason todd, preparing his weapons: he won't be there soon.

dick grayson, already seething in the background: who is HE to talk about MY baby bird who's not even at the right age for marrying yet!

damian wayne, for the first time in his life cooperating with jason, overhearing dick's rambles: do not forget to load it with kryptonite bullets, todd. and add grenades if ever the case the weapon's been compromised.

jason todd, nodding whilst he aims at kon's head: noted, kid.

*cue faint encouragement playing through the intercoms as steph, cass, babs and duke places bets on who could lay the first and the most hits on kon first; the winner can have your favorite jacket as their reward*

steph, with popcorn in her hands: yeah, it's definitely jason, look at him, all ready to mull him to death!

duke, munching on steph's popcorn: you kidding me? the little demon's about to aim his sword at the guy!

cass, whispering under her breath: it's actually dick...

barbara gordon, amused at the forming argument: wrong, all of you, tim's already out his way to de-clone his best friend.

you, unaware of the entire commotion outside of your apartment: *sneezing, from all the times your name gets mentioned* gee, no wonder why rent's abnormally lower this month, the air must've been polluted even more within this area—

1K notes · View notes

lijoue · 1 year ago

Text

À LOUER Build/Buy Collection

Bonjour! I created this set of 12 new items inspired by Parisian apartments (À Louer is French "For Rent") It's a simple collection, but as always I wanted to create items I haven't found from other creators. I've been obsessing over wrought-iron fences recently and I'm really happy with how my wrought-iron pieces turned out.

Set includes 12 new build/buy items:

intercom | 10 swatches

bike (with and without flowers) | 24 swatches

front door ( with and without grill) | 30 swatches

window (small) | 14 swatches

window (tall) | 14 swatches

balcony | 20 swatches

wrought-iron railing | 8 swatches

stairs | 20 swatches

wrought-iron fence | 8 swatches

modern mailbox (functional) | 10 swatches

antique mailbox (functional) | 16 swatches

apartment mailboxes (functional) | 8 swatches

download here! ♥

#the sims 4 #ts4 maxis match #sims 4 creator #ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 cc #the sims cc #the sims 4 cc #ts4 cc #my cc #ts4 build #sims build

4K notes · View notes

heich0e · 25 days ago

Text

"how's my favourite miya?"

osamu barks out a loud, dry laugh as the call connects and rintarou's face lights up the screen of his cellphone. he's got the device propped up against a prep container filled with spring onions on the kitchen counter of the shop. osamu points his knife, the blade just wiped on his apron and glinting under the overhead fluorescents, toward the camera.

"'tsumu told me ya say the same thing to him when yer askin' fer a favour, bastard. don't think yer slick."

suna smiles on the other end of the call. "dunno what you're talking about."

"ya fuckin ri—"

"hi miya-san!"

osamu is a bit taken aback when sunarin's little sister, yuriko, pops into frame over his friend's shoulder. the restaurant owner straightens up a little on instinct, setting his knife down.

"hi yuri-chan," he greets her politely, a bit sheepish at his lack of manners initially since he didn't know rintarou had company. "whatcha doin' there?"

"came to visit nii-san in nagano for the weekend," the twenty year old chirps cheerfully.

"she's eating me out of house and home, osamu," rintarou laments.

"got no sympathy for ya," osamu laughs. "last time ya came to visit me i had to buy twice as much rice as usual. blame yer genetics."

suna rolls his eyes but doesn't refute osamu's point. instead he carries the conversation along. "i didn't call to ask a favour, you know."

osamu wipes a cloth over his cutting board, nodding his head. "so ya said."

"she did, though."

osamu looks back up at the phone and sees both suna siblings looking at him with matching hopeful expressions—the same one that made him buy twice as much rice as usual with little-to-no complaint—and he just sighs, tossing his rag down on the worktop.

"whaddaya want?"

osamu's pretty well acquainted with osaka now, having spent the better part of his twenties living and working there. when the shop was still a bit smaller and closed in the afternoons before the dinner rush, he used to run delivery orders to offices and small catering gigs, which helped him get a feel for the city's layout too.

still, he's not familiar with this particular part of town. he double checks the address on the screen of his smart phone, then the one on the building in front of him. adjusting the paper takeout bag in his arms he punches a series of numbers into the intercom.

"hello?"

"i've got a food delivery here for apartment 615," osamu says, keeping his head bowed a little to the camera so his onigiri miya cap is on full display.

"... I didn't order anything, sorry."

osamu reads your name off the slip of paper stapled to the bag. "ordered by a suna yuriko?"

it's quiet for a moment, but osamu can tell from the static on the other end of the intercom that you're still listening. can still hear the faint sound of your sigh.

the door buzzes as it unlocks.

on his way up to the sixth floor, osamu reflects on his conversation with the youngest suna sibling.

she's my best friend, yuri-chan had said to him, her voice thick with emotion. she moved to osaka last year with her boyfriend but he's.... i'm worried about her. she hasn't answered me in days.

osamu had been resistant to the request at first. this seemed like a matter for police involvement, not an onigiri restaurant owner.

i just need to know she's okay, miya-san. please?

osamu would not consider himself a do-gooder. he's not particularly gallant or brave in any way. sure, he's happy to help out or be kind when he can, but he's no hero. the only real scraps he's ever gotten into are with his brother, after all, and those days are mostly behind him now that he's on the periphery of his thirties.

but there was something about the way yuri-chan had pleaded with him that had tugged on his heartstrings. something that made him feel inclined to act.

all he had to do was lay eyes on you. make sure you were where you were supposed to be and that you were okay. simple enough.

on the sixth floor of the unfamiliar apartment building, it doesn't take osamu long to find your unit door. osamu raps twice against it once he arrives, waiting patiently in view of the peep hole for you to answer.

"you can just leave it outside, please!" he hears you say from inside. your voice is close, like you're right there on the other side of the door.

"sorry miss, restaurant policy. the boss would be mad if i didn't hand it off to ya directly."

he is the boss, but you don't need to know that.

it's quiet for a moment, and then osamu hears a few locks click. he's relieved as the door begins to open.

the relief doesn't last.

you've got the door open only wide enough for the bag of onigiri to be passed through, half your face hidden on the other side. the half he can see though is swollen and bruised along the top of your cheek. behind you, osamu catches a glimpse of your apartment—turned practically upside down.

there's papers and various other things littered on the ground. a picture askew, and a mirror shattered on the wall beside it. osamu feels many things at once. concern, disbelief, anger.

he looks at you, and you stare back like a deer caught in the headlights, shrinking slightly under his stare. for a moment he's reminded of the stray cat he caught behind the restaurant a few years ago, stealing food out of the dumpster. remembers how mistrustfully it had stared at him when he first cornered it in the alley.

internally osamu is cursing the suna siblings, cursing whatever piece of shit did this to you, and cursing his own nature.

because osamu's no hero, but he can't turn his back on someone who needs help, either.

#tw dv

450 notes · View notes

cellythefloshie · 2 months ago

Text

;; Moments of Care by cellythefloshie

Summary: Overcome with worry when you didn't arrive for a date, Quinn went to your apartment and found you in a time of need. Kinks & TW: Hurt/Comfort (Migraines). No Smut. Undefined relationship. Word Count: 2k+

Pale light from his phone screen flickered across Quinn’s face as he sat parked outside your apartment, squinting into the darkness. Two hours had passed since you were supposed to meet him for dinner, three since your last message. If this had been a first date—or even the third—he might have shrugged it off. But after four months, it didn’t sit right.

You weren’t just some girl who vanished after a whirlwind weekend. You were—well. While neither of you had put a name to whatever this was, long stretches of road trips had made defining things complicated. And maybe—probably—he wasn’t sure if you had been treating him with the same exclusivity he found himself giving you. But Quinn liked to think that, for all intents and purposes, you were his.

It was the very reason he was sitting outside your apartment in the middle of the night, telling himself that he was crazy for driving across the city – but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He could feel the rhythmic racing of his pulse against his neck as he looked down at the message you had sent him.

I’ll meet you there.

With a sigh, Quinn leaned across the passenger seat and looked up at the apartment building you called home. He looked over each window, trying to remember just which one was yours when he saw them; Your curtains. He could see the faint flutter of the fabric and the wind blew in through an open window and it was highlighted by the amber glow of the street lights outside. Beyond them, he could see nothing, only darkness.

A knot tightened in his chest. He had to check on you. Had to knock on the door, hear your voice—see you, even if it was just to have you tell him to fuck off. As long as he knew you were okay.

Getting in, however, was another matter. He didn’t have a key.

There was an intercom at the front door, one that he had used the handful of times he had visited you at your apartment. He approached it quickly, the collar of his jacket popped to block out the chill of the wind. And as soon as he had pressed your suite number into the system, his hands delved into his coat pockets. It let out its droning ring, over and over again, begging to be answered only to disconnect when you didn’t answer.

“Fuck.” His breath came in a mist as he exhaled sharply, raising both hands to his lips, rubbing warmth back into his fingers. He didn’t know anyone else in the building, and from what you’d told him, you barely knew your neighbors either. But he was desperate.

Reaching out, Quinn punched in the number of the suite next to yours. Declined.

The one across the hall. Ignored.

Then, just as the last ring of the suite beneath yours faded into silence, the lock on the front door released. No words exchanged. No questions asked. Either someone was expecting a visitor, or they simply didn’t care who they let inside. He didn’t hesitate.

Quinn ran through the hallway and to the stairs with complete disregard for the elevator. He took them two at a time until he reached your floor, and moved down the hallway until he came to your door. He froze there for a moment, fixing his scarf and finding his composure with a steady breath.

He knocked.

Nothing.

In an instant, it felt like his scarf was constricting around his throat, and without thinking, he reached down for the door handle and twisted it slowly. He expected it to be locked, but to his surprise, it clicked open.

Quinn peaked his head in first, before slowly entering your apartment that was cloaked in darkness. He welcomed himself in with caution steps, worried that he might run into a pair of shoes or furniture he wasn’t familiar with by the door. The last thing he wanted to do was startle you as he stood in the entryway, unannounced and uninvited.

He hesitated, then spoke your name softly.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, as if he had imagined it, a low muffled groan.

Your name left his lips again, louder this time, weighted with concern. Caution vanished in an instant. Quinn tore off his coat, striding toward the source of the sound. The bathroom.

His hand skimmed the wall, fumbling for the light switch. A harsh glow flooded the space, spilling into the hallway, casting his shadow long across the floor.

The light had barely settled before your soft, broken plea cut through the air.

“Turn it off, please. I can’t— It’s too bright.”

*“Sorry,” Quinn said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached back out for the light switch. The room fell back into darkness, the only light the amber glow of the street light that had greeted him outside. He swallowed back a lump that formed in the back of his throat. Quinn had his answer. You were safe at home, but you weren’t okay – and suddenly Quinn felt useless.

You were laying on the bathroom floor, unmoving. The light was off, but Quinn could still see the pained expression on your pale face and the glassiness of your eyes as they fought back tears. And in the silence, he could hear your ever uneven breath that was so close to becoming a cry.

It was on your third date, when you had to cut it short because of a headache, that you told Quinn that you were prone to migraines. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He had seen so many injuries in his career–concussions that would rob players of their careers, bruises that would linger for weeks and breaks that would only mend with a little help of titanium or steel–that he was convinced that a headache with no clear cause couldn’t be so severe.

He was wrong.

Yours seemed worse than any he’s ever had, or witnessed, before.

“Just,” Quinn reached a hand up, raking his fingers through his hair, “Just tell me what you need, please. I’ll do anything.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even look up at him as you sighed. “There’s nothing anyone can do,” you told him, your tone sending Quinn’s heart sinking into the depths of his chest. He knew that tone all too well. Defeat.

“I’ve taken pain killers, I’ve seen countless doctors and-” you cut yourself off, and Quinn could feel your hand reaching out to him, your finger tips grazing over the hem of his pant legs. “How did you even get in here Quinn? I-” you started to stutter, “I was going to meet you at the restaurant.”

“That was two hours ago,” Quinn sighed softly as he dropped down to his knees on the floor.

Carefully, he reached out through the darkness, his hands finding your shoulders and drawing you in. Quinn hugged you to him, face burying into your hair as he took in a deep breath. “I was worried when you stopped messaging me back. I thought–” he placed a kiss to your scalp slowly, “I thought something happened.”

“I’m okay,” your words were a hot breath felt against his arm before you placed a careful kiss there.

Quinn almost smiled as you nuzzled into the crook of his arm, but then he felt the hot wetness of tears that had been silently streaming down your cheeks in the cover of the darkness. An almost successful deceit.

He said your name in a slow hum before continuing, “you’re not okay. You’ve been laying on the bathroom floor. Let me help, please.”

“I was trying to get into the bathtub,” you explain slowly, weakly. “The hot water. It helps, but whenever I tried to stand up, my head would pound.”

“Okay,” Quinn sighed, “that’s something I can help with.”

Slowly, he eased you up off the floor just enough to lean you back against the strength of his chest. Quinn let you rest there a moment, making sure you were steady before his hands began to gather your hair. You had done it before the migraine struck, he was sure of it. Each tendril was soft and silken between his fingers, but tangled from the mess it became from laying on the floor. He gathered it carefully, securing it up and away from your face. It wasn’t perfect, but at the very least it was out of the way.

“Do you trust me?” Quinn asked you in a whisper.

He felt you nod slowly against his chest silently.

Slowly, Quinn’s hand found the hem of your shirt, pausing just long enough for you to lift your arms up over your head. His knuckles dragged against your stomach as he eased the fabric up over your head before it was lost on the floor. He traded it for his own shirt as a veil of modesty. It was a simple white t-shirt that was too big for your frame. It swallowed you up as he worked it onto you, hanging loosely off your shoulders the way all his clothes did on you.

Then, without a word, you reached behind yourself, unclasping your bra, and let it drop to the floor.

Quinn’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that.

His eyes flickered down to the button of your jeans, then back up. The glow of the amber lights sent your face a glow. Your eyes were shut and your skin glistening with tears or sweat – something that looked more like glitter in the night. And there was a calmness in your features, one he didn’t know how you found when in such pain.

“Can I…?” He started, his tongue seemingly swelling up in his mouth.

This wasn’t the first time he had helped you out of your clothes, but this time was different. There was no rush to feel your skin against his. No desperate need to fuck – no, it was more intimate than that.

When you nodded again, Quinn reached down with a careful touch and loosened the waistband. He felt you shimmy and slipped down his chest as you struggled to push them down with him seated behind you and instead of letting you struggle, he helped. Quinn moved slowly, easing you off his chest into a sitting position before he moved to kneel in front of you. There, he carefully tugged the denim down your legs, his hands steady and gentle as he held his breath, forcing himself to remain focused.

“Almost done,” he promised you as he pushed up from the floor and arched over the side of the bathtub. He turned on the water and remained there, his hand hovering over one faucet then the other as he debated: Hotter? No, colder. Bubbles? No bubbles? He had no idea what he was doing, but not once did you complain as you waited with your head in your hands.

When the tub was filled up just right, Quinn kicked off his shoes and reached down to the waist of his own pants and worked them down to his ankles. He kicked them out of the way before kicking his socks off with them.

“What are you doing? Quinn!” Your question became a soft yelp as he scooped you into his arms.

“We’re getting in the tub,” he told you simply, stepping in first before settling down with you between his legs and against his chest.

The hot water lapped against his skin as he helped you, the fabric of his t-shirt floating weightlessly around you. His hands moved slowly through the water, scooping it up and letting the water trickle down over your shoulders and neck.

“Is this helping?” He whispered against your temple, pressing the faintest kiss there.

You didn’t speak, answering him with nothing but a nod again.

Then, you almost startled him, as your hand found his beneath the water. They laced together slowly, your touch drawing his hand to your chest and hugging it there. You relaxed against him, the tension melting away in the heat of the water as you whispered, “Thank you, Quinn.”

TAGLIST: @mp0625 , @starshine-hockey-girl , @wingedwheelprxncess , @kurlyteuvo , @couldawouldashoulda50 , @hagelpoint-3821 , @macklin-celebrini-71 , @m00nlightdelights , @laurenairay , @idonthaveaclue

Join my taglist.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #vancouver canucks #hockey rpf #hockey imagines #nhl rpf #nhl fanfic

406 notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 2 years ago

Note

hiii! with the chaos that was today’s career, could I request one with driver reader that she started telling her team that she wasn’t feeling good but still wanted to continue but the next moment she isn’t answering her radio because she fainted in the car and the car goes out, the marshals take her out of the car and she doesn’t wake up, maybe she has extreme dehydration and is hot to touch, etc.

How the other drivers react when they found out, her team, etc.

Thank you

Too Hot To Handle

Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!Reader

Summary: the Qatar Grand Prix pushed every driver to the limit … and some past the limit

Warnings: heat stroke, dehydration, crash, medical conditions

The Lusail International Circuit hums with electric anticipation, its asphalt ribbon shimmering under the floodlights. The roar of the crowd fills the night but the oppressive heat weighs on everyone, creating a contrasting atmosphere of excitement and cautious apprehension.

Standing alongside your Red Bull Racing car, you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow. In only your first year with the reigning double champions, you already have a record that has quickly become the talk of the paddock. But for all the praise and whispers, there is one voice that stands out.

“Remember, liefje, it’s not just about speed tonight. Keep hydrated, alright?” Max’s voice is full of warmth and concern. His hand rests gently on your arm.

You flash him a confident smile even though you’re battling your nerves internally. “I’ve raced in heat before, Maxie. I won in Singapore. I’ll be fine.”

He pulls you into a quick embrace, the temperature doing little to dampen the spark between you. “It’s different here. This heat ... it’s like nothing I’ve ever raced in before.”

Pulling back, you raise an eyebrow teasingly. “You worried about me, Verstappen?”

He laughs but there’s a hint of steely seriousness in his blue eyes. “Always. Just ... promise me you’ll be careful out there. For both our sakes.”

You nod, touching your helmet to his. “Promise.”

The intercom in your ear crackles to life. “Drivers, to your cars!”

You both exchange a final glance. Racing is in your blood, it’s what brought you together, but it also keeps you apart, if only for the few hours you’re no longer partners in life but competitors on track.

Sliding into your car, you secure your helmet and gloves. The world outside becomes a bit muffled but your focus sharpens. The engine’s purr is a familiar comfort, but tonight, it’s edged with the unease Max’s words left behind.

Your race engineer, Hugh Bird, checks in over the radio, “Everything good, Y/N?”

You take a deep breath, “As good as it’ll ever be. Let’s light up this track.”

“Give them a show.”

Lights out and away we go.

***

The Qatar Grand Prix unfolds with its usual mix of intensity and skill, drivers navigating tight turns and overtaking with precision. But beneath the spectacle, a subtle tension mounts. The oppressive heat, the stark floodlights, and the weight of expectation — all of it seems to be building to something.

In the garage and on the pit wall, your team closely monitors the race and your performance. Hugh occasionally chimes in with updates, “You’re doing great, Y/N. Remember to hydrate whenever you need to.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, “Understood. The heat’s something else in here.”

A pause. Then, “Just keep stead. And Max told GP to tell me to tell you to remember what he said.”

A smile touches your lips, “I always do.”

***

The track is a blur as you push your car to its limits, feeling the adrenaline surge in tandem with the roar of the engines. It’s as if the heat has seeped into your very core, burning with intensity. Each lap feels slightly longer, every turn a tad sharper, as the humid air takes its toll.

“Y/N,” Hugh radioes through, sounding distant and slightly distorted by the pounding in your head, “you’re P2. Great pace. Remember to sip some water.”

A trickle of sweat runs down the side of your face, stinging your eye. Blinking rapidly, you reach for the button that activates your hydration system.

“Got it,” your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. The water is lukewarm and tastes metallic, not as refreshing as you had hoped.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he urges.

With every lap, the world outside your visor seems to grow brighter, the floodlights shimmering like mirages in a desert. The race has become a battle, not just against other drivers but against the environment and, increasingly, against yourself.

“You’re dropping pace. Is everything alright?” Hugh’s concerned voice crackles through.

A knot tightens in your stomach. “I don’t know. I ...” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as a wave of overwhelming dizziness hits.

You can hear the alarm in your engineer’s voice becoming more pronounced. “Y/N, talk to me. Do we need to pit?”

The heat wraps around you, constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Your hands, slick with sweat, struggle to grip the wheel even through your gloves. “Guys ... I don’t ... feel ...” The world spins and your words falters.

“Y/N? Y/N, talk to me!”

But before you can respond, before you can even finish your sentence, the world tilts and blurs into an incomprehensible whirlwind. The sweltering heat, the relentless pursuit of victory, and the weight of expectation converge into a maelstrom that engulfs you entirely.

Your hands, once deftly steering the RB19, now hang limply by your sides. The car veers off the track, careening towards the barriers. Panic rises in you but it’s too late. Your body refuses to act.

The deafening sound of metal against metal fills your ears, followed by the nauseating sensation of impact. The world outside your cockpit twists and spins, a kaleidoscope of colors and chaos. Then, abruptly, it all goes dark.

In the garage, your team watches in horror as the monitors show the violent crash. The radio falls silent, the connection severed. In that heartbeat, the world goes eerily quiet, punctuated only by the distant echoes of screeching tires and the blaring alarms.

Moments pass like hours and finally the static on the radio clears, replaced by your frantic race engineer, “—please respond. Y/N? Are you okay?”

But there’s no response. Your world remains shrouded in darkness as the circuit comes to a standstill, gripped by an eerie silence that drowns out even the most deafening of cheers.

The track is plunged into chaos. Red flags wave fervently, signaling danger. Marshals rush towards your wrecked car, their fluorescent jackets contrasting brightly against the night.

“Get her out! Get her out!” One of the marshals shouts as they reach your car. Your limp form is carefully extracted and they begin immediate first aid. The severity of the situation is clear — the heat, the dehydration, it’s all taken its toll.

The crowd watches, a collective gasp filling the air soon replaced by a thick, heavy silence. As your unconscious form is stretchered away, the weight of all those warnings crashes down.

Back on the pit wall, four words whispered into the radio are the first of many about to turn your boyfriend’s world upside down.

“Safety car, safety car.”

***

“Max, we’re pitting this lap. Box, box,” the calm, steady voice of Gianpiero Lambiase, Max’s race engineer, instructs over the radio.

Max’s voice is curt, his mind still on the race. “Why? Tires feel fine.”

“Non-negotiable. Safety car is out. We need you to pit now.”

The urgency in GP’s voice is not lost on Max and he immediately senses that something is wrong. “What happened? Why is there a safety car?”

Silence follows for a heartbeat too long. “There was an incident. Just focus on your race.”

An icy dread seeps into Max’s bones. The circuit is massive yet his world feels terribly small at this moment. “Who was it? Who crashed?”

His engineer hesitates, and in that pause, the weight of a thousand possibilities presses on Max.

“Who. Was. It?”

GP wavers, “It’s … Y/N.”

Max’s breathing becomes ragged. Panic and fear flood his system. “Why the hell wasn’t I told immediately?”

“It was team orders. The decision was made to keep you focused on the race.”

Max laughs but it lacks any humor. “Team orders? You’re saying Christian decided not to tell me that Y/N ... my Y/N is hurt?”

“Yes,” the reply is uncharacteristically soft, “It was believed to be in everyone’s best interest for you to be fully focused on the race.”

Max has never felt such white-hot rage. He spits into the radio, seething with fury and pain. “You tell Christian that if he ever makes a decision like that again about someone I love, I’ll cut his balls off with a rusty spoon.”

“Max, I understand you’re upset. But right now, we need you to stay focused.”

Stay focused? When the love of his life is in potential danger? The weight of what that means presses down, threatening to crush him. “I need to see her,” he finally rasps out, voice breaking.

The plea hangs in the air, met by another long silence. Finally, the radio clicks on again, softer than ever. “Y/N would want you to finish. You know that. Win this for her.”

Tears blur Max’s vision, mixing with the sweat already pooling in his helmet, but he nods, a silent assent. The roaring engine now sounds distant, the glinting lights a backdrop to the storm that rages within him. Every second is an eternity, every turn a test of his resolve to keep racing. But Max drives on, pushing his limits for you.

Every fiber of his being silently screams your name, a prayer or a promise or both, Max doesn’t know. All he knows is that the faster he crosses the finish line, the sooner he can be with you.

For the world watching, the race continues, cars whizzing by. But for Max Verstappen, each lap, each second, is a race against his own heart, torn between duty and desperate love.

***

“Her pulse is erratic! Get the defibrillator ready!” A medic shouts as the emergency team frantically works around you, the ambulance parked haphazardly nearby.

Another voice, calmer but filled with urgency, counters, “Wait, give her a moment. She might come around.”

“Come on, Y/N,” A young medic mutters, pressing an oxygen mask to your face. “Don’t do this.”

The ambulance door opens again, the head medic speaking into a radio, “We need an airlift, now. The situation’s deteriorating rapidly.”

Another voice, muffled, replies, “The helicopter’s on its way! Clear the area.”

As the medics continue to administer aid, working desperately to stabilize you, the chief medic tries to maintain order, “Every second counts. This heat stroke is severe, coupled with dehydration ... it’s a nightmare scenario.”

“We should have had more cooling stations,” the younger medic mutters. “The humidity coupled with the heat ... it’s brutal tonight. And we’re not even the ones out there driving.”

The older medic takes a deep breath. “That is on the organizations. We can’t fix there mistakes but we can focus on what happening now and do everything we can to get her through this.”

The thrum of helicopter blades soon overwhelms the noise of the circuit, growing louder as it approaches. Soon, the bright light from its landing spotlight punctuates the night. “The helicopter’s here!” Someone shouts.

“Alright, team, on three,” the chief medic commands. They work in perfect sync, lifting you carefully but quickly, your body still unresponsive.

As they approach the helicopter, the pilot shouts over the roar, “We’ve got the best onboard. She’s in good hands.”

“She’s one of our best,” the younger medic shouts back. “She has to be okay.”

The chief medic, securing you inside, murmurs more to himself than anyone else, “Come on, Y/N. The race isn’t over. Keep fighting.”

***

“You expect me to smile and stand on that podium knowing she’s been airlifted to a hospital?” Max’s voice trembles with rage as he confronts the FIA officials blocking his way.

“Mr. Verstappen, there are rules, procedures,” an official replies stiffly.

“Rules? Y/N might be fighting for her life right now and you want to talk to me about rules?” Max’s hands clench and unclench as he physically holds himself back from throwing a punch.

Another official steps forward, trying to mediate, “Max, we understand your feelings but millions of viewers are watching. The podium is an essential part of the race.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger. “You think I care about a trophy when my girlfriend is in a hospital? Do you really think that piece of metal means anything to me right now?”

“We sympathize— ” the first official begins but is cut off by Max’s heated response.

“You sympathize? Do you even know what that word means?” He’s on the verge of breaking, voice barely above a whisper as he continues, “She is everything to me. Everything. And you want me to smile and wave for the cameras?”

The air grows thick with tension. The two drivers from McLaren waiting for their cue to go to the podium are silent, their eyes darting between Max and the officials.

A new voice interjects , “Let him go.”

It’s Lewis Hamilton, who despite DNFing early in the race, made his way across the paddock after seeing the distress on his rival’s face. “There are things more important than a ceremony.”

The officials exchange glances, clearly not expecting this intervention. But before they can reply, Max levels them with a final scathing look. “Fine me if you must! Penalize me! Suspend me for all I care! But I am going to her.”

And off he goes.

***

A nurse at the desk recognizes Max immediately when he runs into the hospital. “Mr. Verstappen,” she begins hesitantly, “Miss Y/L/N is in the ICU. Room 302.”

He doesn’t need any further prompting to sprint down the hall. Reaching the room, he stops dead in his tracks. You’re there, surrounded by machines that beep and whirr, tubes running to and from you, an oxygen mask on your face. The sight of you, once so full of life, now frail and vulnerable, breaks him.

His voice, when he finally managed to finds it, is a choked whisper, “Y/N ...”

Approaching the bedside, Max gently takes your hand, feeling its clamminess. “Hey, liefje ... it’s me,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. His tears fall freely, wetting the back of your hand.

“Come on, love,” his voice cracks as he continues, “You’ve got to pull through this. For us.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tracing the familiar curves and lines he’s come to adore. “Remember that time in Monaco? When we snuck out for that secret dinner that our trainers would have killed us for? We promised each other forever that night. You can’t leave me now. Not when we’ve got so many more memories left to make.”

The room’s silence is punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in a cruel reminder of the fragility of the moment.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs. “Please ... please come back to me.”

Leaning in, he rests his forehead against yours, allowing the weight of his anguish, love, and hope to flow between the two of you in the sterile room.

***

Nothing has changed. The steady beep of the heart monitor still punctuates the silence of the hospital room. Max sits vigilantly at your bedside, his hand gently clasping yours.

It’s been three days since the crash and you still have not woken up. The doctors say your condition is stable but uncertain.

Max leans in close and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Morning, liefje. I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle as if you might break. In the stark hospital lighting, the dark circles under his eyes are visible. Sleep hasn’t come easy to him, not with you lying here.

A soft knock at the door draws Max’s attention. Hugh pokes his head in hesitantly. “Hey, Max. Any change?”

Max shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing yet. But she’s fighting. I know she is.”

Your race engineer steps further into the room, his expression solemn. “I should have seen the signs earlier. Pushed her to hydrate more. Slowed her pace.” His voice catches, “It was my job to look out for her.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Max says firmly. “Y/N is stubborn. We both know that. She wanted to prove herself.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It’s what makes her brilliant.”

Hugh pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. For a moment, the two men sit in pensive silence. Then your race engineer speaks again, softer this time. “Has she ... has she responded at all? Squeezed your hand or anything?”

Max clenches his jaw and stares past Hugh at the blank wall. “No. Nothing yet. But I know she can hear me. I tell her about training, the team ... I update her on everything. She’ll want to jump right back in when she wakes up.”

Footsteps approach and a nurse enters, checking the equipment and your vitals. After making some notes on a chart, she offers an encouraging smile. “No change but she seems stable. Just keep talking to her. Familiar voices help.”

After she departs, Hugh leans forward, clasping your still hand. “Hear that, Y/N? You’ve got to wake up. The team needs you. Your fans are all rooting for you. And ...” His voice cracks. “I need my driver back.”

Max looks at him gratefully. “We all need her back.” Reaching out, he gives your race engineer’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Another knock sounds. This time, it’s Christian. His face is etched with guilt and worry. “Max. Any improvement today?”

Max’s expression hardens. He hasn’t forgotten Christian’s decision to withhold news of your crash. But his voice remains even as he responds to the team principal. “Nothing new.”

Christian pulls up a chair next to Hugh. He chooses his next words carefully. “Max, I need to apologize. I made the wrong call that night. You deserved to know immediately about Y/N. My priorities were skewed.” His voice shakes slightly. “Seeing her like this ... I would give anything to go back and change what I did.”

Max studies him for a long moment and some of the hardness leaves his eyes. “I appreciate that. But right now, the past doesn’t matter. All that matters is her getting better.”

Christian nods. Reaching out, he gently smoothes your hair. “You hear that, Y/N? We’re all here for you. Your whole team. Now you need to come back to us.”

A heavy silence settles on the room once more. The three of them remain clustered around the bed … keeping vigil … willing you to show any small sign of recovery.

After some time passes, the ringing of Hugh’s phone snaps the three men out of their thoughts. “Sorry to interrupt,” your press officer’s voice filters through the speaker, “but the team’s on the line. They want to send their well wishes to Y/N.”

Hugh glances at Max questioningly who nods, “Patch them through. Let the whole team remind her why she needs to wake up.”

A smile tugs at your race engineer’s lips. “You got it. Go ahead, team. She can hear you.”

A chorus of voices floods the room. Your mechanics, pit crew, strategists, PR team … everyone chimes in with encouraging messages.

“Come on, Y/N! We need our star girl back on the grid.”

“You can do this, kid. You’re the toughest one out there!”

“We all believe in you. Keep fighting!”

Max grips your hand tighter, emotions threatening to spill over. Even Christian and Hugh have sheens of tears in their eyes.

“Alright,” your race engineer says after the team signs off. “You heard them. Time to wake up.”

And that’s when Max feels it. A short, weak squeeze of his hand.

Then your eyelids begin to flutter.

“Y/N?” Max leaps to his feet, leaning over you anxiously. “Can you hear me?”

Slowly, painfully, your eyes open, taking in the scene around you. Confusion clouds your expression. “M-Max?” You rasp.

A brilliant smile breaks across Max’s face. Relief floods through him so powerful that his knees nearly buckle as he chokes out, “Yes, yes it’s me! You’re back, liefje. You’re really back.”

Hugh lets out a shaky laugh, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Welcome back, superstar.”

You try to speak again but Max hushes you gently. “Save your strength. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk.”

Christian grins, looking years younger. “Oh thank god. I need to tell the team. They’ll be thrilled. Welcome back, Y/N.” He hurries from the room, phone already in hand.

Your race engineer squeezes your shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll all be here when you wake up.”

As he and the nurse move discreetly out of the room, you gaze up at Max. “You ... you stayed.”

Max lifts your hand to his lips, blinking back tears. “Of course I stayed. I’ll always stay by your side.”

He leans down, pressing his lips against your chapped ones. All the fear, the uncertainty, the heartache of the past few days melts away.

You’re back. You’re really back. And Max knows, without a shred of doubt, that your lives from this day on will be greater and more meaningful than all your wildest dreams.

***

In the following days, drivers from across the grid make the pilgrimage to your hospital room. They come bearing gifts — flowers, balloons, even a nearly life-size plush race car. But more importantly, they come bearing a message.

“That race should never have happened,” Lewis says solemnly, handing you a get-well card covered in signatures. “The heat was dangerous. We should have acted sooner.”

Esteban grips your hand tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N. We should have spoken up about the conditions sooner. We all suffered but you suffered most.”

“Your crash woke us all up,” Lance adds. “No trophy is worth risking drivers’ safety even more than we already do each race.”

You’re moved by their solidarity but sigh knowingly. “The FIA would never have listened to just one driver saying something. But maybe they’ll listen to all of us.”

Max’s jaw clenches, residual anger simmering beneath the surface. “They have to listen. We won’t race in unsafe conditions again.”

The other drivers nod, They know the power that you all wield together and for the first time in a long time, you are going to use it.

In a show of outspoken unity, the GPDA drafts a strongly worded letter condemning the lack of caution around extreme heat and demanding tangible changes to make sure drivers aren’t put in avoidable jeopardy.

All twenty of you threaten to strike.

To your surprise, the FIA not only apologizes for the oversight but pledges to implement the requested changes immediately.

“Your crash was a wake-up call,” the FIA president says solemnly during a visit to your hospital room. “We should have protected you better. That will never happen again.”

When he departs, you let out a long breath, leaning back against the pillows. The anger and hurt from that night haven’t disappeared entirely but you feel a sense of hope, that some good has come from the experience.

Max clasps your hand between both of his. “What you went through is unacceptable but you used that to make the sport safer for every driver out there. I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a tired smile. “We did this together. All of us.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest. When you’re better, we’ve got plenty more checkered flags to take. Side by side.”

The long road to full recovery still lies ahead. But with Max by your side, and all the drivers behind you, you know everything will be okay.

The race goes on but it will be a safer race thanks to you.

5K notes · View notes

little-miss-dilf-lover · 3 months ago

Text

ALWAYS BEEN THE FAVOURITE. 18+ [PART THREE]

tangerine x fem!reader

wc. 3833 summary. following the events of PLAYING THE FAVOURITE, your boss finds himself knocking at your door, returning something you’d forgotten in his office. you offer him inside with the promise of tea as a thanks, but only end up finishing off what you started this morning. several months worth of feelings pouring into a singular night warnings. boss x secretary!! general filth, a whole load of foreplay, dry humping bc I luv it, throat holding, protected pinv sex. mdni // YEEAAAAAH FINALLY GET THEM FUCKING!�� also ik this isn’t tan, ive ran out of icons for him and this is only one that suits. just pretend he’s temporarily growing out his beard kay?

SERIES MASTERLIST

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Several hours had passed since the kiss, the memory of it just as fresh as if it had happened mere moments ago. It played on repeat all afternoon, occupying your every thought. A persistent memory following you home and through the shower you had taken to cleanse your mind. But still, to no avail, it remained intact. The kiss just as vivid.

Your boss failed to return back to you after promising to.‘I won't be long,’ appearing to be faulted words. But that feeling of hurt was short lived, a call to reception with Tangerine on the other side explaining the delay — letting you know almost immediately that plans were to overrun.

And with him out of the building for the rest of the day, you spent the last half of your shift in his office, playing boss at his desk. And while you sat in his chair, bored with lack of work, you found yourself observing what the office floor is like from the view of his enclosed windowed room. You found yourself staring at your desk through the windows, seeing an almost unobstructed view through the gap in the blinds. All of your desk’s trinkets and snowglobes and novelty knick-knacks on clear display.

It left you wondering how often you fell victim to his stares and glances.

The events from this morning never seemed to part from you, memories and thoughts following you past dinner time. By now it had grown dark and you had started to settle down for the night, cleaned and washed — dressed in a long lounge dress and a knitted jumper. Odd, mismatched socks accompanying your slippers.

You leave your bedroom and head into the living room, flicking on your assorted collection of lamps and fairy lights. You reach to close the curtains, but when you catch a glimpse out the window, you see a car parked out front. A car rather similar to your boss’.

You stand there for a moment while you wait for the person to leave the car, mystery and intrigue growing when you see the person fiddling with a piece of paper. And then you spot him, Tangerine stepping out of the car, your metal water bottle and a post-it note in his hand as he checks it with the street's signs. Your eyes widen at the sight, following his movements and watching him get closer to the main building door.

You hear a buzz come from the wall intercom by your door and you jump, the sound acting as an alarm and bringing you back to reality. You anxiously waft your hands at your sides as your slippers scruffle across the floor — making your way to the door. With a steady inhale to calm yourself, you press the button.

He calls your name, a questioning tone to it.

“Hi, yeah, it’s me,” you respond, eyes closing as you press your forehead against the wall.

“You forgot your bottle in my office,” he says, voice somewhat hesitant. “Wanted to bring it to you so it doesn’t go mouldy over the weekend.”

It sounded like an excuse.

You smile at the consideration, and wait a beat, seeming to battle the thoughts in your head before finally giving in. You buzz him in and shake your head, pushing away the shame for what this may mean. What it may lead to.

With your boss on his way to your apartment floor, you rush over to the kitchen counter and fill up the kettle — wanting to offer a reasoning for him to stick around. You pop it onto its place to boil, repeatedly hitting at the switch as if it were to make it quicker.

The door knocks and you exhale, the sound wavering in pitch as you turn to face the door. You grab onto the handle and slowly pull it open, being met with your boss on the other side, his blazer folded over his arm.

“Hi, there.”

“Got it from HR,” he says simply, holding the orange paper square with your address scribbled on. He smiles for a brief moment, eyes flickering over your face until they momentarily focus on your lips — the memory of them seeming to act as a distraction. He clears his throat and extends his arm, offering your bottle — the charms jingling with the movement. “Think you forgot something.”

“Thank you,” you smile, taking it from his hold. “Can’t believe I forgot it.”

He couldn’t believe it either. You rarely let it leave your side and it made him question whether it was even an accident at all.

It wasn’t.

“It’s no problem,” he nods, hesitant footing making him linger in place.

The kettle flicks and your mouth opens, shutting abruptly like you were battling with yourself — questioning whether letting him in would be a mistake. But, you decide against the doubts.

“The kettle is hot,” you play with the chain on the door as you begin your offer. “I was about to make a drink… if you wanted one too?”

He nods, his response quick. It’s like he was eager, waiting for the invitation even. “Yeah, that’ll be nice.”

You smile and open your door wider, letting him into your space. He stills as he slips off his shoes, looking around your apartment as if he has just stepped inside your brain, your soul. Flat intricately decorated: artwork on the walls, lamps on almost every surface, looked after plants hanging from the ceiling, handmade items scattered almost everywhere. Anything he had previously pictured — far better. Your apartment an extension of your personality and desk at work.

“Nice place,” he says as he looks around, placing his blazer on the counter. Voice quiet like he’s in awe — eyes always seeming to land on something new.

You focus on the side of his face, watching the genuine appreciation in his features.

“Thank you,” you say softly, words heartfelt.

No man has ever shown interest in your apartment quite like Tangerine. Your bed being the only thing that appeals to the men you’d occasionally bring back.

His eyes drift to you as he follows your voice, noticing something delicate, something somber in your tone. He twists inwards, standing in front of you. You reach for the end of his loosened tie and fiddle with the point of it, eyes cast down at your fidgeting. He too glances down, watching the mindless toying — focusing on the fabric weave between your fingers.

He pulls his hands from his trouser pockets, reaching upwards to you with no such hesitation as before. He rests the inners of his hands over your ears, his hold on your face carefully firm as he tilts your head back, making you look at him. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours.

You’re quick to return the kiss, eager to pick up from where you left off this morning. And it was noticeable. Very noticeable: strained breath, wandering touches, kisses growing deeper — all if an indication for something more.

“I really want you,” you admit through kisses, your hold on his tie rising. “Do you want me?” you question, suddenly far too aware of your own thoughts.

He parts from the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, tips of noses touching. He allows a brief moment to let those words marinate in his head, questioning whether that even needed to be questioned at all.

Tangerine thumbs over your cheeks, eyes fixed on yours through the closeness. “Of course,” he whispers, voice soft and genuine. “Of course I do,” he repeats, emphasising his genuinity.

Your grip on his tie tightens, the hold you have near the collar brings his lips closer — pulling him in to kiss you again.

“Wait right here,” you speak against him and pull away, heading for your room.

Though he doesn’t quite listen, his brain and ears currently incapable of deciphering commands after that little act of yours. He trails after you, pausing by the sofa as he watches you search the drawers in your bedroom.

You find what you're after, holding a little square packet between index and middle finger — making your way back to him.

“It’s ribbed,” you quip, holding it out for him to take.

“Is it now?” he chuckles, placing the condom onto the arm of the couch after giving it a quick once over.

You smile and take a step closer, hands reaching for his waist. “Yeah, and it’s my last one.”

He presses a string of soft, slow kisses to your lips, a wandering hand finding itself settling on the back of your neck. “Promise I won’t break it,” he muffles against you, grip falling down your back — trailing leisurely down the thick knit.

Stepping forwards, he follows pursuit, taking one back until he’s sitting on the sofa behind him. You stand between his parted knees and kick off your slippers, one pink sock and one purple sock covering your feet. Each of them patterned with something different.

But your boss seems rather impatient, his perched forward seated position indicating a matter of urgency. He reaches for your waist, grip firm as he guides you closer, making you straddle one of his thighs. He slips his hands under your jumper, holding the fabric by the hem as he slowly drags it off you, pulling it off over your head.

He places it aside, hands returning to the side of your face — pulling you back in to resume what he had started: kissing you like a man starved of touch. His palms graze to your exposed neck, travelling along your bare shoulders to slip under the straps of your dress.

You slide a hand back into his hair, fingers toying with the curls at the back of his neck — the mindless fiddling just like your other hand situated on his lower stomach. Your touch lowers, skimming over the bulge in his trousers to casually cup his cock.

A bubble gets caught in his throat, a faint groan being muffled between urgent moving lips. Pulling you into him, he twists, setting you lengthwise along the sofa. He moves to hover atop you, bringing one of your knees to hug at his hip, your dress rising with it. He winds himself closer between your thighs, the feel of his cock far more weighty than you had imagined it to be.

You move a hand from behind his neck and instead cup his face almost, thumb in the hollow of his cheek, index in the other — guiding his face to you like you too are starved of touch. Starved of genuine and compassionate touch.

You kiss him with that same fervour as before. Small anticipatory, experimental rocks of your hips wind up against him, as if you're eager to alleviate the tension between your thighs.

He trails his hand down your arm and towards the hand you have on his face. Interlocking his fingers with yours, he peels it from him, simultaneously pulling from the kiss. You peer up at him precautiously, afraid of overstepping a line somehow, but those doubts are soon reassured — his lips pressing faint, light kisses into the palm of your hand.

You watch him from your laid position, staring at the tenderness in his actions. His eyes soft and touch gentle, all the acts one would do when in love.

“You make me feel like a real person,” he admits, voice delicate as he looks over you. Eyes flickering like they were seeking something similar in return.

“You make me feel comfortable with myself,” you too admit, participating in a moment’s honesty unaided.

With your confession, he’s placing a hand on the base of your throat, index finger slotted under your ear — holding you comfortably to press a string of kisses to your lips, each one growing sloppier and deeper.

You wind yourself up against the chubbed up cock in his trousers, being met with a similar motion on his end. The rocking circular grind of his hips also an attempt to rid the slightest bit of tension. All of what you’re each feeling right now seeming to be overbearing.

You snake your arms in to fit between your chests, your fingers finding themselves fiddling with the buttons of his shirt — desperately trying to get him out of it. Undoing the first few buttons and further loosening his tie, you slip them both over his head, yanking it from him needily.

He presses a final kiss to the corner of your mouth as he sits back on his heels. Perching between your spread thighs, he grabs at the hem of your dress, dragging it up the length of your body below. Mustard yellow undies and teal blue bralette being revealed for his starved eyes to see.

Leaning forward he litters a faint cluster of kisses to your middle, unable to help himself — getting distracted it appears. The pecks to your skin raise as does the fabric of your dress, kisses being planted into newly revealed patches of skin until your dress has been fully discarded.

And while he’s ridding you of your clothes, you’re trying the same with his trousers, antsy, hurried fingers finnicking with his belt.

“Get these off,” you murmur, struggling to undress him with the obstructed view and funny angle.

He pulls from the valley of your tits where his face currently resides, head shaking faintly as he chuckles. Hand moving from your neck to his front, he unbuckles his belt with a singular hand, dropping it to the floor.

You perch yourself up slightly, resting on bent elbows behind you. Peering up at him to get a better look — you flicker over his chest, finally seeing what’s underneath those shirts. Your gaze wanders over his skin, slowly taking it all in when you notice a scar on his shoulder. A circular lightened patch of skin.

You balance on one elbow, your other arm extending towards it.

“What’s this?” you ask, voice gentle while your eyes remain firm. Your focus deep.

He looks down to his shoulder, watching your middle finger trace over the memory. The bad memory. It’s like you were somehow replacing those negative associated feelings with something positive, something loving and heartfelt.

“Did a job in Japan,” he replies, the response short, quite like he wasn’t keen to revisit old events.

You pick up on it, eyes moving to follow his when they divert. You bring your hand to your face, lips pressing a kiss to your thumb to then stamp onto his scar — sealing in a physical testament of your unexpressed love.

His eyes soften as he watches the act play out, his heart swelling more than he thought could ever be possible. Everything you do seeming to make him swoon just that bit more.

You straighten the elbow behind you, using it to push from your laid position until you're sat upright, close to Tangerine once again. Reaching past him, you grab the condom from the arm of the sofa and tear it open. Your boss follows suit, pace hurried as he pushes down his trousers and boxers, eager to keep this moving.

His hands settle on the crook of your neck, thumbs gliding up your throat on either side, the slight force of his hold tilting your head back. As if he was far more interested in the sight of your face than what was going on between his legs.

You reach up to kiss him as you grab a hold of his stiffened cock, giving him a few preparatory pumps. Like you’re readying him just that bit more before popping the rubber atop the head of his dick, sliding it downwards to sit snugly at the base.

You move your hands upwards, stroking along his lower stomach until your palms sit on his sides. Holding him fairly firm, you initiate the old position — keeping him close as you lean back, taking him with you. He steadies himself, an elbow bent beside your head to keep his weight off you, not so keen to crush you.

“Need to be inside you,” he murmurs into your lips, composure growing sparse.

Letting go of your loose hold on his waist, your hands fall to your sides, just above the band of your underwear. You sneak your fingers into the elastic and tug downwards, hips lifting accordingly as you shimmy yourself out of the fabric, kicking them off your ankles.

The hand sitting beside your throat moves to slide between you, reaching for his cock. He guides himself closer to you, neck hanging loosely as he peers down between your bodies, watching himself itch to your cunt. Once he feels his head bump against your entrance, the point of entry located — he locks eyes with you, eager to see it all in your face. See what he’s been waiting months for.

He sinks into you slowly, letting your pussy take him at its pace. Little by little until no more of him remains. The whole length of him still as his dick practically plugs you.

“Forgive me… it’s been a while,” he mutters, forehead resting against yours. Movement halted in his hips.

You slip your hand into his by your side. Guiding it to your face, you bring him to your lips — pressing soft, reassuring kisses into his knuckles, trying to ease him. For you it had also been a while, maybe not as long as him, but still, a substantial length of time. Especially compared to what you’re used to.

“It’s perfect, you’re perfect,” you muffle into him, kisses lowering to his fingers. Worshipping the hands that have touched pure evil, that have caused pure evil with nothing but adoration.

His gaze casts downwards as he watches you, the insurmountable pools of love he has for you visible within the softness of his eyes. All of his feelings clear. No shame or doubt behind those pretty blues.

Tangerine rolls into you subtly, cock bumping up into you in a way that knocks the air from your lungs, in a way that momentarily makes you struggle for breath. He thumbs over your bottom and parted lip, eyes intently following the movement before he slips it into your mouth — the slight weight of it resting on your tongue. Lips wrapping around it, you hold him there.

He begins to move into you, hips winding against yours as he fills you entirely with him, slipping in and out with leisure rhythm. Each pump unsystematic and irregular, like the concept of haste was out of the question. As if the only goal was to feel you.

He removes his thumb from between your lips, letting the tip skim across them for a short moment before pulling away, repositioning it to sit at the side of your tit. The thumb that was between your lips moves into the top of your bralette, the force of his grip tugging downwards — exposing your breast. The full weight of it sits atop the thin laced fabric.

Your eyes follow his down to your chest, the wet pad of his thumb itches closer and closer to your nipple. He circles it languidly, the pace slow as he matches the movements to his thrusts. Pairing the motions in a way so intricate that no man with you ever has.

His head ducks as he presses a clump of kisses to the top part of your other tit, giving it similar attention.

“I—” you start, strained voice cutting short with a moan. You swallow thick like an attempt of evening your breathing, steadying yourself. “I uhm—” you try again. A surprise deep bump of his cock knocks any sense of cohesion from your brain, the air from your lungs too. The declaration you’re working up to getting scrambled.

Through your uncertain speech, he peers up at you, lips still pressed to your skin.

“I think I love you,” you whisper, admitting it aloud for the first time.

He pulls from your chest, face reaching yours as he hovers above it, nose skimming yours. “Think?” he repeats, gaze softening.

You shake your head faintly. “I love you,” you correct yourself, reaching up to kiss him.

“I love you,” he whispers to your lips, pulling away a brief second later to watch the response in your eyes.

“You do?” you sweetly question him, a smile forming as you rake through his curls — pushing strands behind his ears..

He nods. “I do.”

“I love you.”

Mindless but fully intentional ‘I love you’s being muttered from your mouths, each one following after a wind of his hips.

And before you’re even aware of it, the pattern of his thrusts grows more and more regular, the ending getting closer for you both. The pair of you reaching that said end within several moments of each other.

Tangerine’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he gives you each a second to stabilise, cock beginning to soften inside of you. You press a kiss to his bicep beside you, littering the worn muscles with something tender — absentminded little smooches to his skin as he hovers limply atop you.

His fingers brush up and down your sides, like he was offering assurance and comfort, easing you in case you were to be feeling doubts. He inhales deeply as he peels himself from you, cock also retracting from you. Tangerine kneels between your spread thighs, fingers drawing lazy lines over your knee.

You look up at him, a somewhat coy and tentative expression on your face.

“Are you leaving?” you ask, tone comparable to hurt.

“Afraid not,” he leans over, planting a kiss to your sternum.

“No?” you smile.

He tucks your breast back into your bra, smoothing over the fabric. “No,” he firmly shakes his head. He straightens his back, resuming the prior position as he reaches for his boxers. “Got a bin?” he asks, carefully yanking the condom from himself, holding it in his hand.

You shake your head as you sit, reaching for a tissue from the coffee table. “It’s in the kitchen,” you respond, handing it to him. “Don’t throw it out, though.”

He folds the used rubber in the paper, eyes narrowing at you like he was confused.

“I want to keep it,” you turn your back to him, hiding your grin as you slip on your underwear. “It’ll make a pretty suncatcher— the sun shining through the purple and on the walls. It’ll look good, don’t you think?” you pause, and turn to look at him, purposefully stiffening your expression.

“I’m sorry,” he says jocosely, the elastic of his boxers pinging as he partially clothes himself. “You want to hang my spunk… in your window?” he chuckles, pointing to your other hanging ornaments in his view.

“I was actually joking before but now I kinda want to,” you laugh softly, lounging back against the sofa.

He steps towards you and shakes his head humorously, leaning over to press an unrushed kiss into your hairline. “What a weird thing you are.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[ PART FOUR ]

#lmdl: his favourite #his favourite #tangerine #tangerine smut #tangerine x reader #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x you #tangerine fanfiction #tangerine x fem!reader

425 notes · View notes

endless-ineffabilities · 9 months ago

Text

chemical override (7)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: again, I'm thanking all of yous for fueling the chemical override fire! Your comments/messages are so sweet and hilarious and wild - just as this story demands <3 Happy reading!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The arrangement you and Ewan share is in place, but jealousy rears its ugly head when another costar takes an interest in you. It isn't Aemond's allegiance that renders Ewan green-eyed, so to speak...

London

Whenever Ewan needs you, you answer the call.

Because, in truth, you need him too. This might not be the most savoury of arrangements; it might not be what you pictured in your head when you thought of getting back together.

But this way, you can have him, and he can have you.

It's a win-win situation. Even if you're not his, and he's not yours, as he so nicely put it.

So you're there when his need arises. Which, as it happens, arises often - intense, wanton, and greedy. He takes you for himself, your body left littered with markings that can only be from his teeth, his fingers, his aching manhood.

Beads of sweat would cloud your vision as the side of your face is pressed to the mattress, your legs bent to give him better access, so that he sinks deeper. He would whisper, - you're mine... you're mine... fuckin' mine, darling - when he leans down to pant roughly in your ear, momentarily forgetting about the one condition of this whole thing.

You're not his. But as he finishes inside of you, claiming your lips in a bruising kiss, you also have it in you to conveniently forget.

Your respective apartments in London set the stage for your trysts. Ewan comes over so often that he's had to use the back entrance, after getting papped once on a foggy Sunday morning, leaving your apartment building in the same clothes that he wore when he entered at midnight.

LATE NIGHT RENDEZVOUS! - on page 6! Game of Thrones spinoff stars can't get enough of each other!

When Ewan said that the whole thing was going to be a secret, he must have failed to account for the near-impossibility of that notion for a celebrity.

What can be kept secret for those in your line of work?

A romance between two young, highly coveted actors will see the light of day eventually, aided by the blinding flashes of papparazzi cameras.

Predictably, your friends catch on and demand to know how you little lovebirds found your way back together, because of course, they always knew you would.

Sadly, you have to burst Phia's bubble when she calls one evening. "We're not back together."

A pause. She mulls it over. "But the papers..."

"I know."

"He's been seeing you... " She claims, her tone growing unsure.

"He has."

"Then what... oh." You can practically picture the realisation coming across her face. Would it be accompanied by distaste or disappointment? Neither is good anyhow.

"We're seeing each other. But, not really, if you get what I mean."

"No!" she exclaims. You can hear shuffling in the background, like she just slammed the book she was reading shut. "Whose brilliant idea was this?"

"That's doesn't mat - "

"It's Ewan's, isn't it?" she answers, confirming her own suspicion. "That little devious bastard."

"It's not his fault," you find yourself shaking your head, then you startle as the buzzer to your apartment gets your attention. The routine is in place - it's the receptionist letting you know that Ewan is in the lobby. Speak of the devil...

Hmm. You walk to the intercom to let him upstairs, thinking of him coming to claim his prize. But he's not the devil - he's my twisted angel, whose heart I broke.

Phia isn't finished. "What do you mean, it's not his fault? If this was his idea, then let me just talk to the lad and screw his bloody head on straight."

You stand by the door, waiting for his arrival, because whenever Ewan needs you, you're there.

You need him too.

"Phi, I... I want this," you reply. "I have to go."

"Babe, we're not done here. You're not getting off easy."

"I know, I know," you smile at her genuine concern. "Maybe you're right, maybe this all wrong." But...

You know you don't have to say it outright. It's there to see, clear as day.

You love him.

She sighs loudly, resigning herself to the truth of her friend's predicament. "You'll figure this out, the both of you."

"Hope so, Phi." The doorbell rings. You rush through your goodbyes, dropping the call with a promise to keep her updated on what she deems a ridiculous situation.

You greet him at the door, and he stands there, with his black hoodie obscuring his face like he's Daemon about to do some nefarious act of sorts. And he just might. He chews on his lip, and smirks as he takes you in.

"Darling," he greets as he lets himself in. He shrugs off his hoodie and drops it in its usual corner, before beckoning for you with his arms reaching.

He runs his fingers through your hair, as he kisses your neck and inhales your scent, purring, " - fuckin' missed you, beautiful - " as his skilled fingers find the hem of your old shirt.

"My darling girl," he says, and you so badly want to hate him, because he's not being fair. Why does he get to act like this matters to him, when he made it clear that this is only so both your needs are met? Why does he look at you in a way that makes your heart skip a beat in hope, with those same blue eyes that blazed when he once said he loved you?

How can you make sure that you don't fall back in love with him, when that love was never truly gone?

"Ewan," you moan as he pushes you against a wall, his rough hands kneading your flesh. You help him pull his shirt over his head, and your fingers drag upward along his skin until it finds the silver chain around his neck. You use it to pull him even closer, not a breadth of space between you.

He kisses you, and it's like an anchor finding home.

Yours or his, it matters little.

It nearly bubbles out of the two of you - those forbidden three words - each time his hips slam right into yours. It's almost there, fighting, waiting to be heard. His 'I really do fucking love you', and your 'I'm sorry about everything, about lying, all I ever wanted was you.'

Nearly. If only things were that simple.

He never stays for long afterward. Small talk is shared - about his new film, the ongoing production for yours, the upcoming engagements you both have for season 3 of House of the Dragon. The bloody weather, even.

The holidays have come and gone, and soon the two of you will again have to fly out to work - you, back to Atlanta; him, to LA for the pre-production of his film with Jenna Ortega.

He took on the film after all, and you should be relieved, but it's hard to feel any sense of ease when you know he will have to be with her in a way that he can't be with you. To the rest of the world, soon enough, they will have to play at being together. Your only claim to him rests in between the sheets, in the countless hollow trysts to be shared.

He doesn't reach for you after the deed is done, after his clothes are back in place and his hair is relieved of that post-sex tousle. As if touching you would cast him aflame.

But you feel his eyes linger on you, all the time, especially when you try to avert your gaze.

What is he thinking, you wonder. Who does he see?

On his way out, he has to deal with an obstacle in order to retrieve his hoodie. An adorable one, at that. Your black Bobtail cat, Sansa, nestles comfortably atop it. Her paws grip the cotton material of the hoodie as Ewan tries to pull it away.

"She likes you," you smile at the sight of Ewan gingerly trying to lift Sansa so she doesn't lash out at him. Even though the likelihood to that is low, with Sansa taking so well to Ewan's constant presence, so much so that you sometimes find her meowing at the door waiting for him to come back. The traitor.

"Good girl," he whispers to her, his hoodie almost released from the weight of her fluffy shape. "That's it."

Then he turns to you, smiling as he shrugs his hoodie back on. "I don't think she wants me to leave."

Like mother, like daughter, comes your thought. But when he straightens, and appraises you with a sideways glance, an amused hum escaping his lips, you realise that you said it out loud.

He smirks openly to himself, his ego blossoming. You roll your eyes at him, mumbling, "Oh, give me a break."

He simply shrugs, walking over to the door.

"I'll call you," he calls over his shoulder as a matter of courtesy, but he sounds uncertain, and the question lingers. Please don't say no, his tone practically begs.

How can you ever?

Arms crossed in an attempt to act nonchalant, leaning against the wall, you smile and say, "Try not to miss me too much, Mitchell."

His eyes linger as they always do. "Impossible task," he responds, casually, unaware that he just upended your whole world with his words.

He solidifies the grip he has on you, before he leaves.

And so the fucked up cycle continues.

Los Angeles

A ginger tabby cat slinks around Ewan's ankles as he sits in the director's office, reminding him of your Sansa and the way she would slink in between your bodies the moment she finds an opening, which is usually after the heated roll in the hay.

He smiles to himself on instinct, remembering how you once shared that you wanted to adopt another cat, preferably a Ragdoll, and name him Benjicat.

"Benjicat?" Ewan had asked.

"Yeah," you smiled, as you stroked a purring Sansa between her ears. "Benjicat Blackwood."

Ewan merely blinked, the connection dawning on him, the brilliance of your idea not lost on his supposedly indifferent mind. He could not hold back his warm and appreciative smile as he gazed at you, and for a moment, he pretended that things were back as they were.

He briefly had the idea that, perhaps, you should adopt the future Benjicat together.

Until the bitter thought crossed his mind - he wasn't the one who quashed that possibility first.

In the office in LA, Jenna sits daintily across from him, still aloof and somewhat of a stranger. She had given him a shy smile when she sat down at the table, exchanged pleasantries and surface-level compliments, the works.

Ewan feels nervous, almost ill at ease, and he normally would be able to single out the reasons why. It could be the notion of meeting an acclaimed director and his future costars. Trying not to stumble on his words, messing up their first impression of him. Maybe he had chainsmoked one cigarette too many before the meeting, worsening the anxiety-inducing effect of his staple black coffee with six sugars.

But this is different. He knows the thing he is dreading is when the matter of the PR business will be brought up.

So he doesn't know what emotion comes over him when the director, Autumn de Wilde, lightly remarks in an attempt to break the tension, "So, Ewan, how's your girlfriend?"

"M-my girlfriend?"

"Yeah," she says jovially, "your costar right? It's all over the socials."

"Oh, I love her," Jenna chimes in. "Is she back in England or is she filming somewhere?"

She's not my girlfriend, is what he should say, but he can't push the words out of his mouth. He's not even sure he wants to. After all, that is why he had the idea for the friends with benefits arrangement in the first place - because he can't cope with the fact that you're not his girfriend anymore.

"Mmm, yeah, she's - uhhh - she's filming in Atlanta," Ewan answers, dodging the main question, but not really.

"Well, say hello to her for me," Autumn says. "She's a keeper, huh? What with her being okay with the PR bullshit you will have to do."

Jenna purses her lips apologetically at him, then remarks, "I don't like that Bruce guy. I know some people who worked with him, and they share the sentiment."

Ewan feels lighter, knowing that they're on the same page. He asks tentatively, "That PR thing... is it set in stone or - ?"

Autumn sighs, "Apparently so, kid. But I heard along the grapevine that great ol' Brucey is dealing with some suit and he might have to pull out of the film."

"Some suit?" Ewan asks.

"A lawsuit," Jenna says.

"Oh." What the fuck. "If he pulls out then what that does mean for us?"

"Halle-fuckin-lujah, that's what," Autumn laughs. "More creative control, more logistics control... more happiness for everyone, really."

"Does that mean the PR relationship will be scrapped?" Ewan blurts out, before sheepishly adding to Jenna, "I mean, no offense - "

"None taken," she shakes her head at him. "I never had a liking for that stuff anyway."

"Well, we'd have to consult with the rest of the execs but they're a lot more likely to be conducive to requests," Autumn says.

Ewan feels a rush of relief, one he immediately wishes he can share with you. If you only you stuck it out with him. If only you didn't leave him hanging at the first sign of trouble.

If only you weren't unsure of how you felt about him.

He calls you afterward, because he wants to, the last remaining shred of his resentment towards you be damned.

"Production nearly finished, darling?" He asks, the pretense of holding back from using the term of endearment long since abandoned.

"Mhmm, I've got one more week here in Atlanta, Mitchell."

You've gone back to calling him Mitchell - not baby, love, or anything remotely romantic.

It bothers him, but he's determined not to let it show.

"I've got about a week and a half here still."

"Then we've got season three prep in London, right?"

"Yeah," he mumbles. "I'll see you back there I suppose."

"Okay," you reply, sounding uncertain of what to say next. "Are you... is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he automatically says. "I just thought... maybe I can come see you."

He listens to your steady breathing at the other end, and it calms him. He waits in silence, until you respond with, "Aren't you busy out there, Ewan?"

He is, and he is aware that it makes him seem desperate. It has only been a few weeks since your last rendezvous back in London, and he is supposed to remain nonchalant. Unaffected. This is not supposed to be some kind of lifeline for him. The thought of you should not be what runs through his mind at every waking moment.

He contradicts all of that, when he admits, "I am, but I want to see you anyway. I can fly out for a day and we could - "

"Ewan - "

"I need you."

You sigh deeply, and he pictures the silhouette of your shoulders rising and falling, the pinch in between your brows, the concerned frown your lips take the shape of.

He misses you. Do you miss him too?

"I know," you say. "But I'll see you soon in London, okay?"

That was not the answer he wanted. There are times when you sound dispassionate and he feels like you couldn't give less of a shit about him, and it kills him.

Even though it shouldn't, and this is what he should have expected, after proposing the arrangement.

But there are also times when you give him a spark of hope to cling to.

"Besides," you muse, "we'll soon have to prepare to give the fans what they want. All the love for Aemond and Alyna surely will not be ignored by the writers. I know I'm rooting for them."

Ewan laughs, "I am too."

Aemond and Alyna. You and him. There are fans, and there are fans, and Ewan is proudly a member of the latter.

"Okay, so, I have to head back inside," you say. "I - uhhh - "

"Yeah, darling, I'll see you soon." I miss you.

"Hmm," you respond, stealing his signature line right from his lips.

He stays on the line, unwilling to let you go.

"Mitchell?" you ask.

"Yes, love?"

"I guess you missed me too much after all."

He smiles wistfully, "I guess I did."

London

Production for your film wraps in early February, just in time for the initial preparations for the upcoming season of House of the Dragon.

You arrive back in London a week before the table read, just in time to join the rest of the cast for a mini reunion at Matt's apartment.

A few drinks in, with numerous tales regaled amongst the large group about what everyone has been up to for the past half year, and you realise just how much you missed being with the cast.

They truly are the best bunch of people you could have ever dreamed of working with.

You eventually found yourselves branching off into little groups, with some preparing food in the kitchen, others smoking out in the balcony, and the rest scattered in the expanse of the apartment.

Matt's place is well-decorated for a bachelor pad, with personal knick-knacks at every corner. You note this to him, as you sit on the plush carpet in his living room. Your little half-circle consists of yourself, Matt, Phia, Liv, Bethany, and Tom, all in varying degrees of inebriation, but either of the lads arguably take the cake.

"You see that?" Matt leans close, pointing to the green shelf nestled in the corner. "On the second level right there, is a prop I stole from season one."

"No way," you squint in that direction, unaware that he gives you a good once-over, the admiration in his eyes plain to see.

The others are quick to point it out in typical fashion.

"Now, now, Smithy," Tom quips. "Try not to burn holes in the girl with yer eyes there."

"She's my babe," Phia jokes, winking at you.

"Oh really?" Matt simply leans back on his palms, unaffected. "Not Ewan's?"

"Oop - " Liv's eyes widen like saucers. "Don't even go there, Smithy."

"Why ever not?" Matt shrugs.

"Guys," you shake your head, waving a hand in dismissal. "it's fine. It's... whatever."

"He's not here," Matt says. "We can talk about it."

"Gossip girl over here," Bethany smirks.

Matt was right in pointing out that Ewan is yet to arrive back from the States. Of course, Ewan had given you a call letting you know that he would be spending the night before the table read at your apartment.

But right now, in this moment, you didn't really feel like going through the sordid details of your affair.

"We can talk about it," you say, "but I'd rather not."

Matt laughs, "Okay. But are you or are you not together?"

"Matt," Tom groans, pinching the bridge of his nose in amusement at his mate's boldness.

"Hey, it's a simple question!"

"It is, isn't it?" you shrug, allowing him that, because he is speaking true. It is supposed to be simple. "We're not actually together... but some of you already know - " you shoot Tom and Phia pointed glances " - that we had a thing once, and we may have a thing still, only lesser and more casual." You look around the group, hoping they got the gist, and that no follow-up statements are necessary.

"Hey, I get it," Bethany replies. "It sounds complicated, but it's your business, sweetheart."

You hum gratefully. The others jump on another topic, but Matt slinks closer to you, with the on-brand glint in his eyes. He says, lowly, "That's good, then."

Your mouth parts in pleasant surprise, as you finally take notice of the way he looks at you. "Say that again, Smithy?"

"You heard me," he answers. Smooth. Matt has been known to be the resident casanova of the cast, with his undeniable charm on and off set. He can get along with absolutely anyone, and this includes the array of women who get pulled in by his charisma.

It's lost on you why he would now set his sights on you, but you can't deny that you enjoy the attention.

Fabien suddenly comes into view with that digital camera of his pointed towards your group. He snaps one of Tom whose raised bottle of beer half covers his smirking face. Then he turns to you and Matt, saying, "Give papa a smile, kids!"

Matt quickly slings an arm around you, making you lean against him. He coolly points to the camera, posing like he usually does. You smile widely, your brain in a pleasant daze from the alcohol, the banter, and the alluring scent of Matt's perfume.

"Send me a copy of that, Fabs," Matt comments after. Fabien will probably post the photo on his usual Instagram slideshow, but Matt happily stays off the socials.

"Gonna get it framed?" you joke, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

"Oh, you bet," he winks at you, making you swallow nervously. Speaking to him now, in this way, you realise just how easily the Matt Smith is able to get with the ladies. Charm practically oozes off of him.

And Daemon was your original favourite, after all.

Fabien and Matt walk you and Phia back to your apartments in the wee hours of the morning. Though your neighbourhood was only 5 minutes away, the lads gallantly insisted that they wouldn't let you go without an escort.

Your group weaves its way through the empty streets of London, chatting and laughing away, the effects of the alcohol yet to wear off. At some point, Matt wraps an arm around you, and you let him keep it that way.

You have grown fond of him, having spent a lot of time with him during filming. And, well, you needed to keep your balance anyway.

Not to mention, he offers a pleasant distraction from having to yearn all the damn time for what you once had with Ewan.

Fabien and Phia walk ahead to her nearby apartment, so you're left with Matt in front of your building.

"We'll be spending a lot more time together this season, fortunately," he says.

"That's kind of a given," you laugh. "Alyna's never going to drop her oath to the Queen."

"And the King."

"Consort," you finish for him.

He laughs freely, shaking his head, before his expression turns a bit serious. He dips his face closer to yours, whispering, "And in real life? Is Alyna sticking with Aemond?"

That stumps you. Matt's blue eyes are indeed arresting, but one mention of Aemond is enough to bring you back into the Ewan Mitchell spiral.

But... you're not his.

You shrug in response, smiling softly, "I guess some things just aren't meant to be."

You become convinced that the universe must be testing you because your phone buzzes in that moment, revealing an incoming call from Ewan One-Eye.

Matt spots it easily, challenging you with, "So what then, beautiful? Are you going to answer the call?"

It buzzes once more, and another time, before you press decline.

Matt doesn't give you the time to regret your decision. He swoops down and plants a soft kiss at the corner of your lips. Nothing too much, but just enough to toe the line of simply being friendly.

"I - I better head inside - " you stammer, your face heating up.

"You better."

"I'll see you soon, Smithy."

He nods, "See you soon, my Alyna."

Ewan can hardly focus on the script in front of him. He struggles to get his lines out efficiently during the table read, and he hopes that no one else notices.

It would be a miracle if you actually take notice of him, with Matt stealing your attention as he sits to your right.

The cast and crew are positioned around the room, and you just happened to be directly across Ewan, right in his line of sight. He would revel in it, but not now, with Matt leaning in once in a while and whispering something in your ear that makes you softly giggle.

How unprofessional. Whatever he is telling you, it sure must be fucking fascinating.

He isn't entirely oblivious of your growing closeness with Matt. He saw the photos of the two of you walking the streets of London, snug against each other, but he chose not to think much of it. After all, how many times has Matt been pictured with an arm wrapped around a costar? That is just how he is. Open and friendly.

Ewan had not been inclined to think it meant something more in your case.

"Ewan," he hears Tom sharply whisper to his left. "It's your line."

The room is silent in anticipation, eager to get on with the script. You lock eyes with him and offer an encouraging smile, and he is just about to reciprocate, but then he notices Matt's arm resting on the back of your seat.

Like he has laid a claim on you.

Ewan ends up grumbling out his lines, lacking the vulnerability that Aemond is meant to be displaying in that scene.

His keeps his expression stoic, trying to do his best to accomplish the task at hand. A tiny consolation is that the script to season three seems to be marginally better than that for the previous season.

There is not a single scene of Aemond and Alyna thus far, but the script is littered with those of Daemon and Alyna. Which makes complete sense, since they're fighting for the same cause, and Daemon has been somewhat of a mentor to the young Alyna.

Ewan liked their dynamic, being a fan of both the characters, and their real-life counterparts. But the scene that is playing out before him may be enough to sway his bias to the contrary.

Daemon and Alyna. You and Matt.

Ewan scoffs to himself, forgetting where he is for a moment. Tom side-eyes his weird behaviour, thinking, the lad must have left his marbles back in America.

Ewan doesn't notice. His thoughts race a mile a minute - Do the writers not see the potential goldmine they've got with the Aemond and Alyna dynamic? Do they not know how crazy it would drive the fanbase?

Is Matt unaware that it was his name - Ewan's, and no one else's - that you were screaming last night?

Your sputtered little pants of his name rise from his memory, your breathing ragged by the time he finished making love to you the third round in the same night.

That... that was his.

You are -

"Mate," Tom clasps him on the shoulder, "drink some water, yeah? You look bloody flushed."

Ewan hums gratefully, nodding once, shaking the image of you from his mind.

After all, he wears his Adidas joggers today, and the thin material would not be able to conceal it if he ended up having a raging hard-on, in front of everyone during the damn table read.

When another scene of Daemon and Alyna comes on, with you and Matt eagerly reciting your lines to each other, the boyish lust that Ewan entertained essentially dies.

He purses his lips, a ghost of a smile, ever the good and supportive costar.

He raises his head to distract himself by looking around the table, eventually locking eyes with Phia, who had already been looking at him strangely.

You okay? she mouths.

His head snaps toward the sound of your laughter before he could respond.

"Shoot, sorry," you smile, apparently having read the wrong line. Everyone at the table waves it off, a cacophony of 'it's alright' and 'you got this' heard around the room.

When you finish the rather long, drawn-out speech Alyna makes, there is an intermission before the next scene.

People begin turning to each other to make comments, some stand to stretch their legs. Then Ewan hears it - "How'd I do, Smithy?" followed by "Not too shabby, my Alyna."

His Alyna?

Ewan flips the bloody table over in his mind.

Ewan calls you the following night, under the pretense of the arrangement.

In truth, he'd take anything. He could sit on your couch and watch paint dry, if it meant being around you.

"Not tonight, Ewan," you say, and his heart sinks.

"Why not?" he asks, uncaring about how downright needy he sounds.

"Uhhhm, I have a friend over," you reveal.

"Phia? I'm sure she'll understand."

"Oh, come on, Ewan. It's not Phia, and even if it was, I wouldn't just send her away."

"Who then?" he insists, but some part of him already knows the answer.

"Fabien," you say, "and Matt. But Fabien already left to go see Bella, so it's just - "

"You and Matt, huh," he spits bitterly. For an actor, he sure is unable to mask his emotions.

"What are you insinuating? We're friends. You're his friend too, Ewan."

"Hmm," his grip on his phone tightens, "you seem a lot closer than friends to me."

"You're being ridiculous," you scoff. "I would ask you to still come over if you want to hang out with us but not if you're being this unpleasant."

"Forget it," he practically snaps, immediately regretting his tone, "let me know when you're less occupied."

"Ewan - "

"It's okay, darling," he cuts you off, wanting to be done with the conversation already. "I'll come see you before the cast shoot." He refers to the Entertainment Weekly photoshoot the entire cast is slated to do in the coming week, the first offering of season three promo.

"Okay," you exhale, then say, "Sansa misses you."

That earns a weak smile out of him. If only her owner could say that she misses him too. "Does she?"

"Mhmm," you respond, and he hears the smile in your voice, "so... so you better come over soon or she might start clawing at the door."

Matt makes his presence known, his voice becoming audible as he walks into the room where you are, asking, "You alright, love?"

"Ewan, I gotta go," you say in a rush.

"Okay," he sighs in defeat. He drops his phone on the couch, then paces around his apartment, needing to get the picture of you and Matt canoodling out of his mind.

He audibly groans. Why must he torture himself so? If you say that you and Matt are just friends, then that must be the case.

My Alyna, Matt had called you.

In a sudden flash of madness or genius, Ewan picks up his phone and redownloads a certain wretched app.

It takes less than a minute, and soon he finds himself back in the mostly uncharted waters of Instagram. Careful not to accidentally like any post as he had before, he makes his way to the section that lets him create a new post.

Scrolling through his photo gallery, it doesn't take long before he finds one to his liking.

No editing is needed. He knows that the image and its subjects need no addition.

In his eyes, you are perfect as you are.

That night marks Ewan's second ever official post on his Instagram, yet again sending the entire fandom in a wild tailspin.

It's a picture of you sitting on top of your bed, hair slightly dishevelled, and with an old pyjama shirt on. Sansa is cradled on your bare thighs, and a smile graces your face as you pet her dotingly. The angle is from the side, where Ewan lay on his designated part of your bed, surreptitiously taking the picture.

The morning light cast a soft glow on your face, and the entire scene had made Ewan wish he never had to leave.

Under the post, reads the caption -

My Alyna.

💌 next chapter

🎧 series mixtape

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @livcookesgf @onlyrealjoy @hotdismylife @thepurplecrown @just-fics-station @clarkysblog @sprinklesprinkle888 (continued in comments ... )

Some notes in the margins...

In part 8 - the EW photoshoot, more season three prep, and big news regarding Ewan's upcoming film!

I'm taking all your amazing ideas into account, and you'll continue to see smatterings of them in this story.

As always, I can't wait to talk with yous in the comments! Which couple is your endgame? <3

#ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell imagine #ewan mitchell x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #chemical override #aemond targaryen x reader

853 notes · View notes

xshadowdelta · 9 months ago

Text

Former Manager

Part 2: Eyes on Me.

Kwon Eunbi x Male Reader (4.5K Length)

Your return to Korea was not turning out as you expected. Before your return, thousands, no, millions of possibilities and different scenarios had passed through your mind, some of them where you were benefited, and in others you were terribly harmed. However, you would not have imagined the current situation even if you had lived multiple lives.

Your brain hadn't stopped spinning since that “lunch” with Yuri in your office at noon. There were times when you seriously thought about taking the next plane and disappearing from that country forever, never to return. On other occasions, you told yourself that it wasn't a big deal, a simple mistake that wouldn't be repeated, and you would see reason with Yuri next time, without a doubt.

Your thoughts continued to torture you in the middle of the night, and before you knew it, you had reached your destination. You parked the car in front of the building whose address the GPS indicated, and you climbed the stairs of that apartment complex, stopping in front of one of the doors.

You looked down at the bag full of food and drinks that you were carrying in your hand, paying special attention to the soju bottles that stood out a little bit. A long sigh came from the top of your lungs. You relaxed your shoulders and pressed the house bell. “This is going to be a long night.” You still didn't know how true that thought was going to be.

"Who is it?" A voice on the other side of the intercom asked.

“There’s a camera right here.” You answered, bringing your face closer. “I didn't change that much over these years, noona.” You heard a giggle before the sound of the door opening.

You swallowed hard as you saw her standing there in front of you, offering you a smile, the same one as years ago, with no changes, along with those eyes that looked at you with a special shine.

She took a step towards you and wrapped her arms around your body in a warm, welcoming hug, which you reciprocated only with your left arm, as the other one was still carrying the food bag.

“It's been a while.” Eunbi said this when she got separated from you. “You've even grown a little bit.”

“Yes, that's right…you're still the same.” You replied with a smile, annoying her, so she gave you a small playful punch on the shoulder.

“I'll take this, go ahead, the girls are already here.” She commented, taking the bag from your hand. You felt your hands brush against each other during the exchange.

You took off your shoes and walked behind her into the house, following and scanning her quickly. She was wearing a small top that highlighted her huge and magnificent breasts. Damn, you could swear she wasn't even wearing a bra. And a pajama pants that were quite short by your standards, leaving her thighs on display.

You mentally scolded yourself, this was not like you. Although it was not a crime to think that way about Eunbi, she was already a grown woman, really attractive as everyone in the country already knew, not for nothing sometimes she was trending.

“Girls! Guess who is here.” Eunbi announced as she entered the room, when you appeared behind her, you were greeted by numerous screams from feminine voices.

“The stripper has arrived!”

You let out an ironic laugh, looking at the author of that phrase and listening to how the other girls scolded her for saying something like that, to which she just shrugged her shoulders, sticking her tongue out.

“You don't change, right? Choi Yena.” You approached to greet the soloist, but someone got in your way.

“Don't move a muscle, I'm going first!” Exclaimed a girl with bangs and black hair standing in front of you with both arms outstretched, blocking your way.

“Always so indulged, Kim Chaewon.” You smiled as you hugged the leader of Lesserafim.

“You should start acting like a leader, unnie.” Yuri mocked her, sitting on the floor, eating some snacks.

Your gaze was directed at her, briefly remembering your previous meeting. Seeing you like this, she winked at you playfully. She wanted to upset you, but you had to be cautious or everyone would know that something weird was happening. Luckily for you, no one seemed to appreciate this little detail, and they continued with the discussion.

“This is an Iz*One reunion, I'm not a leader here.” She responded sulkily, crossing her arms.

“But you're still part of the unnie line, and you're not a baby anymore.” A third girl joined in to continue teasing Chaewon, you would recognize Lee Chaeyeon's thunderous laughter from miles away, whom you greeted with another hug, and finally Yena as well.

You could tell that not all of them were going to be present at this mini reunion, it was obvious because finding a space of free time for 12 such successful girls seemed impossible, that's why every time they met it was in small groups.

Nako and Hitomi had their jobs in Japan and were the most difficult to meet with the others, but this time Minju was busy filming a new drama while Yujin and Wonyoung were working overseas due to IVE's schedules.

You were chatting in the living room for a long time with them, catching up on your new job, and they were also telling you about their future projects and albums. Yena and Chaeyeon would have a couple of performances at some festivals in the upcoming weeks and Chaewon was in the middle of release a new comeback with her new group, which she was talking to you about, showing you photos and videos of her new members.

“He already knows me, I hope so.” You turned to face the owner of that voice. Sakura came out of the kitchen carrying some plates of food in her hands. Next to her, Eunbi and Hyewon helped carry the rest of the food and place it on the table.

“I'm glad to see you again, Kkura, you too, Hyewon.” The last one gave you a shy smile and a slight bow with her head, quickly putting her hands to her hair, pretending that she was caressing it up, when in reality there was no damage.

"It's time for the party to start!" Yena exclaimed, clearly excited, hurriedly grabbing a bottle of beer and pouring herself a glass. God, this was going to be absolute chaos.

You sat at the table, with Hyewon on your right, out of the corner of your eye you saw her holding a bottle of soju in your direction, you took your glass and brought it closer to her.

“Thank you so much, Hyewon.” You offered her a smile, which made her even more nervous. The bottle shook in her hands, but she was able to serve you without much problem.

“Oppa, now that you're back in Korea, we can play League of Legends again, right?” She asked, putting the bottle back on the table.

“OH!” Sakura exclaimed, joining your conversation. “I can't climb from silver, I need your help, Oppa!” You found her whining cute.

“Oppa, you have to come see my waterbomb performance, I'm going to do my best!” That was Chaeyeon demanding your attention. “Unnie, give me some advice.” That was directed at Eunbi.

The oldest member placed one of her fingers on her chin thoughtfully. What could be the best advice she could give her?

“Get a surgery to grow your breasts.” Yena mocked, causing a blush to appear on her leader's cheeks

“YAH CHOI YENA!” She screamed, offended, covering her chest with her arms.

"Don't try to hide it, unnie, you have your weapons, and you have known how to take advantage of them, we are not going to judge you for it, and if now you can invite us to these dinners, it's even better."

“Even so, it is too embarrassing and stressful that they are sexualizing you all day and discrediting my work just because of my body.” Eunbi complained, taking a sip of beer and angrily placing it on the table, causing a loud bang. “Damn press.”

“What do you think Oppa, Eunbi unnie's breasts are very pretty, right?”

You almost choked on the drink you were taking at that precise moment. That question caught you completely off guard, and the shock made you start coughing loudly.

“YENA!”

Dinner finally passed between talks, anecdotes, shouts and lots of laughter. There seemed to be no end to the beer and soju bottles, you were surprised how well most of them held up to the alcohol.

“Let's make a toast.” Chaeyeon proposed, standing up with her glass in her hand, and the rest of you quickly followed her example. Eunbi cleared her throat before giving the signal.

“Eyes on me!…” Everyone waited for the next sentence, but it never came since Wonyoung was not there to recite it. They laughed quietly, but their looks immediately turned sad.

“Manager-nim, tonight you are our guest, say a few words, please.” Eunbi invited you, trying to relieve the tension of the moment.

“Oh, yes.” You waited a few seconds while you looked for the right words, and when you had done it, you raised your glass.

“I couldn't be more proud of each of you, even knowing how really annoying you can be sometimes.” Some laughter was heard. “You deserve all the successes, past and future.”

The sound of glass colliding together preceded some sobbing. Sakura tried to wipe the tears that were coming from her eyes while Chaeyeon and Chaewon hugged her, also crying. Eunbi and Hyewon could control their emotions even in this situation, and on the other hand, Yuri and Yena tried to liven up the night again.

“No, no, no, no sadness, goodbye sadness, Yuri turn up the music.” Yena ordered, and Yuri instantly approached the stereo, turning it on and playing some songs that would change that atmosphere.

Hours passed, and just like that, the party was slowly coming to an end. One by one, the members were leaving Eunbi's apartment. The next day you had a free day, but the idols didn't, so with a lot of alcohol and food in their bodies added to a jumble of emotions, they had to go looking for a little rest before returning to the job.

You stayed, although, for a while longer, to help Eunbi pick up all the trash that was now flooding the living room of her house. Even now, you were helping with the dirty dishes.

“You really didn't need to help me, but thank you.” She commented, throwing the last remains of food into a garbage bag.

“Don't worry, I'm used to it.” You replied by leaving a new clean plate on the tray.

She walked to your side and, with a small jump, sat on the kitchen counter watching how you were washing the dishes. You looked at her strangely but quickly turned your gaze, embarrassed, back to the dishes, from that height her chest were the first thing that entered on your line of vision. Eunbi noticed this and laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.

“You are so cute.” The blush on your face had already spread to your ears.

When you cleaned the last plate you stopped the faucet and the sound of water went away, you took a cloth to dry your wet hands and turned to face Eunbi again.

"You didn't answer Yena's question." She was the first to break the silence, staring at the kitchen ceiling and her dangling legs swinging back and forth in the air. You raised an eyebrow in confusion, and she looked back at you.

She moved forward a little, joining her arms to her body, making her breasts come together and protrude a bit above her cleavage, a mischievous smile adorning her face.

“About my breasts, do you like them?”

You felt your mouth go completely dry, you tried not to look directly at her tits, but it was practically an impossible mission, your neck was completely rigid, resigned to moving in another direction.

You had seen videos of Eunbi's performances from previous years in some important events, specifically the one in which she ended up with her shirt soaked, and her inner bra could be seen, and it was the outcome of that spiral of success that she obtained.

“Eunbi, this is not…” You were silenced or rather crushed by Eunbi's boobs, she was quick to grab the back of your head and bring it closer to sink it between those two glorious mounds.

Now you felt like you were short of breath, in every way. You tried to squirm looking for a way out, but that only caused Eunbi to moan with pleasure as she felt your face rubbing against her tits.

She released you from her grip and, startled, you took a couple of steps back, looking at her in shock and surprise.

“It's the first time you've called me, noona, before at the door.” Her voice was soft, and her cheeks were red.

“I didn't think it was professional to refer to you like that when we were working together.” You were trying to regain your composure.

She brought her hands up to her own breasts, grabbing and squeezing them in front of you, lifting her shirt to show them to you, and as you previously assumed she wasn't wearing a bra.

If this had been an animated TV show, streams of blood would be gushing out of your nose right now. Against your will, an erection was beginning to appear under your pants, she noticed this detail.

“It's too late now, why don't you let noona take care of you tonight?”

“Fuck, Eunbi noona, this is not right at all.”

“Looks like your big little friend doesn't think the same.” She smiled mischievously again, biting one of her nails, watching your erection.

You then cursed your hormones, your sexual instinct, and your entire body for having sent that large amount of blood to your penis. You were still hesitant, but your feet were already walking towards her again.

“You're a good boy.” She whispered when she had you right in front of her, wrapping her arms around your neck, looking deeply into your eyes. “It always has been.”

Her head moved over yours, joining your lips in a soft, warm kiss, a warmth that was soon replaced by passion and lust.

You leaned forward, resting your hands on the kitchen counter, one on each side of her body. Her hands caressed the back of your hair, messing it up completely. Your lips joined together relentlessly until you had to stop for a few seconds to breathe.

Still united by a thread of saliva that ran from your mouth to hers, Eunbi gave you a quick kiss making it disappear, uniting your foreheads piercing you with that lustful look that her eyes had adapted, both of you panting exhausted on the other's mouth.

"Why?" You dared to ask.

“Do you know how many men have tried to flirt with me in the last few years?” You frowned at her question, she caressed your cheek with one of her hands. “Exactly, it's just disgusting.”

“You, on the other hand, from the first day we met, have been so kind and nice to me and to all the girls, so cute, like that time you came into the bathroom while I was changing, you apologized a thousand times.” She laughed, kissing your cheek.

“Noona, I'm not even that good, just look at me, I couldn't resist even half a minute” Your words made her laugh.

“I didn't expect you to do it, I'm irresistible, don't you think?”

You smiled sideways ironically, defeated for having lost that game against her, you opened your mouth to respond but this time you were interrupted.

“Don't say anything, just please, fuck me.” Her voice, her look, everything about her was begging for you.

Your hands grabbed her hips and began to caress every part of free skin that was around her belly area, a sigh escaped Eunbi's mouth and your lips approached hers.

“I guess, I don't have a choice.” You whispered, ending the distance between your lips. This time the kiss wasn't soft or slow, it was needy and passionate. Your tongues rolled around each other inside your mouths, fighting shamelessly.

She broke away briefly to nimbly remove her top garment, grabbed your hands and placed them on her bare tits. Just with that first touch you realized how soft and firm they were and without a doubt, the biggest you had ever touched before.

“Go ahead, don't be afraid, play with them as much as you want.” She murmured with a soft laugh giving you permission.

You began to caress both breasts at the same time, she put her hands under your shirt, caressing the area of your exercised abdomen.

You noticed how her nipples became hard under your hands, giving them a little squeeze making her moan, you leaned your head towards her neck planting a few kisses.

“Fuck, you’re good.” She gasped as your tongue licked and ran along the length of his neck.

You lowered your head towards her boobs, grabbing one with your hand to put it directly into your mouth, sucking on it. After a few seconds you did the same with her other boob, Eunbi's hands continued caressing your head, crushing you against her breasts.

Your tongue moved in circles around the areolas of her nipples, giving them a few licks, raising goosebumps on her skin and making her moan audibly. You went back to sucking on her breasts for a short while longer, thinking that you wouldn't mind continuing doing this for the rest of your life.

Once her breasts were completely wet and covered in saliva, you suddenly attacked the area of her neck again. The way Eunbi kept moaning, this time just a foot away from your ear, was making you hornier, enough to move a naughty hand towards her crotch.

A high-pitched squeal of surprise escaped the idol's mouth as she felt your hand touching her pussy over her lower garment.

Your lips kissed her shoulders and collarbone when your hand began to move in circular motions over her pussy, noticing something.

“No bra and no panties, anyone would think you had it all planned, noona.” You murmured without stopping the kisses.

“It's much more comfortable.” She moaned. “For be at home.” She explained while moving her legs against the hand that was between them because of excitement.

You grabbed her hips to help her lift her butt a little and be able to lower those pajama pants until they touched her feet, hanging there. Once again, you resumed the task of caressing her pussy, now naked and incredibly wet, increasing the sound of the woman's moans.

You caressed her thighs with both hands and even with her sitting on the kitchen counter you crouched down until your face was at the level of her pussy, you looked up to look at Eunbi to ask her permission to continue but the way she was looking at you, made you knew that you didn't even have to ask.

You quickly buried your head against her pussy, hungrily licking everything you could reach, making her scream in pleasure.

Your tongue moved uncontrollably, licking the folds of her wet pussy, which was getting wetter by the second, mixing her vaginal juices with your saliva, falling in a river across the kitchen cabinet.

“Keep eating me like that, please, eat all that greedy pussy.” Eunbi demanded with a desperate tone.

Accepting her request without question, you continued licking her, sometimes giving your tongue a break by replacing it with a pair of fingers, masturbating her. Your tongue took over again, ready to take it to the next level, licking her clit causing Eunbi to scream louder, grabbing herself onto the counter and closing her legs, locking your head between them.

You placed both hands on the sides of her legs, applying soft caresses trying to calm her down while continuing to punish her clitoris, feeling how she really had little left to reach orgasm.

You left between her legs, standing up, kissing her lips again while you lowered your pants, which along with your boxers fell to the floor, releasing your 100% erect penis.

“I have birth control pills in my bedroom, everything will be fine.” Eunbi said, almost reading your mind because you obviously didn't have any condoms with you at that moment.

She spread her legs for you, parting her folds with her fingers, allowing you to enter her. Your cock rubbed against her fingers as you introduced it into her pussy, giving you an incredible sensation. You both gasped when your tip was inside her.

Carefully and slowly, you introduced the rest of your penis inch by inch until it was completely inside her, filling her with your cock. You grabbed her hips and she put her arms around your neck, you looked at each other, both smiling, she closed her eyes enjoying that sensation.

You withdrew most of your penis until only your tip remained inside her, and with a quick and strong movement of your hips, you reintroduced the entire length directly into her womb.

You continued doing it this way, slow and erotic, increasing the pace as time went by, when your bodies wanting much more. But Eunbi still had aftereffects from your previous great oral job, and you could notice how the walls of her pussy were contracted against your cock.

“Shit! Manager-nim, I'm so fucking close.” She whimpered against your lips. You interpreted those words perfectly, a clear warning that she wanted to cum.

Your pushes then became rough and ferocious, your lips were unable to silence Eunbi's moans, and her entire body began to shake without restraint, feeling the force of your attacks.

"Fuck! “I’m going to cum all over your cock!” She screamed excitedly, curving her body as she reached the climax, covering your manhood with her juices. She fell on your chest, hugging you, totally agitated, trying to catch some air.

You caressed her back with your penis still inside her, then grabbed her body and, in a show of strength, lifted her up off the kitchen counter. Surprised, Eunbi clung to you, and you hold her butt preventing both of you from going to the ground.

“Wait, I just came and…” She said but was unable to finish because your hips moved again causing your cock to mercilessly enter and exit her recently cummed pussy again.

"FUCK!" She exclaimed, throwing her head back in ecstasy, you surrounded her waist with your arms, pressing her as close as possible to your body, only separated by her breasts crushed against your chest.

You were pouring lust from your pores, your bodies were beginning to be sweaty and the smell of sex permeated the entire kitchen. Eunbi looked down at your sexes, watching as they came together again and again, watching as your entire cock disappeared into her pussy.

Witnessing that made her even hornier, and she threatened to cum again, but she managed to hold back. However, you had another idea in mind. Your hand spanked one of Eunbi's buttocks, making her gasp, and then your mouth reached one of her tits to suck it really hard.

The sperm began to accumulate at the tip of your penis, wanting to be discharged, something that happened after a few more thrusts, spilling everything inside Eunbi's pussy who, when she felt the hot liquid filling her, she gave in and came again.

After resting for a while, holding each other and exhausted, you managed to walk, carrying her to the bedroom. Once there, you lay her face up on the bed, and you removed your penis from inside her, causing a lot of your cum to come out of her vagina.

You thought it was all over, but the woman's look said the opposite. Even with signs of having shed tears, her eyes continued to glimpse an uncontrollable sexual appetite. She smiled mischievously, opening her legs completely, allowing you to see how her pussy continued pumping agitatedly covered in cum, was this girl insatiable?

But you weren't far behind, because that sight had made your manhood regain all its vigor, so that you didn't think about anything other than entering into her again, all at once with a strong thrust.

"God yes, it's that simple!" Eunbi watched you place your hands on her thighs, preventing her from closing her legs. From that position, she could perfectly see the way you buried your cock into her relentlessly.

Inside her, it felt slimy and sticky due to the previous load you had given her, this caused each insertion of your penis to make watery sounds that drove you crazy.

You bent down, practically laying on top of her, to french kiss her while squeezing her boobs with both of your hands. You had a sudden idea and pulled your cock out of her pussy, without paying much attention to her complaints about it.

You climbed onto the bed, placing each of your knees next to her body, and then inserting your penis between her tits.

Eunbi's hands grabbed each of her own tits from the sides, squeezing them to crush your cock against them and later swing them up and down, masturbating you in this way.

You were enjoying that titfuck so much, but your body was asking for more. You began to move your hips to the rhythm of Eunbi's tits. At this point your cock was getting very close to her lips with each coming and going, she noticed this and stuck out her tongue, licking your tip every time you reached it.

You moaned at how good that act was making you feel, feeling like you were about to explode.

“Noona, can I cum over your tits?” You asked with your eyes closed in pleasure.

She smiled tenderly, raising one of her hands to caress your cheek. You opened your eyes to see her again.

“Of course, baby, cover mommy’s boobs with your delicious cum.”

Those words were the trigger you needed, you grabbed your cock with your hand and after a couple of strokes you let out streams of semen that ended up on her tits, and part of her neck and chin.

She watched with her bright eyes as you unloaded on her mounds, reacting quickly to not waste any time and lick her own breasts, tasting the sperm that had spread.

With a tired sigh you lay down on the bed, and immediately Eunbi approached you, passing one of her arms around your chest, you instead surrounded her back with yours, bringing her closer to you to give her one last kiss on the lips.

“So…I'm better than Yuri?” She asked, breaking the silence, making your eyes open in surprise.

"What!? I mean…how you know that?” Your body tensed at that moment.

“Oh, that silly girl, she started bragging about it as soon as she saw me tonight, did she think she could beat her leader?”

“I can explain it…”

"No need, I'm not the one to judge what two adults do with their lives, let alone after tonight.”

She got out of bed and walked towards the bathroom under your watchful eye, she stopped in the doorway and turned to face you.

“Will you join me in the shower?” She asked, slapping herself on the butt and disappearing into the room. Like a flash you stood up and took off the rest of your clothes before following her, you were right, this night was going to be a long one.

#kpop smut #male reader #smut #izone smut #kwon eunbi smut #eunbi smut

1K notes · View notes

inaconstantstateofchange · 1 year ago

Text

binggeyuan modern!AU based on this prompt where shen yuan and luo binghe live in the same apartment building, but have never met each other. SY is more-or-less his regular shut-in self, and keeps very odd hours, which means that he happens to be wide awake the first time LBH gets back to the apartment building at 3 a.m. after some manner of illicit activity and realizes he doesn't have his fucking entrance key. LBH hits one apartment number after another into the intercom, fully prepared to dazzle his way into getting one of them to open the door for him, but the intercom is old, and people come and go from this building often enough that most people don't bother getting it set up, and he's having no luck.

finally, just as he's about to give up and bully his way onto mobei-jun or sha hualing's couch for the night, someone picks up. he doesn't even remember which specific apartment number it was, he was just entering them mechanically. immediately, LBH pulls on his smoothest affect (sure the intercom has no video, only shitty, garbled audio, but that's no reason to let the universe catch you slipping) and prepares to give the sob story performance of his life. before he can even get a single word out, however, there's a crackly, almost indiscernible "Open!" and he hears the click of the entrance door unlocking before the intercom call is ended. he stares at the intercom for a minute, somewhat wrong-footed, but then shakes himself out of it in time to catch the door before it locks again.

SY, for his part, was broken out of a binge-reading spiral by the intercom call, and fully did not realize how late it had gotten. he assumed he had ordered something that was arriving earlier than expected, and kept an ear out for a knock on his front door from the delivery person for a few minutes, but then got sucked back into the target of his current literary criticism.

the next time LBH gets locked out, he starts in the general number range he remembers striking on the last time, and pays closer attention to the numbers this time. he's curious if his little philanthropist will be so accommodating again. SY orders a lot of packages, okay! the one time he didn't pick up the intercom he had to wait an extra three days for his ultra-rare, limited edition merch, which he will not be going through again. this time, though, when the intercom picks up, LBH is prepared. he starts talking immediately, playing up his stress at being locked out, how sorry he is to be a bother, and how much he really, really appreciates it. SY fully blue screens at this unanticipated display of emotions, blurts something out about how it's not problem and of course he's happy to help out a neighbor in need, then hangs up (after unlocking the entrance, of course). it is perhaps fortunate that the intercom has no video, and thus he can not see the look on LBH's face.

LBH gets more and more consistent pushy with his calls, curious how far this little philanthropist will go for him. he knows his apartment number, of course, he could just knock and introduce himself, but he'd rather let him come to him. LBH starts interjecting little questions here and there, trying to glean any information about his mysterious benefactor. SY, meanwhile, is lighting a daily candle for this poor little bun somewhere in his building, who has truly the worst luck in the entire world! who ever heard of a gang of pickpockets stealing someone's keys not once, but twice in the same week!

LBH gets comfortable with the state of things — as ever, too comfortable. nothing good can last forever. one night, after a long and utterly shitty day, for the first time in ages, he loses his key for real. he's tried to avoid reaching out to SY at any time when he's not 100% in control of himself, but there's nothing for it. he punches in the numbers for the unit he knows by heart at this point, and when it picks up, he sighs tiredly, and waits for SY to speak first. after a moment of silence, the call drops, and the door remains locked. LBH is almost shaken entirely out of his malaise. not even a word? he puts SY's apartment number in again, but this time it doesn't even pick up. he stares at the intercom in unpleasant shock for a few minutes, then punches the wall next to it and leaves. he spends the night on mobei-jun's uncomfortably small couch, staring unseeing at the ceiling above him. at least the other man doesn't ask him any questions.

their easy rapport broken, SY starts to worry when he hasn't heard from his unfortunate little neighbor — maybe he's moved out? hopefully to a place with a more accommodating security system... after a full week, his worry ramps up even higher. he wants to believe his neighbor just found a system to keep track of his keys that works for him, but statistically, it seems unlikely. feeling like the most awkward, overstepping idiot on the planet, he scribbles off a few short notes, and sticks one by the the intercom, one by the mailboxes, and one in the laundry room. his neighbor will have to go at least one of those places, certainly?

to my keyless neighbor - hope you're well! i was worried- if you ever need me, you know where to reach me. you weren't a bother- - XX4

the next time LBH stops by the apartment (he's been avoiding it by couch-hopping as much as possible, to the great aggravation of his friends) he carefully avoids looking at the intercom. as such, it's actually sha hualing who spots the note first. (she bullied her way into an invite to make LBH actually go home.) she crows out a harsh laugh, snatching the note off the wall and holding it up dramatically, cackling about "rom-com shit". LBH isn't really paying attention, until he catches a glimpse of the apartment number at the bottom. eyes flashing, he snatches the note out of her hand, and reads it over once, and then again. after a moment, he turns to sha hualing, and tells her to go home, that he's got plans, actually. she gapes at him for a moment, then scoffs and turns on her heel, flipping him off as she goes. whatever! she didn't want to babysit his mopey ass any longer anyway!

LBH spends a few frozen moments running over his options, torn between calling right now just to see if his philanthropist will pick up this time, and giving himself a chance to freshen up, and maybe make a good enough showing for himself that whatever it was that caused him to be ignored before will never happen again. ultimately, he decides on the latter, but rushes through all his preparations as much as he can while maintaining sufficient attention to detail. he wishes he had the materials to make something truly spectacular, but his apartment is showing his absence over the past week. he settles on a meal that just barely feels sufficient, and finds himself more anxious than he can remember being in years at this point, staring at his philanthropist's apartment door, two levels below his.

he raises his fist to knock, tentatively at first, too quiet to hear, and then once more, louder. a muffled voice comes through the door, and a few moments later, it cracks open to reveal a man just a bit shorter than him, with a rumpled shirt that looks like it has just been haphazardly thrown on and hair that might not have been brushed in days. he's... really cute.

LBH and SY just kind of stare at each other, frozen, for a bit, until LBH proffers the food he's brought, and SY's archaic etiquette subroutines kick in, and he invites LBH in before he can even think about. his immediate wince makes it clear he had not meant to do that, but LBH is not above making a situation work to his advantage, and graciously accepts, stepping into the somewhat cluttered apartment before SY can recover from his slip-up. they still have not exchanged names.

ultimately, they get themselves figured out. LBH introduces himself, and SY follows suit. there's a beat of silence as they both realize that this does not actually clear up anything about how they know each other. LBH finds the words to explain his own part in this are slow to come, so he finally just hands the note, neatly folded, to SY. SY's face colors, but he overcomes it to fussily poke at LBH about how worried he was, when the other just disappeared! LBH stops for a second, hearing that, then slowly responds that it was SY who cut him off first. SY gapes at him, then demands to know when he did a thing like that! he set his intercom call sound to caramelldansen and max volume so he'd be sure not to miss it!

LBH gives him the date, and SY flushes again, then looks away, muttering something unflattering about a "qingge". LBH feels a wash of jealousy, that he's misread the situation and SY is already spoken for, but SY goes on to explain that he had been stuck overnight at the hospital - for nothing major! pretty routine actually! - and the friend that was staying with him must have picked up, then hung up when he couldn't figure out who was calling.

LBH sits back, somewhat at a loss. so it... wasn't because SY was tired of him? SY sputters, waving his hands about. absolutely not! he might be slightly forgetful, but binghe is clearly a wonderful young man and it's not like SY has much else going on in his life!

LBH determines to himself then and there that the only way to ensure such a thing does not happen again is to make sure that he is the one staying with SY the next time he's in the hospital.

#gods this got SO MUCH LONGER THAN I ANTICIPATED #anyway i like this prompt a lot it has a lot of flexibility #and yes lbh starts very bingge but then gets passively bingmei-ified #svsss #bingyuan #binggeyuan #shen yuan #luo binghe #luo bingge #svsss au #svsss fic #my writing #writing prompt

836 notes · View notes

thatrandomidiot182 · 29 days ago

Text

Weddings and Funerals

Chapter Warnings. unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage drinking, arguments, reader downplaying other peoples trauma, reader is an unreliable narrator.

The couple of days leading up to the funeral are a blur.

You call out of work for the weekend, needing the time to just... take a break and gather your thoughts. Sift through your emotions and prepare yourself to go back to the manor and see everyone for the first time since you left.

God knows what shit you're gonna have to put up with when you get there.

You hoped you would also be able to get some rest since you didn't have to worry about your horrid work schedule, but that was just wishful thinking. You haven't had a proper, relaxing, eight hour sleep since before you were bitten by that damn spider.

Alfred's death only fueled the nightmares that already plagued your life, and the few times you did manage to pass out, you woke up within minutes, screaming and drenched in your own sweat.

You honestly felt bad for your neighbors, especially the new one. What a great first impression you were making on the guy. You two haven't even met yet, and he's already having to deal with your bullshit...

The fact that you and Dick were arguing loud enough for the whole building to hear probably didn't help either.

That night, Dick didn't end up leaving your apartment until nearly two in the morning. With the two of you spending nearly three hours in a heated back and forth about whether or not it was appropriate for you to attend.

In the end, Dick threatened to bury the letter with Alfred if you didn't go.

So, because you felt an obligation to him and yourself, you caved.

Which is the only reason you're currently sitting in a cab, paying the absurd fare to travel from your place all the way up to Wayne Manor with a tumbler full of stolen whiskey and a knockoff brand of cola.

"Jesus, you sure picked a day to come all the way out here, huh?" The drivers voice calls out to you playfully, eyes carefully trained on the muddy terrain as he skillfully maneuvers through the rain and fog.

He had a point though, Gothams weather is notoriously bad, but today it seems like even the city itself was mourning.

Rain had been pouring down since before the sun rose, with thick fog following not long after, making the roads slick and dangerous, which is why the ride was so expensive.

Apparently the Gotham taxi cabs charge an extra, 'extreme weather' fee, who knew?

At least someone was getting something good out of all of this.

You respond with a small, polite hum, eyes glued shut after having spotted one too many shadowy figures hidden in the passing scenery.

"Well, here we are, creepy ass Wayne Manor. You got the code to the gate or you want me to drop you off here?" The man's accented voice rouses you from your thoughts.

"Here's fine, thank you." You pull out a wad of cash from your pocket, swiftly counting out the ridiculous amount, seriously, ninety bucks for a fourty five minute drive!? Before handing it over with a frown.

The man offers you an unbothered shrug in response to your irritation, handing you the receipt after quickly snatching the cash from your hand.

You exit the car with a huff, pulling the collar of your coat higher in an attempt to keep dry as you rush towards the gate, wincing at the sound of screeching tires behind you.

"I hope he gets robbed today." You grumble irritably as you punch in the code, brow furrowing as it blares a bright red 'INCORRECT.'

You try again, thinking maybe you put the number in wrong, only to get the same result.

You try once more, a disbelieving smile on your face as the number is once again rejected.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" You let out a frustrated growl, moving to push the intercom button instead.

"Dick Grayson, you gave me the wrong fucking code, you asshole! Let me in!"

You shiver as your clothes get more drenched the longer you stand in the rain. Moving to pace the length of the gate to keep your feet from sinking into the mud.

Five minutes goes by with no response, and you're just about ready to turn and walk back to the city when a car pulls up behind you, blinding you with the bright led headlights.

You squint through the pain, trying in vain to see who the hell just pulled up on you, when the sound of a car door opening breaks the silence.

Your name is said through a shocked laugh, "Holy shit! Is that really you? I didn't believe Dick when he said you were gonna show up." Stephanie Brown's high pitched voice is easily recognized by your trained ears, and you have to prevent yourself from immediately snapping at her.

"Yeah, well, don't go thinking he's Mr. Reliable. Dude gave me the wrong gate code." You roll your eyes as she lets out a sympathetic groan.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. Here, why don't you hop in the back seat and we'll drive you in?" Her offer is about as tempting as a can of sardines, but you take it with little hesitation, wanting to get out of the rain that had finally made its way to your inner layers.

You huff quietly as you plop into the backseat of the sleek, black suv, blinking in surprise at the other occupants.

Cassandra Cain stares back at you through the rear view mirror, offering a small nod of acknowledgment that you ridgedly return.

Duke Thomas then gives a small, awkward wave, occampanied by an equally awkward smile as he inches away from your soaked figure on the seat next to him.

"Hey." You repeat the greeting stiffly, swiftly uncapping your tumbler and taking a large gulp of the mixture as Stephanie makes her reappearance, slamming the drivers door shut behind her as she starts moving forward.

"It's been a while, huh? You look good. I like your hair!" Her grin is forced, and you snort at her attempted small talk.

"Thanks."

There was a million other things you wanted to add onto that, things like;

'It's the exact same as it was two years ago, but you wouldn't know that, huh?'

Or, 'Wow, I'm surprised you actually noticed I cut it!'

Or maybe, 'I'm actually shocked you realized it's almost double the length it was when I left because I doubt you even realized what it looked like before!'

However, once again, you decide to be the bigger person and keep your thoughts to yourself, content with the visible cringe she adorns after your dry response.

Thankfully it doesn't take long to reach the driveway, and you don't bother hiding the smirk of amusement as Duke all but jumps out of the car as soon as it rolls to a stop.

Cassandra is expectedly silent as she waits for Stephanie before making her retreat as well.

You take an extra second to gather yourself before you follow their lead, slamming the car door behind you as you begrudgingly stalk up the brick walkway.

The silence surrounding the area is sufficating.

Not in the usual, 'creepy old manor that's almost always empty despite the nearly dozen of inhabitants' way. This silence was heavy, and you can tell by the way their shoulders tense that the three people with you also felt the weight of the moment as you all stand before the front door solemnly.

"He'd usually have the door open by now..." Stephanie's voice is smaller than you've ever heard from her before, and it's then that you take the moment to reprimand yourself while coming to a sinking realization.

You've been so caught up in your own grudges and emotions about the people here that you've overlooked the fact that they're all mourning too.

However, despite you, who has been through something like this more times than you'd like to think about, this was the family's first time loosing someone so close, so brutally. That you knew of at least.

So far, the only thing that's prevented you from breaking down and crashing out on everyone this long is the fact that this isn't your first rodeo.

You fiest had to deal with it when you watched your mom and step-dad die.

Then, you dealt with it when you had to watch Gwen's funeral from afar, hidden in the branches of a tree.

You dealt with it when you cradled Henry in your arms during his dad's own burial.

You dealt with it when the responsibility of planning your tia's death rites fell onto you.

This was actually the sixth funeral you'd been to in the last decade of your life.

But right now, you have to remind yourself that they aren't you. They haven't gone through, seen or dealt with all the shit you have in the past nine years, so it's unfair of you to bring your personal issues into this when they're struggling during such a time.

Although, it'd almost be poetic justice to give them a taste of their own medicine.

You'd keep that in mind for later, right now, the sudden epiphany leaves you squaring your shoulders and cracking the door open as you make a promise to yourself.

Today was about Alfred, and you won't be the one to draw away from that.

"He'd also be scolding me about coming in like a wet cat and getting his floors dirty." Your remark gets a shocked wet laugh out of Stephanie and a small, grateful smile from Duke. Cassandra's eyes soften as her lips quirk ever so slightly.

You quickly split from the trio with little more than a nod of farewell as you make your way to the kitchen, pausing at the entryway as a lump forms in your throat.

Besides Bruces office, this was where Alfred spent the majority of his time. Between cooking, cleaning, and teaching you how to cook and clean, his presence was more often than not somewhere in the kitchen. Either rummaging through the cabinets for ingredients, placing leftovers in the fridge, preparing plates on the island or rinsing dishes in the sink.

Your hands shake as you watch him turn away from the stove, his aged face meeting your eyes with the patient smile he always wore whenever you'd mess up a recipe.

You blink back tears as you eagerly brush past him, avoiding looking at him as you sling a web to grab the fancy whiskey off of the top shelf of the cabinet.

You hastily yank open your tumbler, refilling the canister with the expensive liquid and scoffing at the disapproving stare you see out of the corner of your eye.

"Don't look at me like that. You used to do the same thing when Bruce and the boys had a rough night." You roll your teary eyes, taking a swig straight from the bottle before moving over to the trash can to remove the web.

"Thought nobody knew about your little habit, but I could always smell it on your breath–" You laugh, "I don't blame you, of course not. This family could push even an angel to alchoholism–"

A whisper of your name has your mouth snapping shut, arm moving behind your back in a shotty attempt to hide the bottle from whoever had entered the kitchen.

Bruce looms in the entryway like a shadow, blinking in surprise as you stare back at him with wide eyes and pursed lips, looking very akin to a child being caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Your face is quick to fall into a scowl once you meet eyes with the man, turning your back on him in order to place the bottle on the counter, berating yourself for being so jumpy.

"I... didn't think you'd show up... Who were you talking to?" His voice is meek, and you have to physically bite your tongue to keep from making a sparky remark.

He's grieving.

You repeat the sentiment in your head as you lean against the counter, hands busying themselves with closing your tumbler as you avoid looking at him.

"Yeah, nobody did, apparently." You scoff. "Just... talking to myself..." You glance at the stove wearily, heart dropping as the space before it remains empty.

Any response Bruce may have made is prevented from seeing the light of day as another gruff voice interrupts from behind him, "Why the hell are you here?"

You roll your eyes, scowl back with a vengeance as you glance over Bruces shoulder to meet the sickening green eyes of Jason Todd.

One of your top five least favorite people in Gotham looms over Bruce menacingly as he glares back at you, face mirroring your scowl with equal ferocity.

"I was invited–"

"You have no right!" He cuts you off with a shout, easily shoving past Bruce to crowd you against the counter.

"Jason." Bruces warning tone is ignored.

"You have got some fucking nerve showing your face here after what you did!" Your posture is tense, body effectively roused from its slump as you square your shoulders, raising your chin to meet Jason's stare head on as he jabs his finger in your collarbone.

"Jason!" Bruce snaps at the contact, eyes darting warily between your face and hands as Jason continues to ignore him.

"You didn't even know Alfred! You're probably just here because playing the big bad adult got hard, and your little minimum wage day job isn't paying the bills–" Your lips curl into a snarl, unnaturally sharp canines bearing defensively as you shove him out of your face, effectively sending him stumbling back into the island.

"You don't know shit about what I've been doing! And I'm willing to bet that I spent more time with Alfred then you did these past couple of years–" Bruce swiftly rushes to stand between the two of you, placing a hand on Jason's chest warningly as he mirrors the action on your shoulder.

"That's enough! Both of you!" You give a disbelieving scoff at his reprimanding, mentally beating yourself over the pang of hurt that rolled through you.

"Sad to see nothing changes in this fucking house." Bruces appearance is almost enough for you to feel a bit of remorse for your comment– if it weren't for his obvious favoritism in the moment.

His skin was pale, even more than usual with a pallor closer to a corpse than a living man. Sunken cheekbones and purple eyebags have his face nearly unrecognisable if it weren't for the unmistakable steel blue gaze that glared at you. His graying hair was neatly combed back, but your enhanced eyesight has you catching the clumps of dandruff and grease that hide in between the strands.

He dons a black blazer with mismatched cufflinks over a black turtleneck, with black slacks that were wrinkled to hell and back. His oxfords are scuffed and dull, and it's obvious he didn't bother to prep them beforehand. Not like Alfred would have done...

He looked smaller than usual, and you can only assume he hadn't been eating well, if at all, since Alfred's death.

However pathetic he may or may not look only further enrages you as you can't help but draw the similarities between your appearance and his.

You've never looked so alike before.

The Wayne genes are strong, but your mothers were thankfully stronger. You'd never had to confront the fact that you looked like your father because he was never around during your youth, making it easy to hate him without gaining a sense of self-hatred as well. However, ever since coming to Gotham, you've been harshly forced to face the reality that you do look like him.

And right now, the matching scowls, eyebags and exhaustion only solidify the fact as you feel like you're looking into a fucked up mirror the longer you stare at one another.

"Bruce? The-uh, security guys are here..."

Tim's meek voice breaks the tension, and works to bring you back to your senses.

Based on Bruces tense shoulders and Jason's guilty face, the same could be said for them as you all turn away from one another.

"Thank you, Tim. We'll be leaving soon, I suggest you get yourselves together before then." With that, Bruce takes his leave, sparing you and Jason one last stern glare before following Tim out.

Jason scoffs but says nothing as he harshly bumps your shoulder on his own way out, sparing you annoyed glare when you don't budge.

"Alfred, there better be a gold coin in that letter..." You groan quietly, rubbing a tired hand down your face and grabbing your tumbler before silently padding behind them.

Hushed murmurs make their way to your ears as you reach the foyer.

"–come out of his room–"

"–don't even know if he's dressed!"

"–hasn't said a word for three days..."

Bruce and Barbara are engaged in a heated discussion at the bottom of one of the staircases, the rest of the family loitering around the room awkwardly as the security team waits by the front doors.

"I'll go talk to him–" Barbara hurriedly moves in front of Bruce, placing a gentle hand on his forearm with a nervous frown, "We've already tried, he won't even open the door... Dick's up there right now, I think we should let him handle it."

You snort at her words, gaining a sick sense of amusement at Bruces hurt, confused stare.

"Why don't we just get the cars arranged while we wait–" Barbara's voice goes quiet at the sound of footsteps, everyone's attention moving to the top of the stairs where Dick and Damian make their appearance.

Dick gives everyone a small, relieved smile as Damian stands there silently. Arms crossed over his chest with a tear stained face and puffy, red eyes.

His cheeks were glistening in the dim light, and you could see him becoming more uncomfortable the longer everyone stared.

"Damian–"

"I call shotgun." Your words work to break everyone from their stupor, eyes snapping towards you as you interrupt Bruce by strutting towards the exit, stopping only to confirm the decision with security before walking outside.

The ride to the cathedral was so awkward you ended up downing half of your drink before everyone gathered back together.

The family big enough that everyone needed to split between three cars, not including the three additional decoys that were empty and filled with the security team.

Bruce, Dick and Damian were in the first car, and you could only imagine what they were saying to the poor kid.

Barbara, Jason and Cassandra all occupied the second, a smart decision on Bruces part, as placing Jason with either you or Damian at the moment is an instant recipe for disaster.

Your car followed last with Tim and Stephanie, and you spent the entire ride trying not to bash your head through the window from Stephanie's attempted small talk. You assume she was just trying to distract Timothy from his moping, as he looked almost as bad as Bruce, but still, her inauthentic prodding into your life was unwelcome.

So, to entertain yourself and fuck with them, you answered all of her questions with the most ridiculous answer you could conjur on the spot.

'How have you been?'

Fine, you know, besides the incident with the hotdogs.

'Where do you live?'

You rent a room in the Iceberg Lounge. Yeah, it's pretty great besides the occasional gang war in the living room.

'Where do you work?'

You train pigeons for local magician shows.

The best part was that you knew that they already knew the answers, which made it even more hilarious when Stephanie finally gave up and stopped trying to talk to you.

When you finally arrived at the steps to the building, you were horrified to see the sidewalks flooded with paparazzi, civillians and reporters. And because Bruce has an image to uphold, you were all forced to walk right through the center of the crowd, being blinded by the flashes and deafened by the shouts.

The security guard to your right ends up tugging you forward with an iron grip on your bicep after you attempt to lunge towards a photographer who shouted at you to walk faster.

Once you're safely enclosed in the building, hidden behind the thick, wooden doors, you turn around to see Kate Kane, Harper Row and Selina fucking Kyle all awaiting your arrival. You ended up taking a large desperate gulp of your drink at the sight of Bruce melting into the latter's embrace.

The absolute rage that overcame your being at the view of them being all lovey-dovey had you denting the steel canister in your hand in frustration over the fact that you didn't feel even the slightest bit tipsy by now.

Every day, you find more reasons to curse that spider to hell. Your ridiculously high alcohol tolerance is only the latest to be added to the list.

The only reason you even bother drinking anymore is because the sting that follows a sip of alcohol has become a soothing sensation in your toughest moments.

The burn is grounding, and you find yourself itching for that sensation whenever you start spiraling.

Concerning? Perhaps.

It's not like you got anyone to worry about it, though.

They're all dead.

The entire three hour service was excruciating.

Not only were you stuck sitting the entire time, but you were also still in semi-wet clothing, and you finished your drink during the first half hour.

Which made sitting through the entire ordeal so much harder...

It was painfully obvious that the whole thing was planned just to upkeep appearances.

From the way Bruce and Dick had basically caged Damian in-between them with a steel loving grip on his shoulders to the way Jason sat alone in the very back, carefully placed away from the 'hidden' cameras and journalists that littered the crowd...

It was obviously all just a show.

Of comraderie, solidarity, love and family...

It made you sick.

It made you furious to the point of nausea.

The way Tim, Dick and Bruce all had a generic, PR-approved speech to go up and deliver for ten minutes...

The way Selina clung to Bruce like a wet napkin and whispered in his ear with an exaggerated pout...

The way Stephanie and Cassandra spent the whole three hours whispering and giggling back and forth like it was a fucking wedding and not a funeral.

But most of all, it pained you, watching the way little Damian Wayne had to sit and grit his teeth and bear it all in the front row. Trapped between his keepers like an animal who's expected to lash out at any moment...

It had you setting aside your grievances the moment you began to see yourself in him.

Had you hiding the bent remnants of your canister in your coat after discreetly taking your super powered frustration out on it once it was sufficiently empty.

The salt in the wound was the fact that the man leading the rites had blatantly never met Alfred before. He spent the first two hours droning on in vague metaphors and dramatic readings, with the last fifteen minutes of his time being dedicated to rambling on about nothing relevant to the man or occasion.

The last fourty five minutes were then reserved for Bruce to make his final comments and lead everyone in a joint, 'moment of rememberance.'

Fucking bullshit is what it all was, and you were regretting ever letting your guard down and allowing Dick guilt you into coming just to end up playing the part of the perfect family.

The ride back to the manor was swift and silent, thankfully.

You don't know if it was because Stephanie finally caught a hint or they caught onto your foul mood, but either way, you were grateful for the chance to mellow out.

Or, try to, at least.

Because as soon as you stepped out of the car, you were greeted by Damian and Bruce glaring at one another, Dick and Selina standing between them with a grimace.

"Damian, he didn't mean it–"

Dick didn't get to finish his sentence before Damian took off into the manor, slamming the doors open and closed hastily.

You rub the crease in your brow with a heavy sigh at the sight, ignoring everyone's concerned murmurs and strolling inside quietly. Quickly making your way to the second, unused, living room and straight towards the dusty fireplace.

Where, once again, you were greeted with a familiar smile, a teasing comment accompanying the sight, "Finally done being stubborn? Shall I fetch the matches?" His accent bleeds into your ears with an ease similar to the way your aunts would, and it has your heart sinking.

You decidely ignore the phantom this time, brushing past his nonexistent form to spark the fireplace to life.

Plopping down on the couch, you immediately slump into the cushions, closing your eyes and forcing all of your attention to the roar of the fire and the warmth seeping into your skin.

You take the moment to breathe through your emotions. Imagining all the anger, frustration and pain flowing out of you with every exhale, solitude and silence replacing the adrenaline and regret.

A choked, shuddering breath suddenly brings you out of your haze, eyes snapping open at the noise. You strain your hearing to the best of its ability, before your spider senses finally kick in and alert you to the additional presence in the room with you.

You can hear their heartbeat.

Loud. Strong, but irregular... Erratic. Like it was struggling to decide between speeding up and slowing down.

Their lungs follow a similar pattern, breaths catching and pausing in a sequence of stutters and sobs.

What had the hairs on the back of your neck raising, was that if it weren't for your spider senses, you wouldn't have known they were there at all.

Slowly, you drag your eyes along the wall before you, from the top corners where webs were beginning to form, down over the portraits and decorations littering the wall paper and all the way to the bottom trim– and the body huddled in the left corner of the room, furthest from the entryway.

Damians green eyes met your own in a defensive glare. The light of the fire reflecting off his glassy irises with a sickening glow, reminiscent of a cat in the night.

Not a bad comparison, for at the moment his defensive posture, forced scowl and weary eyes are similar to a cornered kitten.

You stare back at him in silence for a long moment, your own tired gaze eyeing him in the dim lighting with conflicting emotions.

You only speak when Damian shuffles slightly, muscles tensing in what you assume is the intention to flee, "Pretty shit service, huh? Alfred hated The Beatles." You snort, head slumping back onto the couch with a weak laugh.

You hear his shuffling stop. "I imagine he'd be strangling your dad right now for letting them play that song. If there was one thing he never played about it was his taste in music." Your lips quirk at the memory of Alfred's scowl whenever he spoke about his distaste of the band.

You close your eyes, allowing your sixth sense to take over and alert you to Damians presence drawing closer.

"It's kind of funny... Now that I'm thinking about it, they pulled the same shit at my mom's funeral too. My Tia was so upset, and I was so young that I didn't understand why–" You laugh weakly, "–I mean, it's just music right? What's the big deal. It's not like she could hear it anyway." You abruptly stop yourself, pausing to take a deep breath as Damians presence lingers beside the couch.

"But it's not just music. It's the fact that there were so many people there who insisted on helping out... and yet none of them actually knew her. They didn't care about her or know her favorite colors or songs. They didn't use her favorite pictures. Didn't put her favorite flowers in her casket. They didn't even put the right fucking name on her grave." You huff, eyes welling up with tears as you stare into the fireplace.

You take a second to compose yourself before you start again, voice low and heavy as Damian takes a hesitant seat on the furthest cushion from you, curling into the corner. "You know... Everyone always says it gets easier... That eventually, you stop crying when you think of them, and that your chest doesn't hurt as much when you talk about them but... It doesn't." You feel the movement through the couch as Damian flinches.

"I think everyone who says stuff like that is full of shit. Especially when they've never had to sit and watch someone they love die, without being able to do a damn thing about it." Your jaw clentches and you ignore the way Damian tenses beside you, giving him the gift of privacy for his vulnerability.

"I've been through it... More than I ever should have." You pause to swallow the lump in your throat, "I was ten when I watched my mom and step-dads murder from the kitchen closet..." You ignore his shocked stare, eyes trained on the burning logs before you, "Fifteen, when my girlfriend died in my arms. A month away from seventeen when my Tia was killed and I had to..." You stop there, taking a deep breath before changing your trajectory.

"They mean well. Dick... Bruce... All of them, the-they do. They care about you, and they want to make sure you're okay, which is why they're being so... suffocating." You smile sadly.

"But they don't get it. None of them will ever be able to get it..." You trail off hesitantly, "Bruce's parents died so long ago. He's forgotten the details, fogotten the pain that comes with witnessing the brutality." You huff, crossing your arms as you stare blankly into the flames, "Dick was so young when the accident happened that he doesn't even remember looking away." You frown, "Jason's mom wasn't mangled or mutilated–" You ramble, "–Barbara, Tim, and Duke's parents are all still alive, and Stephanie and Cassandra are no-contact with their families!"

You take a moment to catch your breath after your rant, face screwed up in a pathetic display of hurt and envy.

"... I'm not going to sit here and tell you that it'll get better. That he's in a better place or that a day will come when his death doesn't haunt you, but... I will tell you that it wasn't your fault." You finally turn to face him, placing a hand on the couch behind his head as you demand his attention.

"Damian. Look at me." You see him scowl, his eyes glued to the carpeted floor as he clutches his knees closer to his chest.

"Look at me." Your voice is stern, but quiet. Demanding, but not harsh.

He finally, hesitantly, draws his gaze to meet yours, angered face falling at your soft eyes and furrowed brows.

"There was nothing you could have done to save him." You hate yourself the moment the words leave your lips, but you push on, desperate to reassure the boy in a way you wish someone would have done to you.

"It was out of your control. There was nothing you could have done to stop Bane, and he was always going to kill him no matter what you did or didn't do. You are fourteen years old, and he's a grown ass man built like a fucking tank who's jacked up on a fucked steroid knockoff... You couldn't save Alfred, and that is not your fault." Your voice cracks with emotion, and you hand your head to hide your tears from Damians face as he quietly lets his own fall after.

You don't know how long the two of you sit in that room before someone finally finds you guys. Simply basking in one anothers presence and the solidarity that comes with your words as the fire dwindles by the minute.

Damian never spoke a word, but you can tell that your speech had left him with a lot to think about.

You didn't speak after that either, content to close your eyes and enjoy the calm stillness of the room.

Your clothes are finally dry by the time Jason stalks through the doorway, glaring at you suspiciously as he rounds the couch to eye Damian in disbelief.

"So this is where you ran off to? Hiding away with them, of all people? Do you know how long we've been looking for you!? His body–" You interrupt him with a scowl, pushing up from the couch to stand in front of him.

"You must really like the sound of your own voice, huh? You just never shut the fuck up–"

"What the hell did you say to me!?"

"So you're deaf now too? I said–" You pause at the feeling of a tug on the end of your jacket, looking back to see Damian glaring at the taller male with pained eyes.

The action has you speechless, voice caught in your throat at the first friendly contact he's ever made.

"Lets... Let's just go." You stutter, shoving past Jason with Damian hot on your heels, trailing your featherlight steps with his own silent patters.

You hear Jason stomping behind you but don't bother sparing a glance back, focusing instead on the nearly unnoticeable presence at your side.

Why the hell is he so quiet?

Not even Felix had your ears straining so much to hear him, and he's the most light-footed person you know.

The oddity only adds to your suspicion of Damian.

He's always been an enigma to you, ever since the day you met.

He's violent, arrogant and incredibly rude, but also concernedly disciplined and tense.

Quiet and confident, always eyeing the faces in the room like someone was about to jump out and attack.

He's analytical and defensive, but not paranoid.

He's everything that a kid his age shouldn't be... and it worries you.

Sets off the nerves that scream there's danger around. That something is out to get you and you need to be prepared.

You always shoved those thoughts aside, assuming he was just an angsty tween with a concerning fascination with blades.

Until he finally turned one on you, and you realized there was more to the story than Bruce was feeding you. His movements were too precise, too swift and comfortable for him to have just been in a blind rage. His strikes were carefully calculated, every one delivered with the intent to hit.

To kill.

And somehow, you were the bad guy for fighting back?

You shake your head to ride yourself of the thoughts, reminding yourself that it wasn't the time to dwell on such things.

Not when Alfred was waiting.

The three of you step into the garden in a lingering tense silence. Damian still lingered at your side, while Jason immediately took off to stand next to Cassandra and Barbara, who stared at you like you had grown another head.

You ignore their baffled stares as you grab an umbrella from the porch before walking closer, stopping a few feet away as you wait for the rest of the group.

Their hushed whispers and side glances don't bother you for long as your attention gets drawn to Bruce and the rest of the family, who finally make their appearance.

"Damian, there you are, we were worried..." Dicks voice trails off as he glances at you in shock, eyes darting between you and Damian confusedly.

You simply offer a shrug in response, still pretty confused yourself as Bruce looked like he's a second away from a heart attack at your proximity to the boy.

"If I knew there was a dress code, I wouldn't have worn this dress." Selina's sultry voice snaps everyone out of their confused, concerned stares as they turn to her.

She simply smiles and raises a brow as she gesture to where you, Bruce and Damian had all unintentionally clustered together. "Must be a Wayne thing, hm?" You glance down confusedly, before balking as the joke finally lands.

Bruce and Damian were almost carbon copies of one another with their black turtlenecks and matching blazers.

Glancing around, you notice Tim and Cassandra also looking at one another in amusement as they take in their matching black turtleneck sweaters.

You also spot Harper nudging Kate with a grin as the redhead tries to hide her own shirts collar behind her leather jacket.

Of course, you had also decided to wear a black turtleneck today... What a fucking coincidence...

You scowl at the reminder of the blood in your veins, turning to take off down the winding path to the graveyard as laughter rings out behind you.

You hear Damian huff, glancing down with a small smirk at the unamused frown decorating his face.

Everyone was quick to follow behind, and the light atmosphere was swiftly replaced with solemnity as the graveyard slowly came into view.

Damian eventually staggered back to walk next to Dick, and you laughed as you picked up on Dicks concerned questioning.

Like you were the one who had a history of violence...

The thought had you shaking your head in disappointment and hurt. The night at your apartment had you foolishly hoping that maybe he wasn't like the others. After all, he wasn't really around enough to know everything, simply believing whatever bullshit the others fed him. Maybe you guys could still work past your issues and... become friends?

You honestly don't know what you were thinking. He's just like everyone else.

He always was.

You come to a stop just before the burial site, throat closing at the sight of the casket hanging above the empty grave.

Bruce had opted for a closed casket... apparently, Bane hadn't just snapped Alfred's spine but actually crushed his entire head.

There wasn't much left to view.

Unlike the cathedral, there was no official schedule. No professional religious leader to spout nonsense and religious guilt. No reporters, no police, just family.

And you, of course.

Surprisingly, Barbara takes the lead. Taking a moment to read from some of Alfred's favorite verses and quote his favorite poets before moving on to reminisce about the man.

She speaks of the good times and brings smiles to everyone's faces when mentioning cherished memories.

The fact that none of them contained you only made you the slightest bit uncomfortable, since you were expecting it.

Didn't make it hurt any less, though.

Still, you had to give it to her. She did a good job. Better than you did.

Once she was done, Dick, Tim, Jason, Cassandra and Stephanie all took turns to say a few words as well.

Jason and Cassandra were very blunt, short with their words and quick to say what they wanted before pulling back to lurk in the shadows.

Tim and Stephanie spoke one after the other, and held each other's hand through it all. Tim choked on his words and Stephanie lightened the mood with a small quip that Alfred would have ripped his hair out at the state of everyone's attire.

Dick spoke for a few minutes about the man he considered a grandfather, but eventually had to stop as he could no longer muster words through the tears.

Kate, Selina and Harper all ended up next to you as Bruce encased his eldest in a desperate embrace, Damian hanging onto their coattails with barely concealed tears.

"You gonna say anything?"

"No. Doesn't feel appropriate, you?"

"No, I uhm– Didn't know him that well..."

"What about you?"

It takes them calling your name for you to realize that they were addressing you, turning your head to meet Harper and Kate's inquisitive stares with wide eyes.

"Oh. Uh– No. He uhm– He already knew everything I would want to tell him... H-He knows..." You nod shakily, moreso to reassure yourself than them as they offer you their own nods of understanding.

Selina is unnaturally silent as she lurks beside you, head trained on Bruce as she grazes her shoulder against yours.

"He misses you, you know. He regrets what happe–"

"If he really did then he'd be the one here telling me, not you."

Your voice is harsh when you cut her off, hand cracking the plastic of the umbrella in your hand as her words have you losing your composure at her audacity.

Her silence has you eyeing her from the corner of your eye, scoffing at her disapproving frown.

Alfred's casket is lowered just as the sun begins to set, the dark mahogany glistening in the remnants of the days fading light.

Everyone slowly makes their way back to the manor as Bruce begins shoveling dirt into the grave. Damian lingers beside him, watching the wood dissapear with haunted green eyes.

Dick walks with you on the path through the garden, a thick silence surrounding the two of you as you share your umbrella.

The rain had lessened considerably since your morning escapade, but it was still falling in a consistent drizzle. Enough to have you watching your step to avoid getting mud on your shoes.

"It was nice... seeing you– seeing everyone together for once..." Dick is hesitant with his words, and you can tell based on his rapid heartbeat that he's nervous about it.

"I think it'd be good to do it more... You know, it's not right that the only time everyone gets together like this is for weddings or funerals–" You roll your eyes with a weak smile, biting your tongue hard enough to draw blood to prevent yourself from spitting at him.

You'd never attended a wedding with them.

"–If... If you're not too busy.. I want to start having dinner with everyone, like this. Maybe once a month, or–"

"Dick, let's not do this." You cut him off with a choked whimper.

"Let's not pretend that everything's okay. That today changed anything between all of us." You laugh humorlessly, "Jason hates me. Bruce looks at me like I'm a bomb waiting to go off and everyone else thinks I'm unstable!" You stop yourself at the sudden rise of your voice, squeezing your eyes closed to gain a semblance of stability.

"The only reason I even came today was for Alfred. That's it." You sigh.

"I didn't come here planning to reconcile or start playing along with your guys' little happy family routine. I'll go back to my apartment, and you guys can continue on like I don't exist." Your voice is shakier than you'd intended, and you hate the way it has Dick looking at you.

"But what if you didn't–"

"I will. I am." You're stern with your words, eyes hardened as you meet his pleading gaze. "I'm not going to force myself to saty here and apologize or act like what I did was wrong. It's unfair of you to ask me to do that–"

"That's not what I'm–"

"–but it is!" You don't let him escape accountability.

"It is. You expect me to just ignore everything that happened, everything they said and did to me, just because you feel– what, guilty? Remorseful?" You scoff.

He's silent, and you pause as you finally reach the porch. "I'm done trying to fit in here. I don't belong, I never did... The one person who bothered trying to prove differently is dead... and I... I only regret leaving because it meant disappointing him."

Your words settle in the air with a weight that hangs on both of your shoulders like a brick.

Dick finally begins to understand the depth of your pain.

You begin to finally let go of your delusional dreams of having a father.

You depart from one another with a stiff embrace and the one-sided promise of fixing things.

Dick pays for your cab, and hands you Alfred's letter after scamming your phone number out of you.

You block his own as soon as he finishes putting it in.

Now you sit, shaking your head and giggling in disbelief at the contents, giggling in a fit of manic amusement. Salty tears trail your face as you grip the paper with trembling hands.

Forgive them.

Forgive yourself.

This world needs all the heroes it can get. Especially Gotham.

– Grandpa Al

Taglist <3: @onceinamillionposter , @jscrawls @bat1212 , @1abi , @cosmosluckycharms , @homeless-clown

Updates are going to slow down from now on bc this is the third series I have going on rn. I'll do my best to update at least once a month, possibly twice, depending on when I have time, but they'll all be pretty long. Not quite as long as this one tho, this chapter is a monster, I feel like it might even be a bit too long, lol.

Thank you all for the support <3

#VENOMOUS THINGS #x reader #reader insert #batfam x reader #batman #batfam #spiderman atsv #spiderman itsv #spider!reader #dc x marvel au #dc x reader

224 notes · View notes

hgfictionwriter · 1 month ago

Text

Revelations - Part Eleven

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Your date with Jessie finally arrives. After so many months of turmoil and heartache, you navigate hope and a re-imagined future.

Warnings: None

A/N: The rest of the series is here.

You looked yourself over in the mirror and resisted the urge to nitpick. You looked good, and Jessie would certainly unequivocally agree. She thought you looked good even when you most certainly didn't.

You exhaled as you checked the time on your phone. You had tons of time until Jessie would be here. A near-embarrassing amount, really.

Though you offered to meet her at the coffee shop, she'd insisted on picking you up.

"It's a date, after all," she'd told you.

You couldn't help being early. The anticipation was high and even though you tried to kill time, you eventually decided that getting ready would help ease your nerves.

It didn't really.

But they were good nerves.

For the first time in many, many months you were truly and simply excited to see Jessie. It was unhindered. Untainted. And there was a long lost familiarity in it - for years she was the one you sought out, the one who lifted your spirits when you were down, someone who could make even the best of days even better. That feeling disappeared in the months preceding all of this and for a period you'd had no hope that it would ever return.

Now, as the time for your date approached, you felt that sweet vibration of nerves and giddy anticipation.

You knew it wouldn't be seamless and without its struggles. You'd both committed to hashing everything out, so things were going to get heavy, but above all you felt hopeful. Presumptuous as it may be, you felt like you were a team again. Aligned.

A wedge had formed between you two, both of you drifting away, suddenly on different, separate paths, but despite everything, they'd converged once more. Since you'd agreed to this date, it was the most right thing you'd felt in months. You'd felt the most at peace and settled since that moment as well.

Part of you pondered regret over your breakup, but even in the relief and serenity of this milestone you knew that you'd needed the separation. You needed the space. You needed the time. You needed to live through all of this to know that Jessie, Zoie - this variation of your life - was not something to weather, but something you wanted, something you would cherish and nurture.

You busied yourself around the apartment and your phone lit up with a call from your building's intercom.

Your heart raced as you swiped to answer it.

"Hello?"

"H-hi," Jessie's cheery, nervous voice came through the crummy intercom microphone. "It's me. Um. Jessie."

You bit back a laugh, but some of your amusement bled out as you responded.

"Hi Jess." She was clearly nervous and you didn't want to give her a hard time right off the bat. "I'll buzz you up."

The long tone rang through as you buzzed her in. The call disconnected as you heard her open the front door.

You paced in the entryway as you awaited her arrival. The faint sound of the elevator opening and closing came from down the hall and you took a steadying breath as you checked yourself one final time in the mirror.

A short knock came at the door and your palms were starting to sweat as you walked over and opened it.

The smile you wore as you opened the door widened as she stood before you in a long-sleeve button up and nice jeans. Her hands were behind her back as she offered you an eager, but nervous smile. Her eyes did a quick scan of you, before darting away and her expression shifted subtly, her cheeks starting to grow a shade darker.

"Hi," she greeted again as she forced herself to look back at you again. You saw her visibly swallow. "Y-you look really nice."

You smiled at her. "You don't look so bad yourself."

You wanted to say it flirtatiously, but you doubted yourself momentarily and you ended up delivering it a bit timidly as your own cheeks began to heat up.

"Um, come in," you said as you worked to reset. You stepped aside and waved her in. She smiled with a faint duck of her head as she offered a soft, "Thanks" and took a single, large step across the threshold with her eyes trained on the floor.

You went to close the door and she cleared her throat and finally revealed her hand from behind her to extend a bouquet of flowers to you.

"Um, these are for you," she announced as she nearly stood to attention and held them out to you, arm pin-straight and stiff.

"Aww, Jess," you said as you brought your hands to frame the flowers in appreciation before taking them from her, your fingers brushing hers as you did so. "They're beautiful. Thank you so much," you went on as you leaned in instinctually and kissed her cheek. She let out a soft laugh at the gesture and her hands came to your arms in an awkward half-hug and her cheeks were now beet red as you drew back.

"You like [y/favourite flower]," she explained unnecessarily, some of her nervous energy lingering as she readily followed you into the kitchen while you found a home for the flowers.

"I do," you affirmed with a reassuring smile as you placed them into the water and arranged them. Your smile shifted into a teasing grin. "I'm surprised though. I didn't get flowers for our first date."

Jessie's smile spread across her face as she processed your statement.

"Well, I didn't know you liked flowers back then. Or [y/favourite flower]. And," she shrugged playfully, "I may have still been trying to play things a little bit cool then," she said as she gestured a measurement with her fingers.

You laughed and she continued to visibly relax.

"You texted me mid-week to check in on the date. Then first thing in the morning day-of to make sure I hadn't changed my mind. Then again when you were leaving to double-check. 'Cool' was out the door." You both laughed and she gave you a comical shrug.

You placed your hands on the counter before raising a finger. "Actually, it almost backfired on you. I was sitting there thinking, "Wait. Is she trying to cancel? Is she trying to get me to cancel instead though?"

"No," Jessie protested with a laugh. "I was just super awkward and liked you a lot." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Kind of like now."

Your confidence grew and your nerves continued to settle.

"Well," you started as you rounded the counter and sauntered up to her, your hands behind your back. "Luckily, I liked you then. And I most certainly like you now."

An unexpected expression flashed across her face and she dropped her gaze. "It's a miracle," she laughed half-heartedly. You stared at her for a moment, seeing the regret and remorse in her eyes. You leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek again.

"We'll talk through everything today," you told her softly and hoping to reassure her.

She mustered up a smile for you and reached out, grabbing your hands tentatively.

"Thank you for giving this a shot. I know you're not promising anything. But to even talk things through...being open to it...thank you."

She struggled to maintain eye contact and she thumbed the back of your hand anxiously as she spoke. You gave her hands a gentle squeeze and urged her to meet your gaze.

You leaned in slow, not rushing the moment and kissed her softly. She inhaled, melting into it and your embrace.

She rest her forehead against yours with a content breath as the kiss ended. Neither of you spoke for several seconds as you stood in one another's arms and savoured the moment.

Eventually, she cracked a smile and a quiet laugh followed before she stole another kiss.

"I love you," she said as she shook her head at herself. You cupped her cheek and kissed her back.

"I love you, too."

"Totally normal first-date proclamations," she chuckled, pulling a laugh from you as well.

"Totally."

A faint blush lingered on her cheeks as she pulled back and you two disengaged from the embrace. She tucked a hand into her back pocket and ran the other through her waves.

"It's been over 5 years and you give me more butterflies than ever," she relayed.

"Oh, she's charming today," you teased though you felt your face flushing. She chuckled, shrugging lightly.

"I'm not trying to be. I'm just telling you how I feel," she defended mildly. You worked to temper your smile and nodded at her as that bright buzzing sensation worked it way up your chest. She cleared her throat, a smirk remaining on her lips. "Were you ready to go? I know I was a bit early."

You returned her smirk and her vulnerability urged you to unveil some of your own.

"Well, good thing I was ready an hour early," you offered self-deprecatingly. "Who's 'cool' now?"

A grin formed across her face in realization. She shook her head.

"Me," she said easily. "This has been the longest week of my life waiting for today. I changed my outfit twice even though I spent the week planning it out and I've been sitting in my car for the past 30 minutes debating how early I could come in without being too much."

You laughed and pulled her in for another kiss.

"Charmer."

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

You settled into your chairs in the coffee shop, both with steaming hot beverages to warm your hands. The drive over had been easy and light, but now as you sat across from one another and offered each other quiet, tentative smiles, the impending weight of the conversation before you became imminent.

You took a small sip of your drink even though you knew it was far too hot and it scalded your tongue. You smiled through it anyway.

Jessie fidgeted, eyes scanning about before offering a nervous chuckle while she forced herself to meet your watchful gaze.

"I don't know where to start," she admitted sheepishly as she rubbed the back of her neck.

"I know, me neither," you agreed as you set your drink back down. You took a small breath before resting your forearms on the table and leaning in. "Truthfully, there's probably no right or better place to start."

Jessie nodded her agreement as she took a steadying breath of her own. She relaxed in her seat and gave a faint shrug as her expression turned curious.

"I guess...what changed?" She hardly gave you a second to think before she rambled on, tucking her hands between her knees and hunching over as she spoke hurriedly. "I mean, that's probably a very big question. I imagine there's so much to consider and it's not an easy answer and-"

"Jess," you cut in patiently with a gentle smirk. She looked up at you a bit wide-eyed at the interjection, but soon dissolved into a laugh and sat back once more with a nod and easy smile.

"Sorry. Go ahead," she said.

You inhaled deeply, gaze drifting to the ceiling in contemplation. You didn't want to hold anything back. If you two were going to rebuild - truly rebuild - you both needed to be completely honest and vulnerable.

So, you launched in. You shared how it wasn't one particular thing that swayed you in the end - it was all sorts of things, moments, and realizations that compounded over time. How drawn to her you still were after all these months. The persistent feelings despite the distance. Yearning. Wondering. Loss.

Knowing that Jessie still thought of you despite no longer needing to. In fact, not supposed to. The birthday gift. The few texts. Then the day with Zoie - a pivotal, important glimpse into a new reality, what could have - or could - be. Running into each other at the craft store; finding out your interests and passions and curiosities still intersected even though there was no guiding force behind it.

That despite all of your mutual efforts to move on with your lives, you still kept coming back to one another.

All coming to a head that one night and morning. Her openness and vulnerability those days; being the one brave enough to admit that she was still in love.

She hadn't forgotten you. Her love for you hadn't waned. Her hopes for your future were still intact. If you were pining for her, she certainly was for you as well.

Then hearing from Sara. If someone like her, someone in her position, felt compelled to share what she did - there really was no denying it any longer.

Jessie listened attentively, nodding acknowledgements and inserting affirmations where possible.

"And...here we are," you said very nonchalantly as if it weren't a near-miracle.

Jessie nodded as she continued to process your words. She rubbed her bottom lip, eyes trained on the table. It'd been a while, but you still knew her well.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you encouraged. "We need to be honest if we're going to repair and make this work."

She met your gaze and took a deep, silent breath.

"I, um, I can't help but think about the person you're dating. How does," she trailed off and began to gesture between you and her, "this, fit in all of that?"

You gave her a reassuring smile.

"I wouldn't worry. Like I said, casual at best. Neither of them are exclusive or serious by any means," you explained.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she studied you. "Neither? Wait."

"I've been - more or less - seeing a couple of girls," you pre-empted her question.

She stared at you steadily before finally offering an "Oh."

You chuckled. "The dating scene has been a rough go. And that's not even fair of me to say. Both of them are - don't take this the wrong way - kind of great."

You watched her carefully and though she still stared intently at you, she didn't flinch or interject. You went on.

"If it makes a difference, that actually helped solidify things for me with you. If they, well, sucked - it would've been easy for me to explain why I struggled developing feelings for them or moving on. But they were nice, funny, cute." You sighed and shrugged listlessly. "But you were still at the center of my feelings. Wants. Needs. As good as they are, they just don't compare to you."

You saw Jessie visibly relax. And to your surprise, she reached out and gently grasped your hand.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm beyond grateful that you feel the way you do for me after everything, but, I'm also sorry that you didn't find what you were looking for. I mean, if we're being very honest, your life would be a lot simpler if you started over with someone else."

You smiled wistfully.

"I guess? But, I love you. And even if that hurt, it doesn't anymore."

Jessie leaned in and lifted your hand to kiss the back of it. Her lips lingered before she drew back and rest her other hand on top of yours.

As you sat there watching her, your heart swelling at her gesture, a faint gnawing began to eat away at the back of your mind.

"Have you seen anyone?" You ventured. It didn't seem like she had. She hadn't eluded to it, but you had to ask.

"No," Jessie responded adamantly as if it was a baffling question. She shook her head. "I had zero desire or capacity for anything like that. Believe me. Lots of other things to sort out in my life and - you know - still being very in love with you."

The apprehension that'd begun to build calmed once more. Still, you couldn't stop yourself from speaking.

"Well, good. Because if another love child came out of nowhere I can tell you I would not survive it," you said with a dry smirk. Jessie on the other hand, wasn't amused and instead sighed as she ran a hand through her hair. You apologized immediately.

"No," she told you, "we need to get these things out."

You squeezed her hand as you took a breath. "I know. Even though it's going to suck - we should talk about all of that. From both sides. I know we talked about stuff on and off leading up to the breakup, I wasn't as upfront with you about how I was feeling as I should've been. And I'm sure there's lots you were feeling that you didn't feel safe or comfortable telling me."

Jessie nodded and a silence filled your conversation. It wasn't a threatening silence like the kind that had infiltrated your relationship before, it was more neutral. Safe. Sensing that the other would be patiently waiting for them on the other side of the silence.

"You go first," Jessie gently encouraged.

"Oh God," you said with a weak chuckle. You exhaled heavily and drained the rest of your drink. Jessie offered you a tender smile.

"It's alright. Take your time. And say everything you need to. You don't need to protect me. Or whatever," she assured you.

"I know. I just never want to hurt you," you muttered as you rubbed your face wearily already. Her tilting her head down to catch your eye drew your attention. She held your gaze pointedly.

"I think we should go into this understanding that neither of us was trying to hurt the other." She sat back, starting to pick at the skin of her fingers. "I don't know if it's fair to say, but my impression is that we both still loved each other at the end, everything else was just...too much."

You nodded, feeling recently dormant emotions starting to stir once more as you began to prod at them. The heartbreak. The pain. The loneliness. The memories grew sharper in your mind, filled in by rising emotions.

"Oh Lord," you mumbled as you covered your face briefly, feeling heat rising to it. You had to laugh at yourself. "We haven't even started yet. Not sure why I suggested to have a talk like this out in public."

Jessie looked around, head craning over her shoulder before she turned back, resting her forearms on her thighs as she spoke.

"I know it's not exactly warm out, but maybe we could go for a walk?" She cracked a wry smirk. "Though I'll be holding my breath hoping it doesn't end like our last walk - breaking off all contact."

You shot her a chiding but affectionate look before affirming her suggestion with a definitive nod.

"A walk sounds good," you said.

"Okay," Jessie said as she sat upright, pleased with herself.

You caught her processing a thought and a second later she scooted her chair back and took off the hoodie she'd thrown on in the car before coming inside - she'd never been comfortable dressing up - and held it out to you. You frowned in confusion and she held it out further before explaining, "It's cold out. You aren't exactly dressed warm." She cracked a smug smirk. "And we both know I can handle the cold better than you."

The nature of the heat on your face shifted as you recalled days of walking around the apartment in Jessie's hoodies; sometimes in nothing but that.

You scoffed facetiously as you glanced away, your cheeks fully burning up now before you snatched the hoodie in a half-heartedly begrudging manner and slipped it on as if admitting defeat.

You narrowed your eyes into a glare at how she sat proudly beaming as you donned her hoodie.

"Stop trying to charm me, Fleming. It's not nice," you scolded. Jessie chuckled.

"I'm just caring for you," she insisted. You rolled your eyes with a slight pout.

"I know. Thank you."

Jessie still wore a broad smile as she stood and held out her hand to you.

"Oh my God," you said nearly aghast though you took her hand and let her help you stand. "Now you're really pushing it."

Jessie looked just so pleased that you couldn't help but be overwhelmed with affection. All you could do was shake your head at yourself. At her. At you two.

She did up her jacket and was about to walk out when you held her back by her elbow. You reached out, well aware of her curious eyes on you as you pointedly zipped up her jacket the rest of the way.

"Come on. All the way up. You're not wearing a hoodie. You'll get cold," you told her primly and facetiously. You smiled back at her as she held eye contact and looked at you adoringly.

"Yes, ma'am."

Though it chilly out, the air cold and crisp, it was refreshing. Also Jessie was right, the openness of the outdoors made it feel easier to speak.

So, you did.

You talked about how heartbroken you were. How it felt like she'd skipped ahead without you and hardly seemed to notice. All of the firsts you dreamed of together wouldn't be anymore. The dreams you'd both had were broken and she hardly seemed bothered. She was happy. And while she had a right to be, it just cut you deeper that her world was growing richer, becoming more complete, and yours was falling apart. Never mind the guilt that riddled you for feeling the way you did.

You shared moments, like how devastated you were when Jessie’s family visited. You felt like you were going to be sick the whole time. Wishing the ground would just swallow you up. And you hated yourself for feeling that way. Seeing Zoie so happy, how excited Jessie’s family was getting to know Zoie and Sara. While you just felt like you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get your head above water. You’d envisioned her parents meeting your and Jessie's child and you being so excited and happy to share them with her family. But instead it was playing out before you with someone else in your place and you were just…there. You felt so alone and like you didn’t belong. Like you were robbed of something but you were the only one who felt it.

You told her about how you cried trying on your wedding dress. That you should've been joyous and over the moon and you just felt heartbroken and hollow instead.

And try as you might, you just couldn't turn things around. You couldn't soothe or heal yourself in any lasting way.

By the time you'd finished, you were in tears and Jessie had laced her fingers with yours, kissing your cheek tenderly and had begun walking you back to the car with tears of her own.

Despite the emotion and sadness, you both had to laugh about how - in hindsight - going out for this talk had been overly ambitious.

As you got into her car, Jessie was apologizing profusely for making it seem like she didn't care. She absolutely did. She was so scared of hurting you and losing you. She didn't know how to reach you or properly reassure you. And she didn't know how to balance things better. And she'd stupidly forged on, subconsciously hoping that if she just adopted this new normal, that it would stick and things would be fine.

She also, more importantly even, adamantly assured you that the firsts you'd dreamed of sharing together could still be. Yes, Zoie was her daughter, yes, she was in her life. But she missed everything with Zoie. And even if she'd been around, it would've been so different.

She never loved Sara. Not by a long shot. Jessie loved Zoie, but she wasn't planned - at all. Whereas, she loved you deeply. She wants a family with you. Just the thought of you two checking a pregnancy test together and finding out you're pregnant left her elated. First ultrasound. First kicks. Caring for you while you're pregnant. Caring for your baby together - the sweet moments, the sleepless nights - she wanted it all with you and it would all be as new for her as it would be for you.

Yes, things were different. Zoie would be part of this picture as well, but it didn't change what she wanted with you and how special it'd be to her. That went for her family, too.

As she drove back to your apartment, she shared her own anguish as well. Something, outside of the break-up and the moments in between, you'd rarely been privy to.

The crippling anxiety she'd felt throughout. The constant worry about hurting you, about you leaving, about letting down Zoie, disappointing her friends and family. The feeling of failure - not meeting anyone's needs appropriately, including her own. The uncertainty. The pressure.

How she cried herself to sleep out on the shitty air mattress in the middle of your old apartment's living room as the days ticked down and your departure from her life neared. How she tried so hard, but none of it connected and it ached so deeply to see you drifting further and further away each day. Like she was screaming into an abyss and you couldn't hear her.

She shared how she found herself right back at that same spot after that day together in the park. Crying quietly to herself at night, fearing she'd wake Zoie and wouldn't know what to say to her. How could she explain how you could miss someone so much it physically pained you? How pathetic and hopeless it felt to feel that way after the other person unequivocally ended things and you should've moved on? To lay there grieving what could've been was something she just couldn't begin to explain.

You held her hand tightly as she spoke, kissing it as she blinked through her tears, now and then weepily cracking a joke about how she probably wasn't in the best condition to be driving right now.

The booster seat in the back of her car caught your eye again as it did on the drive out.

Frankly, the sight of it was kind of jarring. Though this was a reset and you felt so different now than before, it was a reminder that outside of the past hurt to heal, there were still plenty of things present and future navigate.

A booster seat in the back. A kid's water bottle in the cup holder. School. Homework. Dance classes. Swimming. Camps. Pick-up. Drop-off. Etc.. Jessie was a full on mom now.

You weren't.

You felt ready to be now, but that didn't change the fact that you were at different places on that journey than Jessie. The distance between you on that path even greater now in many ways.

You told her so. And voiced your needs this time - that you'd need her guidance and patience. Thankfully, she was more than willing to give it. She also made a point of reminding you how much of a natural you were with Zoie and how much she'd taken to you.

She parked and you invited her up. As you walked towards your apartment, you asked if she begrudged you for not being able to navigate all of this the same as her. That you couldn't catch up before, and you were still playing catch-up now.

"No," she told you as you wrapped your arms around one another in the elevator. "There were moments," she admitted as she laid a soft kiss on your temple. "But, those moments were mostly selfish. I know you tried. And deep down I knew better. And if I didn't, my friends and family were sure to check me," she said with a half-hearted smirk before growing poignant. "I do wish you would've been more forthcoming with me about how you felt though. I know now why you felt you couldn't, but I never want you to hold back. I wish I'd made that clearer back then."

She shrugged. "Sure, it was lonely at times, even when we were still together. But I was lucky - I was able to lean on my friends and family a lot."

You entered the apartment and set all of your things aside before settling in facing one another on the couch. Jessie intertwined your fingers, arms propped up on the back of the couch as she continued.

"I know it was harder for you. You had less people to lean on. And for me, it was also easier in the sense that I really had no choice. Once I found out about Zoie, I had to be an active part of her life. I could never be absent and just sending in money and calling it a day. That's just not who I am. My parents were everything to me growing up - to this day they're still integral to my life - I couldn't imagine choosing to not give my child the same support and love."

She took and breath, her thumb idly grazing the side of your hand.

"You, on the other hand, had more decisions to make. Did you want this life or not."

You nodded, the stray sniffle still wracking your body now and then.

"Yes. I do. It's taken me time to figure it out. To process everything properly. To see things evolve," you said. "I understand now why Sara was so present early on. At this point I can look back and be more empathetic. But it was brutal at the time. Nothing personal against her, but it was almost unbearable sometimes. Seeing the three of you together and seeing the family I wanted with you as an outsider.

"Seeing how things are now - now that you have custody sorted out, you and Zoie are totally good together on your own now - it's worlds different for me. I-I don't know if it's too bold or presumptuous to say, but I want to be a parent to Zoie. I'm not saying she needs to call me her mama too or anything like that, but...I do love her. And I want to be there. With you and her."

Jessie's expression dissolved, tears springing to her eyes once more and she pulled you into a tight hug. She squeezed you tighter as you lingered in her embrace. A sniffle escaped her as she pulled back with a weepy smile.

"Does this mean what I think it means?" She asked.

You couldn't help but compare the hopefulness in her eyes to the look she wore when she was before you on bended knee offering a sparkling ring. If anything though, you felt the weight and emotion she bared in this moment was inexplicably more somehow.

A new batch of tears began to well in your eyes as you watched her. Seeing her before you in this way seemed like an impossibility even a few weeks ago and yet now sitting with her, your hands in hers as she gazed at you with all the love in the world and your heart fluttered at the sight, it felt like an inevitability.

Of course you'd be together.

Of course she was the one for you.

Still, you had to be crystal clear about one last thing.

"Don't ever lie to me again. We're supposed to be partners. We're supposed to trust each other. Support each other. Not hold each other at arms length or in the dark," you spoke in earnest. "Whatever it is - no matter how big or small, even if it's hard. Especially when it's hard - I need to know you're with me and we're in things together."

She nodded her head eagerly and adamantly assured you.

You smiled softly at her and gave a nod.

"Then, yes, it means I want us to try again."

A brief, happy sob escaped her lips as she scooped you into her arms.

"I won't let you down. I promise. I love you so, so much," she chanted in your ear as you both clung to one another.

You two talked late into the night, continuing to process and heal. By the time the conversation wound down, you were both spent, but in a fulfilling and promising way.

"I, um, guess I'll let you get to sleep," Jessie tentatively offered though she didn't make a move to get off the couch. You gave her a chiding look.

"Don't be silly," you said. "You're spending the night."

Jessie's uncertain smile turned into a beaming one before she frowned and scratched the back of her neck sheepishly.

"I didn't bring anything with me," she said. "I didn't want to presumptuous."

You shrugged in return, unfazed. You rose from the couch and beckoned her to follow you.

"It's fine. I have stuff you can use."

Soon enough you were both ready for bed, Jessie wearing a change of your clothes. Your chest tightened blissfully at the mere thought of you two going to bed together, something you'd taken for granted so long ago.

"You know," Jessie started, her voice a bit of a mumble as she pulled back the comforter and climbed in, "I was half afraid I was going to find another girl's toothbrush or a drawer full of another girl's things."

You made a face as you climbed in next to her, her arm immediately wrapping securely around your waist and you shifted in.

"Things were nowhere near close to that," you informed her. A mischievous thought tugged at you, inappropriate as it may have been. "Though they did both offer something like that for me at their apartments."

Jessie inhaled deeply and sharply, her eyes immediately shutting and she removed her arm from you as she brought both hands to her ears. She shook her head, though the faintest smile pulled at her lips.

"Nope. Don't want to hear that," she said primly.

You gave an easy shrug. "I didn't take either up on it," you offered mildly.

Jessie opened her eyes and let her hands fall away from her head. There a flash of something in her eyes that made your core pulse, but whatever it was disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

She now smiled sweetly at you and gave you a short kiss as she cuddled you once more.

You lay quietly in one another's arms, both starting to nod off. The silence was comfortable and warm. You woke as she laid a lingering kiss on your forehead.

"Before you go to sleep, I just want to tell you one more thing," she spoke softly as not to jar you from your impending slumber. You opened your eyes and looked at her through the dark. She laid another tender kiss on your head.

"I've been thinking about this a lot. And being with you now just affirms it furthermore," she started.

"I've been on the move since I was a kid. Tournaments here, camps there. I left home for uni. Was on the go all the time then, too. Then I moved overseas. In one city one weekend, another the next. But I met the love of my life," she smiled as she kissed your lips. "Now, I'm here in Portland. And honestly, I don't know where life will take me. But the first time I felt a sense of home outside of my family home was with you. Whether we were in London together, you were with me on tournaments, or when we came here together. Home's been with you. It's not a physical place - because the apartment we shared feels nothing like a home to me without you. But laying here with you, being near you all day, I feel it again."

Your chest ached in the most wonderful way as you kissed her deeply and felt the safety and warmth of her arms hugging you closer to her.

"How many times are you going to make me cry tonight?" You asked with a laugh. She kissed you softly.

"I'm sorry," she said as she wiped away a tear that sat at the very corner of your eye with her thumb. "I never want to make you cry."

You chuckled and kissed her again before tucking your head into the crook of her neck. She squeezed you and kissed the crown of your head.

"They're good tears," you assured her and her body shook gently against yours as she laughed gently.

"Only good tears from now on, okay?"

"As long as we're together, good or bad, it'll all be okay."

"Sounds beautiful to me."

Tag requests: @ryuushou @marvelwomen-simp @valuyhh

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #canwnt x reader #woso fanfics

278 notes · View notes

enchantresss97 · 2 months ago

Text

I know I am late with this...

I was contemplating if I should make this a one shot or not, but it's too much so it will be two parts, three at best. Let's see...

Hope y'all will like.

Characters: Au!Eric Draven (Bill Skarsgård) x reader

Description: This is a Au!Eric Draven, no Shelly involved(although is another girl, no, is not the girl from this chapter, it's more darker than this), no Roeg and no powers, other than that is still the Eric we know. He is powerful, dangerous, and infamous for his violent reputation, he’s someone people know to stay away from. A man whose name strikes fear in the hearts of many. His presence is commanding, intimidating. He’s not the type to open up, but when he locks eyes with you, there’s an undeniable tension that pulses in the air between you two. It’s hard to ignore the way he looks at you, the subtle flirting, and the dangerous charm that seems to surround him. You never imagined to meet him, but here you are, caught in a web of questions. Where will this lead? Can there be something more between you two? Will you end up friends, or is there something darker, more complicated in store? You can’t deny the tension, the attraction, it’s palpable. Could something truly happen between you and him? Only time will tell, but you can’t help but wonder: where will this take you?

Warning: (the warnings are for the whole story, not just this chapter) language, angst, drugs, alcohol, blood, guns, sex (at this point you know me), cheating.

Word count: 4794

Dark Gravity

It was a beautiful summer evening, the kind where the air felt warm and light, and the city hummed with the sounds of people enjoying the night. You and your friend Lily walked down the bustling streets, laughing and chatting, ice cream in hand. The evening felt easy, like everything was just right.

As you walked, Lily pulled out her phone, checking a message. “Mark just texted me,” she said, her tone bright. “He invited us over to his place tonight. You wanna come?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Sure, sounds good.”

The two of you made your way toward Mark’s place, the night unfolding in a natural rhythm.

Your friend was absorbed in her phone, typing a response, and you continued to chat casually, the conversation flowing without interruption. It wasn’t long before you found yourselves just a few blocks away from Mark’s apartment.

Your friend’s phone buzzed again, and she glanced down at it. “Mark’s not home yet,” she said, tapping out a reply. “He’ll be there in about five minutes. He said we should just go ahead and go up to his apartment. He gave me the intercom number, so we can get in and wait for him.” You both turned toward the building, the moment of hesitation passing quickly.

Just as you entered the building, the soft sound of rain began tapping on the pavement outside. It started slow, but quickly grew into a steady drizzle.

The air cooled, and the city’s usual sounds grew softer, muffled by the rain. Your friend led the way, pressing the intercom button and announcing your arrival. As the door clicked open, you stepped inside, feeling the warmth of the building as the cool rain fell outside.

The hallway was narrow, dimly lit, and quiet. Lily stepped to the side, holding her phone up to her ear as she began speaking to Mark. You didn’t catch most of the conversation, something about him being close and running late, but when she came back to you, she looked a little distracted. “He’ll be here in a minute,” she said, with a slight smile. “He’s almost here, but he’s coming with Eric and a few other friends.”

You froze.

The name Eric sent a chill down your spine. You knew Mark and Eric were friends, everyone knew that, but you never thought it would actually happen that you’d meet him in person. Sure, you’d heard the rumors.

Everyone had.

But hearing that Eric would be coming back with Mark… it wasn’t a surprise, but it still felt like a punch to the stomach.

“I don’t want to be around him,” you said quickly, your voice catching. Lily looked at you, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I just don’t want to be near him,” you said, your voice softer now. “He’s… dangerous, you know?”

Your friend seemed to take it lightly, shrugging as she continued to chat with Mark on the phone. But you couldn’t shake the unease in your chest.

You didn’t want to be here, not with Eric showing up.

“I’m going to leave,” you said, stepping back toward the stairs.

Your friend didn’t try to stop you. She went back to her phone, talking quietly to Mark, as you made your way toward the stairs.

You hurried down, eager to leave, but as you reached the door to the building suddenly opened and you collided with something—or rather, someone.

A sharp jolt of impact shot through you as you bumped into him, the force almost knocking you off balance.

“Boo!” he said with a smirk on his face.

The sudden sound, sharp and unexpected, made your heart skip a beat. You looked up to see him standing in the doorway, filling it entirely with his presence.

There,

There he was.

A tall figure, broad shouldered, cloaked in shadow, his presence looming in the doorway like a dark omen. He stepped forward, the faint light from the hallway revealing just enough, his hoodie pulled low over his face, his frame solid and imposing. The air seemed to thicken around him, the kind of tension you could feel deep in your chest. And in that moment, you knew.

This was Eric.

The stories were true.

He wasn’t a rumor or a name anymore.

He was standing right in front of you, filling the hallway with his silent, almost predatory presence.

The rain had picked up outside, and his figure stood there, drenched, dark water dripping from his hoodie.

You froze, unable to move, unable to even breathe.

The cold air from outside followed him in, a stark contrast to the warmth of the building. Your heart raced, your breath caught and for a second, his eyes met yours for the briefest second, piercing through the dark, and the world seemed to stop.

Then, with a casual shift, he moved past you, his gaze flickering away as he returned to the group. The spell was broken, but the weight of it still lingered. All you could do was watch him as he moved forward, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside of you.

From the hallway, everyone moved into Mark’s apartment, a huge, modern space with sleek furniture and dim lighting.

The living room was spacious, with a large couch in the center, a coffee table in front of it, and a TV on the wall.

Without missing a beat, the group gathered around the table, placing bags of alcohol and other substances down. The air was immediately thick with the smell of smoke as they started pouring drinks and pulling out the cocaine and joints.

Lines of white powder appeared on the table, a few joints rolled and ready to go.

Eric sat down on the couch, removing his wet hoodie with a nonchalant motion. He was shirtless beneath, and as the fabric slid off, the tattoos covering his chest, back and arms were revealed.

The ink was dark and intricate, each design telling its own story.

He had two rings on his fingers, glinting in the low light, and a necklace around his neck that rested on his skin. You could see a piercing in his ear, the glint of metal catching your eye.

He grabbed a joint, lighting it and taking a long drag before exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around him as he leaned back into the couch.

You sat on the opposite side of the couch from him, not far but still not close.

Lily sat beside you, and the others filled in the space between Eric and the rest of the group, the U form shaped couch made you stay in front of each other.

Everyone was crowded together, but you could still feel the distance. You kept yourself involved in the conversation, laughing and joking with the others, but never engaging directly with Eric.

You didn’t want to draw his attention, but somehow, despite your best efforts, he was always looking your way.

Every now and then, when someone said something funny or the laughter peaked, you caught a brief moment when Eric’s eyes flicked toward you.

It wasn’t long, just a second, a fleeting glance, but it was there. And sometimes, when he laughed or something caught his interest, you could feel his gaze lingering on you for a few seconds. Then, as quickly as it came, his attention shifted away, and he was back in the conversation, as if nothing had happened.

It was subtle, the way his eyes moved back and forth from the group to you. And while you tried not to acknowledge it, you couldn’t help but notice. You couldn’t shake the tension, the quiet pull that seemed to hang in the air whenever his eyes found yours.

The night continued with the group drinking and passing around the joints and the cocaine and God knows what else was on that table, but not him, he was just smoking his weed. Eric remained mostly quiet, but every now and then, he’d make a sarcastic remark, a dry laugh cutting through the conversation. His presence felt like a weight, subtle but undeniable.

In this kind of moments, the weight of that realization settled in your chest, you were sitting in the same room as Eric.

The infamous, notorious Eric. You had heard the stories, everyone had. Some were vague whispers, others detailed accounts of things too brutal to be fiction.

One story, in particular, surfaced now, clawing its way to the front of your mind.

A friend once told you about some guys she knew, someone who had seen Eric’s temper firsthand.

He and his friends had been hanging out at someone’s apartment when Eric showed up, uninvited.

He broke in, door swinging open like it was his own home. He wasn’t alone, his friends were with him, but it was Eric who took control of the room. He made himself comfortable, drinking from their bottles, smoking their cigarettes, acting as if he belonged there. Sarcastic, mocking, testing the limits of how far he could push them. And they played along, laughing nervously, nodding, offering him whatever he wanted. Because what else could they do?

But it didn’t matter. By the end of the night, those guys were beaten, bruised, and tied to chairs on the balcony, left out in the freezing winter air until morning. No one called the police. No one dared. And now, here you were. Sitting on the same couch as him.

You glanced at Eric. He was leaning back, relaxed, smilig at one of his friend joke, a joint between his fingers, the glow of it flickering in the dim light. Rings glinted on his hands, tattoos shifting over his skin as he moved. He wasn’t paying attention to you. He wasn’t doing anything threatening. But still, that story sat heavy in your mind, like a warning you couldn’t unhear. You took a slow breath, trying to push it away. A guy like him, with a reputation like his, should look different somehow.

Meaner.

Crueler.

But he didn’t.

You kept your expression neutral, stayed in the flow of the conversation, didn’t let your gaze linger too long. He couldn’t know that, for even a second, because no matter how normal he seemed now, you knew exactly who he was.

As the night wore on, the group’s energy grew, drinks were refilled, and more lines of cocaine appeared. Yet, you remained on the opposite side of the couch from Eric, aware of him, but not willing to give in to whatever strange pull was between you.

Every there and there your eyes would occasionally meet, just for a moment, he never acknowledged it, and neither did you.

The apartment had quieted down.

Lily and Mark had disappeared into his bedroom, drunk and already tangled up in each other before they even shut the door. Their laughter fading behind a closed door.

The guy on the couch—Lucas, maybe?—had knocked out, one arm dangling over the side, mouth slightly open.

The other guy and the girl grabbed their jackets, deciding to run out for more alcohol since they had burned through nearly everything they had brought, saying they’d be back soon with more drinks, though you weren’t sure how soon soon actually was.

And just like that, you were alone with him.

You hadn’t spoken a word to him all night, and he hadn’t spoken to you.

It had been easy enough to blend into the group, laughing at the right moments, nodding along, making sure your gaze didn’t linger too long on him. But now, with only the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath shifting weight, the silence between you felt pointed.

You felt it immediately.

The shift.

You could feel him watching you. The weight of his gaze settling on you, unhurried and deliberate. Still pretending like you weren’t hyper-aware of him.

But when his voice finally cut through the quiet, it was like he had been waiting for the exact moment to speak. “You don’t talk much.”

It wasn’t really a question.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I do.”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “Not to me"

“I’ve been talking to everyone.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled, keeping your expression neutral. “I didn’t realize that not throwing myself at you meant I was avoiding you.”

Hesitated, choosing your words carefully next. “You didn’t talk to me either.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “You don’t even look at me.” He said ignoring your reply.

You held his gaze this time, refusing to break it.

“I’m looking at you now.”

A slow smirk pulled at his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. “You are.”

The air between you felt charged, like a slow-burning fuse waiting to reach its end. His lips quirked at that, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes.

“You’re trying really hard to act like you’re not affected, are you scared of me?” Your pulse spiked, but you didn’t let it show.

“Should I be?”

That made him smile. Not a full one, just the ghost of amusement curling at the edge of his lips.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t let it show. You wouldn’t. But the look in his eyes told you he already knew. He had known from the second you walked in.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to make you uneasy before he spoke again.

“You’ve heard things about me,” he continued, his voice casual, but his gaze was anything but.

You swallowed, keeping your composure.

“I’ve heard things about everyone in this room.”

“But you don’t avoid them the way you avoid me.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe you’re just imagining things.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap, but you didn’t let yourself react. His voice dropped, quieter now.

“Tell me… what exactly did you hear?”

You hesitated.

He leaned in slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Go on,” he prompted, almost teasing. “I wanna hear it.”

You exhaled slowly. “That you’re dangerous.”

Something flickered in his eyes, something dark, unreadable. And then he smirked. “That’s it?”

You hesitated.

He leaned back again, stretching his arms out along the couch. “And? Do I look dangerous to you?”

Yes. But you didn’t say it. Instead, you held your ground. “I don’t know what you look like.”

He let out another quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Liar.”

It was dangerous, the way he looked at you. Like he was already pulling you into something you wouldn’t be able to escape from.

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he leaned back, stretching his arms along the couch.

“Alright,” he said suddenly.

“Tell me a song.”

You glanced at him. “Huh?”

“A song,” he repeated, nodding toward the speaker.

“Your favorite. Let’s put it on.” You thought for a second, then told him. He searched for it on his phone, and soon, the song filled the room. He nodded along.

“Oh, this song is amazing,” he said with a low nod, almost to himself, clearly entertained. “You’re a lot more interesting than I thought.”

You let it slide, not biting, and leaned back, glancing at him.

“I like this.” He said giving you a smile.

“Yeah? You raised an eyebrow, surprised. Thought you’d be more of a… I don’t know, louder kind of guy.”

He smirked. “I’ve got layers.”

Before you could reply, he picked up his phone and switched the track. The new song started, a slower, smoother melody, but with a beat that got under your skin.

“This one. Tell me what you think.” He said.

The beat dropped, and you felt a subtle shift in the air, the way the music filled the space around you, giving a strange warmth to the room.

You smiled. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” He leaned back, hands behind his head.

“It’s got that vibe, right? Kinda makes you want to just… let go.” There it was again, another layer, a little deeper. He wasn’t just talking about the music.

You tapped your fingers along with it, nodding your approval.

“You know,” you said, shifting slightly on the couch,

“This actually isn’t so bad. I thought you’d be the type to only play heavy stuff, but… this is good.”

Eric grinned, clearly pleased with your response.

“Told you, I’m full of surprises.”

You laughed, leaning back.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. You’ve got a good taste in music.”

“Right? Told you we’d get along,” he said, nudging you slightly, almost like he was testing the waters.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Hmm, maybe… You just might be redeeming yourself.”

Eric smirked, eyes locking with yours for just a moment. “Well, I’m always up for a little redemption, if you’re offering.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, but you couldn’t deny that little rush that came with his words. “We’ll see about that.”

The conversation shifted as you both started talking about other things, light and easy. Music turned into movies, and then somehow into food. “So, what’s your go-to food? I’m all about pizza or burgers,” you said, arms crossed comfortably.

Eric shrugged, looking at you with that lazy, charming smile. “I can’t say no to pizza. But I’m more of a burger guy. Don’t mind a good steak either.” His voice dropped a little, teasing. “I’d invite you to join me for one sometime, but I’m not sure you could handle it.”

You smirked, leaning closer just slightly. “Oh, I’m sure I can handle it. I’m pretty good with a burger… or whatever else you might have in mind.”

His eyes glinted. “Looking forward to” he said, shooting you a glance, with a smirk on his lips.

The conversation flowing easily, finding common ground. Small details about life, things you enjoyed, places you’d been, and for once, there was no tension, no hidden agenda. Just two people talking, finding little things in common, things that made you realize maybe he wasn’t so different from anyone else.

You paused, realizing just how much you’d started to connect in a short time. Everything about this conversation felt almost… normal.

The door swings open, and the two who had gone out for more drinks finally return. The girl’s laughter precedes her, her eyes gleaming as she walks back into the room with the guy, both of them carrying bottles in hand.

She’s immediately drawn to Eric, like a moth to a flame. Without hesitation, she sidles up to him, sliding onto the couch beside him, pressing her knee against his as she settles in. Her eyes flick between him and you, as if deciding where to insert herself, but it doesn’t take long before she makes her move.

At first, she tries to ease into the conversation, laughing at the right moments, reacting to Eric’s words with bright, eager eyes. It’s subtle at first, the way she leans in when he speaks, how her fingers graze his arm as she laughs, how she shifts just a little closer with every passing minute. But soon, it becomes obvious.

Her hand drifts lower, brushing his leg, lingering a second too long. Eric doesn’t react, not in any obvious way, but he also doesn’t pull away. He just exhales slowly, his lips twitching in amusement as if to say, Not my fault, while still keeping his focus on you, maintaining the conversation as if nothing is happening.

The girl isn’t discouraged. If anything, she gets bolder, her fingers tracing absentminded patterns on the fabric of his pants before trailing up toward his cock. This time, Eric tilts his head slightly, acknowledging her touch, but he still doesn’t fully give in. Instead, he lifts his drink to his lips, smirking at you over the rim of the glass, as if this whole thing is some inside joke between the two of you.

You shift uncomfortably, trying not to let your gaze linger. It’s not your place to care, not your place to react. But the girl is insistent. She whispers something into Eric’s ear, her lips dangerously close to his skin, her hand still teasing at the waistband of his jeans.

Eric finally turns toward her, giving her just enough attention to keep her satisfied, a lazy smile on his lips. He doesn’t push her away, he enjoys the attention, that much is clear, but he’s not entirely lost in it either. His eyes flick back to you from time to time, as if still keeping you in the loop, still holding onto the thread of your conversation despite everything else happening around him.

You glance at your watch. Five in the morning. The time is a slap of reality, breaking the daze of the last few hours.

“I should go,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to make it sound casual. “It’s late.”

Eric looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, as if shaking off whatever spell he was under, he leans back against the couch, exhaling slowly. “Come on,” he says. “Stay a little longer.” The girl, still pressed against him, giggles, fingers playing, touching his tattoos, his muscles...

You hesitate, shifting from one foot to the other.

And then, she makes her next move.

Without hesitation, she turns to Eric, her fingers curling into his hair as she pulls him in, her lips crashing against his in a deep, hungry kiss. It’s raw, messy, full of heat. Her hands slide up his chest, nails dragging lightly as she presses her body against his.

Eric doesn’t pull away. He lets her kiss him, lets her mold herself against him, and after a moment, he responds, his lips parting just enough for him to slip his tongue into her mouth, deepening it. It’s slow, unhurried, his hands still resting lazily at his sides, but he lets her take what she wants, lets her press herself closer, lets her tongue slide against his, wet and eager.

A low sound escapes her, something between a sigh and a moan, and she shifts even closer, one of her hands sliding up to his jaw, tilting his head just the way she wants it. His fingers flex slightly against the couch, but he still doesn’t take control, just lets her work, lets her set the pace, his lips moving against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

You feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a mix of secondhand embarrassment and something else you don’t want to name. This isn’t your place, not your scene.

And yet, you see the moment she decides that a kiss isn’t enough.

In the corner of your eye, you see her finally make her move. She swings a leg over his lap, straddling him, her hands resting on his chest as she leans in to whisper something in his ear.

Eric still doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t fully respond either, but he lets her be there, lets her settle against him, lets her hands roam as she pleases.

“I really have to go,” you say, your voice quieter now.

“You don’t have to go,” He said, his lips curving into that same amused smirk he’s worn all night. “Stay.”

“I can’t,” you insist, shaking your head.

He just exhales a soft chuckle, tilting his head as he looks at you. “Yeah, you can.”

He’s persistent, almost playful, and the longer he stares at you, the harder it is to ignore the strange pull of his presence.

You don’t want to argue.

You don’t even know why he wants you to stay when he’s clearly occupied with someone else. So you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’ll be back,” you murmur, shifting your weight. “I just need to go home for a bit. I need to do something, and then I’ll come back.”

Eric studies you for a second, his gaze flickering across your face. Then he nods, exhaling through his nose.

“Alright,” he says, leaning back. “Go home. But I’m expecting you back.” Eric said looking up at you again, and this time, there’s something different in his gaze, something unreadable, something fleeting.

You don’t respond.

He exhales through his nose, almost as if he’s about to say something else, but then the girl tilts his chin toward her, stealing his attention once more.

You take that as your cue to leave. As you turn toward the door, Eric’s voice cuts through the haze. “See you later,” he says, lazy and smooth, but there’s something else there, something lingering beneath the surface.

You don’t look back. You just step out, letting the door close behind you, leaving them to whatever the night — or morning had in store.

The walk home is quiet. The city is still half-asleep, the sky a muted shade of gray, the air crisp from the lingering night chill. You shove your hands into your pockets, trying to shake off the strange energy clinging to you.

It’s not like you care. You shouldn’t. Eric was never supposed to be part of your night, let alone someone who occupied your thoughts. And yet…

You exhale sharply, pushing the thought away as you reach your building. Inside, everything feels different, too quiet, too still compared to the apartment you just left. The scent of alcohol and smoke still lingers on your skin, and your body feels heavy with exhaustion as you make your way to your room.

You consider taking a shower, just to wash off the night, to clear your head but the weight of sleep is stronger. Your limbs feel too heavy, your eyelids too thick, and the idea of standing under hot water seems impossible right now.

The second your head hits the pillow, your mind starts replaying the night.

You met Eric.

The Eric.

The guy you only knew through rumors, through warnings, through hushed stories about things that shouldn’t have happened. And yet, the man you met tonight, the one who teased you, smirked at you, let his gaze linger just a little too long...felt like a contradiction.

He wasn’t supposed to be like that.

He wasn’t supposed to make you feel anything but unease.

And yet, you remember the way he leaned in when he spoke to you, the way his voice carried that low, teasing edge, the way he watched you even when someone else was touching him.

That girl.

You try to ignore the way something twisted in your chest at the memory of her on his lap, her hands on him, her mouth on his.

It shouldn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

But still, you feel that small sting of jealousy, not because you wanted him, but because of something else you can’t quite put a name to.

And then, another thought creeps in, something that doesn’t make sense.

Eric was supposed to be cruel. Cold. Unapproachable. That’s what everyone said.

But tonight, he wasn’t.

At least, not to you.

He was flirtatious, playful.

A little smug, sure, but not the monster people described. He looked at you like he was entertained, amused but never with malice. And yet, the things you’d heard about him, the warnings people had given you, they had to come from somewhere.

You don’t want to think about that either.

With a sigh, you roll onto your side, willing your thoughts to quiet. You don’t want to think about Eric anymore.

You don’t want to think about how he looked at you, how his attention flickered between you and her, how he let her have him while still keeping you tethered to the moment. You don’t want to think about him at all.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. Your body sinks deeper into the mattress, your thoughts fading into the heavy pull of sleep.

The next thing you know, your phone is buzzing against your cheek, vibrating underneath your pillow like an impatient reminder that the world still exists.

You groan, barely opening your eyes as you reach for it, fingers fumbling blindly.

Before you can answer, the buzzing stops.

You blink at the screen, trying to clear the sleep from your mind.

The time reads 2:07 PM.

And then you see the missed calls. Twelve of them. Two from Lily and the rest from an unknown number. The first call? 5:30 AM. The rest? Scattered throughout the day. 8:30, 11:12, 13:50…

Your stomach tenses as you swipe to your messages.

Four unread texts.

8:33 AM — Unknown Number: Pick up.

8:34 AM — Unknown Number: Pick up. It’s Eric.

11:42 AM — Eric: You said you’d be back.

13:09 PM — Eric: Don’t tell me you’re in bed. That’s disappointing.

__________________

Part two soon

Edit: Part One Part two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

#bill skarsgård #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgård x reader #eric draven x reader #eric draven x you #eric draven smut #bill skarsgard smut #bill skarsgård smut #bill skarsgård imagine #dark gravity fan fic #dark gravity

134 notes · View notes