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levanswrites · 2 days ago

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the things behind the sun

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: Eddie Munson.

The boy they brand a criminal, a sinner, the devil incarnate—

And what a load of bullshit.

warnings: toxic relationship dynamics (with reader's bf, not eddie), slow burn, hurt/comfort, intense pining, light angst, fluff

word count: 3k

a/n: this is for all your love on the first one! didn’t intend to turn this into a longer series but here we are. lots more in store for these two ♡ read pt. 1 here.

Saturday morning comes soft.

Not with a crash or a sting, but a hush.

Quiet. Gentle.

A hum under your skin, like the tail end of a song you can’t stop hearing.

One that stays with you all weekend.

And your mind keeps slipping, unprompted, back to Friday night.

Burnt pizza bagels, sticky uno cards. The itch of the carpet.

The warmth of his palm. The slow drag of calloused fingertips, the cool press of his rings.

His lips.

And there’s a taste of something unnameable that gets lodged behind your teeth.

Guilt, maybe. Embarrassment.

But it’s never regret. Not the sharp, hollow ache you feared would follow.

And sometimes, in the stillness between breaths, you catch yourself smiling.

But everything comes down eventually. Mondays are good at that.

A lunch tray crashes down beside yours, loud and careless.

Something heavy drapes across your shoulders, and a cloud of masculine cologne stings your nose—musky and suffocating.

You don’t even have to look up.

“What’s up, babe?”

Green and white crowds your periphery, rough denim brushing against your thigh.

Andy leans in close, and a hand suddenly yanks the book out of your hand.

“What’s this?” Annotated pages flutter like wings as he flops it upside down, squinting at the cover.

“Wait, Andy, don’t—I need that for—“ You reach across, but he's quicker.

“This what you were doing all weekend?” He smirks, “Reading?”

You stretch again, and he pulls away easily, dangling just out of reach. Eventually, you stop trying.

Still holding the book above him, he grins. Dips closer, whispering against your cheek.

“Missed ya on Friday.”

You freeze, eyes fluttering shut.

“Sorry, just… I wasn’t feeling well.” He plants a kiss at the edge of your hairline. You try to smile.

Your eyes flit to the arm stretched behind him.

“Can I have that back? I need it for class.”

“Oh, what, this?” He lifts the book higher. Cocks his head. “Come and get it.”

You sigh, lean across him again—

Only this time he stands. Fast.

So abrupt that you stumble in your seat, and find yourself at eye-level with the zipper of his jeans.

Your breath catches. Heat floods your cheeks.

From somewhere nearby, a low whistle and a couple laughs cut through the cafeteria noise. The sound feels distant, lost beneath the blood roaring in your ears.

And you don’t know why you don’t just move—why your legs won’t listen—but you stay frozen in your seat. You can only blink, eyes darting to the side to avoid the view.

There’s an apple on his tray.

Bright as blood, glossy skin scattered with pale green veins and white freckles.

From somewhere above, Andy laughs.

“Say please,” he taunts, “I’ll let you have it if you ask real nice.”

You swallow, something hot and heavy stirring in your chest.

You manage to lift your gaze. His Hawkins cap sits low, the brim casting a shadow that swallows his eyes.

“Andy…” you start, voice tight.

“Say it.”

Your lips press together, about to form the first consonant, when your eyes catch on something.

Near Andy’s tray, at the edge of the table, where a cup of water rests next to the apple.

A flash of movement in the corner of your eye—silver.

Then the cup tips. Smooth. Silent. Slow.

Water spills in a perfect arc, and splashes across Andy’s thigh. Indigo drips down his knee.

He jolts. “What the—fuck!”

Your gaze lifts fast.

A black-and-white bandana. A chain. Long, messy hair. The back of someone unmistakable.

“Hey!” Andy barks. “Freak!”

Half the cafeteria goes silent—your table included.

You grit your teeth, hands clutching the fabric of your floral sundress beneath the table. You’d felt so good in it this morning. So sure of yourself.

A pair of white Reeboks—scuffed and dirtied—slow over the dull linoleum, eventually coming to a halt.

Eddie Munson turns around with all the luxury in the world.

Unbothered, unrushed.

His eyes drift down to the wet splotch on Andy’s jeans, to the dripping cup.

“Oh, shit.” His grin stretches a mile wide. “My bad, man.”

Andy slams your book back onto the table. You flinch.

Eddie’s smile doesn’t so much as flicker.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Here, let me…” Eddie steps forward, swiping the napkin from beneath the apple, and casually reaches for Andy’s soaked leg.

Andy jerks back with a snarl, nearly tripping over the bench behind him.

“What the—get the fuck off, man!”

Eddie freezes mid-motion, hands still outstretched, fingers splayed in lazy surrender—like he’s soothing a skittish horse.

“Whoa. Easy there,” he drawls, tone dripping sweet. Licks over his teeth with a wolfish grin. “Didn’t mean to violate your personal space—god forbid.”

He flicks the napkin back onto the tray, then his gaze catches on the book next to it.

“Jane Eyre.“ And you swear his eyes flit up to yours next. “Love that one.”

Andy’s too busy seething to notice you staring back.

“Watch where you’re going, freak.”

Your fingers claw deeper into the fabric, nails digging sharp crescents into the thin cotton.

“Yo Andy, you good?”

Jason Carver calls from somewhere down the table. All brave and chivalrous, like he’s waiting for a reason to jump in and play hero. Over a cup of water.

You try not to roll your eyes.

They’re fixed, instead, on Eddie—the way he bows, low and theatrical.

Dusts his hands with a flourish, then saunters past without so much as a glance at the snickering tables nearby.

“Yeah,” Andy huffs to himself, plopping back down. “Better fucking walk.”

And then louder, he spits:

“Freak.”

Your knuckles turn bone-white, nails digging so hard they nearly tear through the delicate fabric.

“Don’t call him that.”

Andy’s halfway through a swipe of the napkin when he stops.

“What?”

“Don’t…” There’s a quiver in your voice, and your fingers clutch tighter. “Don’t call him that.”

He turns slowly toward you. Confused. Then amused.

“What, a freak?” He laughs. “He is one, babe. Freak, loser, whatever. I’m just being honest.”

He leans back, arms stretched out—king of the table.

You tilt your head, slow.

“Yeah?”

You flash him your sweetest, most saccharine smile.

“Ok. Then here’s some honesty back:”

Eyes locked right onto his, voice sharp.

“You’re an asshole.”

And if people weren’t staring your way before, they definitely were now.

Shock ripples across Andy’s face. Then confusion, then shame, then anger. One after the other.

And for one perfect second, you let yourself enjoy it. The way the mask melts off.

Jason Carver’s second-in-command. Self-proclaimed lady’s man and star of the basketball team.

You know, most girls would kill to be in your spot.

You rip yourself out of the seat, snatching up your book, and flip him the bird.

You make a beeline for the exit.

As soon as you hit the hallway, you start running.

You run. And run. And run.

Past the classrooms, the parking lot.

Past the baseball field, and the last rusty chain-link fence.

Through the pine trees that wall off the edge of school grounds.

Back to that place from Friday.

Your chest is heaving by the time you reach the clearing. Your lungs sting, ribs tight, yet somehow—it’s the first time all day you’ve been able to breathe.

You drop onto one side of the picnic bench, the slats sun-warmed and splintered, the grain biting gently into the backs of your legs through the thin cotton of your dress. Grass tickles at your ankles, soft and overgrown.

The quiet swells around you—open, untouched.

You sit there for a long time. Long enough for the pulse in your ears to fade and the heat in your cheeks to cool. The book in your lap flutters slightly, pages ruffling in the breeze. You were supposed to finish it for fifth period, but the ink blurs together as you scan the words. You stare anyway.

And then—

A sound.

The faintest crack of pine needles underfoot. Far off. Then closer. A rhythm to it—uneven, but familiar.

And maybe it’s because you expected it—hoped, even—but you don’t move as the rustling stops right in front of you.

The dull scrape of rings—metal against wood—as someone settles into the seat across from you.

You don’t even have to look up.

“So… I do a half ounce for twenty, thirty-five for the full.”

Voice hushed and conspiratorial, even though ‘there’s no one around for at least half a mile, I promise.’

Your eyes are still fixed on the page, but the corners of your lips flicker, something between amusement and nostalgia tugging in your chest.

It brings you back to that day—that first day.

When you approached him outside one of the basement rec rooms, heart in your throat. Scanned the hallway three times over before you told him what you were looking for.

He hadn’t laughed, hadn’t asked why.

Just nodded, and led you here.

Out to the edge of nowhere.

Just you and him and that black aluminum lunchbox tucked under his arm.

He doesn’t have it now, but everything else about him is the same.

You look up, feeling something loosen in your chest at the sight of his smile.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie blurts, eyes growing wide when they meet yours—dark and honeyed brown, like forest soil after rain.

“Sorry, think I was supposed to meet someone else out here.”

And despite yourself, you smile.

“Yeah, well,” You shrug, voice a little dry. “Maybe I’m here undercover.”

You lift your brows and try for playful.

He lights up instantly, like a match that’s been waiting to catch a spark.

“What? Shit!” He lurches forward, thunking his head down onto the tabletop with a dramatic groan. Clasps both hands together, palms pressed, tilting his wrists up in surrender.

“You’ve got me, officer. Take me away.”

You blink, feeling something seize in your chest.

Your eyes dart quickly, back and forth, trying to find purchase between his wrists and his face.

His face, still pressed low against the wood, lifts just enough—eyes peeking up at you through the curtain of his hair.

Wide-eyed and cautious. Like a doe peering through tall grass.

Your breath sticks.

And before you can stop yourself, your gaze drifts lower, unbidden.

The bridge of his nose. The plush curve of his lips. The faint cleft of his chin.

The devil sprawled across his chest.

The scatter of ink on his exposed forearm—dark wings fluttering across pale skin.

The way he’s staring up at you, face half-hidden in the fall of his hair, wrists still held out like an offering.

You purse your lips, pretending to think.

“It’s alright, Munson,” you murmur. “I’ll let you off this time. With a warning.”

“Oh thank god.” He slides back up on his elbows, hands still clasped and stretched toward you across the table. “Thank you.”

And then he stops. Drops the act.

Eyes creasing at the edges as he softens his grin.

You smile back.

The air stretches—warm, a little heavier than before.

“You okay?” He blinks slow, fingers tapping absently against the wood.

You barely nod, breathing in through your nose before you say:

“Did you drive your van to school today?”

“Uh…” He blinks, confusion tipping his head. “Yeah?”

Your fingers fidget with the book in your lap.

“Can you take me somewhere?”

“So, not that I don’t love an impromptu roadtrip, but uh…”

Eddie’s van smells like worn leather and cheap air freshener—something earthy and woody.

“Where are we going, exactly?”

You think for a while, and then shrug.

“No idea.”

Your gaze drifts to the little green tree dangling from his rearview—Royal Pine—and you try not to notice the way he’s staring from the driver’s seat.

Silver drums against the leather steering wheel. Once, twice. Then suddenly, the ignition kicks on. The engine sputters to life as the scent of gasoline fills the car.

Eddie throws you a grin, pulling the van in reverse.

“You know what? Think I’ve got just the place.”

“Wow. So it… it actually looks like a skull.”

“I know right? Pre-tty metal.”

You stop to catch your breath, staring up at the jagged silhouette carved against the blue sky—cheekbone cracked, eye sockets hollow. Like a fossilized giant.

Skull rock? Who the fuck goes there anymore? C’mon babe—party at Benny’s tonight.

“I’ve only heard stories about this place.” You murmur.

“Yeah? Any good ones?”

“Uhm,” Your gaze trails down to the string of empty soda cans littered beneath the rock, an old jacket sprawled in the far corner. Not far off, a flash of foil catches your eye—a condom wrapper, glinting near a patch of weeds. You frown.

“Not really.”

Branches snap underfoot as you both move toward the narrow pocket of space nestled beneath two boulders—right under what would be the jawline.

“How’d you even find this place?”

“Uhh, I didn’t, really.” He shrugs, toeing at the grey-blue boulder with his shoe. “Just ended up here once. Wandering.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” He sighs, crossing his arms and turning to lean back against the smaller rock. “No scandalous Skull Rock tales, I’m afraid.”

He tips his head back, eyes slipping shut. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Then, with one eye cracked open, shoots you a lazy grin.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You smile, feeling strange warmth curl up your neck and around to your cheeks.

“It’s okay.”

Head dipped, you nudge a loose pebble with your foot. Then, quieter:

“Me neither.”

There’s a beat of silence. His jacket shuffles softly against the rock.

“Well, at least you got this one.”

“Hm?”

“You know. Skipping 5th period with the town freak?”

And it’s abundantly clear—from the glint in his eyes to the smile lines piercing into his cheeks—that he’s joking. You know that.

Yet a strange weight returns to your chest at that word. Echoes of Friday night, and the cafeteria.

The kiss. The crumpled bills. The apple.

It’s guilt that seizes you in more ways than one.

Your fingers twitch, reaching for the hem of your dress again.

“Eddie, I’m…” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I’m sorry about…”

And there’s a million ways to finish that sentence.

Andy. My friends.

That word.

But none of it touches what you really mean. Because complicity cuts as deep as cruelty. And today was the first time you did anything about it.

You’re drowning in that haze of guilt and shame and a slow-sinking kind of self-loathing when, suddenly:

“I would always rather be happy than dignified.”

It makes you halt, confusion yanking you out of the fog and flattening the feeling in your chest.

You look up, brows furrowed.

“Sorry?”

“From your book.” He shifts his weight, a lock of hair slipping from his shoulder. “Jane Eyre.”

“Oh.” You blink, thinking of the copy sitting on his dash, back in the van. “I don’t… I haven’t gotten to that part, I think.”

He smiles, letting out an easy breath.

“Just means it’s okay to want things for yourself. Screw what anyone else says.”

It lands gently, but not lightly. Like a ripple across still water. The words settle in your chest, where something’s been coiled tight since Friday.

This what you were doing all weekend? Reading?

Because there are things you didn’t want, and things you did, and you were only just starting to tell the difference.

“Plus you really defended my honor there in the cafeteria. Made me feel like a damsel in distress.”

And Eddie has this strange talent, you think, for steering conversations in ways that make you smile without even trying. The knot in your chest loosens another notch.

“Well, you do have pretty hair.”

“Pretty?” His eyes go wide as he clutches his chest, his leather jacket scraping against granite as he pushes himself off.

He twirls a lock of hair around his finger, squinting at it wistfully.

“Huh. And here I was, thinking it made me metal.”

You laugh.

“Can’t it be both?”

His finger stills in his hair at that. He looks back at you, slowly—and for the first time, there’s something different in the forest-floor brown of his eyes. Something deeper. Steady. Low-burning.

Waiting.

It makes the hair stand on the back of your neck.

Then, with a slow blink and a smile, it’s gone.

“Yeah. Can’t help it that I’m pretty, right?”

He drops you off the same place he did before.

And—for the second time in four days—you settle near the kitchen window, peeking through the blinds to watch his van disappear down your street.

When the dim glow of his taillights fades from view, your gaze drifts down to your lap.

There, resting atop your book, is a wildflower—or maybe just a flowering weed, you're not sure.

Petals pale and curled at the edges, the stem too thin to hold it upright.

Something he plucked at the base of the forest entrance.

A token of my gratitude, my fair maiden.

Gestured dramatically then pointed to the pattern on your sundress.

Hey, look—it matches!

You smile quietly at the memory.

Eddie Munson.

The boy they brand a criminal, a sinner, the devil incarnate—

And what a load of bullshit.

Your mind drifts back to his wrists.

Pale skin, dark ink. Laid bare in offering across sacred wood.

A quiet surrender, threaded with roots that run deep.

A kind of strength, you think.

Eyes like the earth, softened by rain.

Rich and dark and patient, waiting for you to lean in. To break the surface and slip beneath the soil’s velvety skin.

Dig your fingers in and get lost for a while in all that soft, loamy darkness.

You wonder what it’d feel like—to sink.

You lay the flower gently on the windowsill, and pick up your book.

You begin to read.

a/n: some more safe and soft eddie vibes in this one. from reader's pov this time. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

update: read pt. 3 here!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things #stranger things fic #hurt/comfort #angst #slow burn #light angst #fluff #stranger things s4 #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x y/n

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lisssyyu · 1 day ago

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Don't be afraid, I don't pray

PAIRINGS: Monster Hunter!Vi x Half-demon!Reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It was hard for me to write this because there are a lot of feelings, but no words. In fact, I was trying to portray something like a feeling of compassion, to make many people understand that there are moments in the world when you need to put prejudices aside and look deeper. But in fact, I'm not sure that I succeeded. My thoughts were getting mixed up one after another and I rewrote the text for 3 days, to be honest. Please leave a review with your opinion, it will help me in the future for writing works (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡ I'm also planning bonus parts with a lot of fluff and maybe even perversions, who knows. ¯⁠\⁠⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠⁠/⁠¯

WARNING(S): AU ;; Hurt/Comfort ;; description of corpse/death ;; anxiety ;; long descriptions ;; grey morality

wc: 8.2k

They say demons did not come from the depths, but from blood. Not from the sky, not from underground fissures, not from other worlds, but from within man himself, from that which cannot be repented.

Their appearance remained a myth for a long time. Legends sang of those who were supposedly born with eyes that reflected crimson sunsets, with voices awakened by the cries of nameless gods. Their descriptions varied: some had skin as black as coal, some as pale as dust, and some whose bodies seemed to consist entirely of mist and claws. But in every legend, one image appeared without fail, one that was not so changeable.

A creature with a human body and wings as heavy as all the sins of the world. They were not decoration, for they trailed behind her, leaving a pungent taste of rust in the air. According to the stories, the fallen feathers burned in the sun and dried in the palms like ashes.

The Bloody Bird. The one who drinks from the heart and leads the Ruby Gaze.

She was everywhere where the slaughter began. She came as a sign. But not a single authentic testimony has survived, not a single voice that saw her up close. Only rhythmic lines repeated in different corners of the world and scratched engravings in which her appearance could only be guessed at by her wings stretched toward the sky and the crimson stripes around her. People kept in their memory a face that none of them seemed to have seen, but everyone knew. And yet none of them wanted to believe that the myth was closer than it seemed.

The half-people, descendants of lost unions, lived far away in the mountains, where the trails were overgrown with moss and snow lay nine months of the year. Their houses clung to the rocks like nests, hidden from the wind and human gaze. Smoke rose in thin wisps from the chimneys, mingling with the fog. No one knew for sure where their lineage came from: some said they were descended from witches who had slept with ancient gods, others that they were descended from people in whom the devil had planted signs. There was too much that was strange about them to call them human, and too much that was human to call them monsters.

They wove amulets from branches, dried roots on ropes by the windows, and counted the days not by the calendar, but by the changing scents in the air. Children were taught to remain silent in front of strangers and to look down, even if they saw death.

But one night, this thin line crumbled like a house of cards in the wind.

You didn't want to kill. But that night, in the darkness of the forest, you met the one whom the half-humans called Lepers — an outcast whose appearance was a reflection of his crimes and defiance. Lepers were those who were ruled by instinct, who broke the ancient rules and were expelled from their communities. Although for the sake of public order, the Marked were killed without further ado, this time something went wrong. He had eyes that changed color in the sun and a spine covered with scales. He would have been a fine fellow if not for the madness in his eyes. You tried to negotiate, to come to a mutual decision, because you didn't want any trouble either, but it all happened too fast: sharp teeth sank into your wing, tearing not only flesh but also common sense. Tearing apart peace and common sense. Your heart was beating like crazy, blood was pulsing through your veins, and your instincts spoke louder than your mind.

In the morning, people found him. A couple of woodcutters stumbled upon the body, which had been torn apart and was bleeding among the roots of an old spruce tree at the edge of the forest. The bones were broken, the joints twisted in the opposite direction, but there was only silence around, scarlet feathers, and a bloody trail disappearing into the depths of the forest. On the same day, the Council summoned the hunters, those who had once been soldiers and were now called upon to fight the creatures from the ancient writings. Among them was Vi.

Vi did not respond immediately, because she remembers what it is like to be a soldier. She stood at the border three times, twice returning without a medal, but with a stitched shoulder and lost relatives. Her father died in the first war, her mother in the second, and her sister burned to death in the third. After her discharge, she disappeared and settled in a small town among the hills, opening a shop where she sold books, dusty figurines, cracked teapots, and words that no one needed. She loved it when silence slowly filled the rooms, like water filling an old jug. She loved dawns without the sound of bugles and tea with honey, bitter to the taste but warm like a forgotten memory. But there are cracks in peaceful life. Rumors of a torn body, of feathers left on the ground, of how the forest suddenly began to seem closer and darker than before. At first, it all seemed to her to be just another village fairy tale. Until one evening, a letter landed on the table in her shop. Yellow parchment, wax seal with the Council's coat of arms, and a line written by the hand of the man who once commanded her platoon: "We need you."

Others were already there. Those who fought for gold, those who hoped to atone for old sins, and even those who could not do otherwise, because war had long since become their breath. And Vi went because she remembered the woman who once stood in the doorway of her shop. She said nothing, only held a bloodstained pendant in her trembling fingers, and on her child's chest was a rough, hastily stitched scar. Vi asked no questions. She just closed the shutters, took a knife from the shelf, and for the first time in many years felt the fire returning to her veins. Now she was the one whose name was mentioned in reports, and whose face was seen by those who were unlucky enough to survive.

The morning was cold and clear, as if woven from frost and fine mist. The light had not yet fully touched the ground, only barely penetrating through the intertwined fir branches, leaving shimmering patterns on the ground. The forest was silent, holding its breath, and it seemed that even the birds had forgotten how to sing. Only somewhere in the distance, bark crackled softly, as if someone were carefully following behind.

Vi moved slowly, almost silently, deftly stepping over roots and crooked boulders. Before her, like a thread leading through a silent mystery, stretched a trail of blood. It was as if someone had fled in panic, carrying their pain deeper and deeper into the thicket.

The blood had seeped into the moss and foliage, darkened by the night's cold, but it was still alive. Vi looked at it with particular attention, with the same intensity with which she had once tracked enemies on the borders, back when she still believed that every step had meaning and every decision could reveal the truth.

The trees closed over her head, dimming the light. It smelled of old resin, damp stone, and snow that still lay in the shade. The space seemed to narrow, turning the forest into a corridor leading not so much to a destination as to a revelation. A heavy feeling grew in her chest, a viscous and inexplicable premonition. She couldn't name it, but she felt that around the next bend there would be something she wasn't ready for.

An oak tree appeared through the branches ahead. Lonely, old, and almost out of place here. At its foot, in the semi-dry grass, lay a figure.

You seemed to blend in with the ground. The morning light slid across your wing, revealing torn flesh, twisted feathers, and a strange metallic sheen in the curves. Blood had already caked in the folds of your clothing, on your fingers, on the grass around you, turning into rusty evidence of what had happened to you. Vi saw the face. Human. Too young to be a monster and too tired to be an enemy. The skin was pale, like frostbitten petals. There was dried blood in the corner of the mouth. One wing was spread out on the ground, the other bent under itself like a broken bird. Vi noticed how you slowly, almost shyly, looked away like a person who had nothing to say in their defence.

She crouched down beside you and reached out her hand, as if wanting to carefully examine your wounds. You were not as you were portrayed in the legends, not a beast or a monster, but something else entirely. There was no malice in your eyes, no flashes of aggression, only weakness and fear. This contradicted everything Vi had learned and believed. On the one hand, duty demanded a ruthless end, to stop your suffering by plunging a knife into your heart. But on the other hand, she was not one to kill based on rumours and fear alone. Not every frightening shadow brings pain, not every distorted legend gives birth to evil.

When she gently touched your wing, you whimpered in pain, and tears filled your eyes. Vi's heart ached with pity, but she did not stop.

"Shh, quiet… it will hurt, but it will be over soon."

You remained silent, your gaze fixed on the ground, while Vi carefully bandaged your torn wing, her eyes involuntarily lingering on the scarlet feathers that shimmered in the morning light like little tongues of flame.

Vi felt an inner conflict flare up within her with renewed force. Memories of her mother, who taught her to be kind even when the world around her seemed cruel and merciless, like a quiet voice in her soul, forced her to restrain herself. She remembered her mother saying,

«Strength is not about breaking others, but about giving hope even to those who seem lost.»

Her heart beat loudly, as if arguing with the cold of the morning forest, each breath bringing the weight of pain and doubt. This vague burden pressed on her chest, reminding her how fragile faith in the light that could break through the darkness was.

In the silence of that moment, it was not the fate of one creature that was being decided, but her own faith in humanity, in the belief that light was still capable of breaking through the darkness. Vi gently pressed her palm against your wing, trying to ease the throbbing pain, her gaze fixed on your face. Cold fear gripped your chest like an icy hand, and your whole body tensed, preparing to defend itself, even though you barely had the strength to breathe. But despite everything, you allowed Vi to heal your wounds, not quite understanding why, but trusting her only this once because of your desperate situation.

"I killed him," you finally say, when the sharp pain subsides, giving way to a throbbing but tolerable discomfort.

There is a moment of silence before Vi asks:

"Why?"

"He wasn't an enemy, but he became one. Madness drove him into a corner, and I couldn't let him destroy others and himself first.

Vi looked at you, and gradually the pieces of the mosaic that had previously seemed scattered and meaningless began to fall into place in her mind. Each fragment: your wound, your voice, your fatigue, and your words took shape, and the picture became clearer. Before her was not a mindless creature from terrifying tales, but a living, complex personality filled with pain and struggle. Legends are born not from truth, but from fear and misunderstanding, turning those who differed from the masses into monsters and enemies.

On the day your paths crossed, it seemed that fate itself was weaving invisible threads to bring you together. Despite the burden of prejudice and the shadows of the past, each of you sought in the other not an enemy, but a reflection of your own pain and hope. Vi saved your life, and in return you offered her the unwavering loyalty you were capable of.

#arcane #vi arcane #vi x reader #violet x reader #league of legends #vi fic #au idea #au arcane

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daydreamingbambilesbian · 1 day ago

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Occasionally I see some bigger accounts and/or accounts I like to look at sometimes liking my stuff/reblogging it, and I just wanted to say...

Hiii, I like your posts! You all are such lovely accounts! I'm so honored you guys have found my little baby blog! ♡

This includes: @femmevelvets, @devils-advocate-offical, @sappho-offical (thank you for your blessings! ♡) and @sapphic-dice (probably more, but I haven't looked very well)

#appreciation post #das it #hello there #😊

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justmeexistinghere · 1 day ago

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W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T

pt.8 Tangle

ˏ*⁀➷Masterlist

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 (next friday)

Summary:

The city is cold, the night endless. Bruised and restless, you drift through streets that don’t care if you vanish. Old promises, new scars, and a shadow that feels a little too familiar.

Sometimes, survival means letting someone close—whether you want to or not.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (slowburn) -> Warnings: violence / physical fights, blood / injury, swearing / strong language, mentions of past trauma, catcalling (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> Wordcount: 3.359 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first story — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You cannot find the right words, so you just fumble around with your fingers, eyes fixed on the ground. There’s a tight, burning knot in your stomach—nervousness, guilt, maybe both. The silence stretches until Gotak finally sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Hey, y/n… seriously, I can’t read minds. It’d be awesome if you could finally open your mouth and tell us what the heck happened—and why Baku is basically a ghost right now…”

You force yourself to look up, catching Gotak’s expectant gaze. The words stick in your throat, dry and heavy. “I… I honestly don’t know. We arrived, went in, but their leader—whoever that is—only wanted to talk to Baku, so they sent me out.” You shrug, feeling every pair of eyes pressing in. “Didn’t really feel like arguing about it.”

Juntae frowns. “Wait, so… so you were out there alone? Isn’t that, like, super dangerous?” You force a half-smile, more muscle memory than comfort.

“It wasn’t that bad. And I wasn’t completely alone.” Your eyes flick away, not quite ready to elaborate. Yeah, just you, the cold, and the devil himself. What could possibly go wrong?

“But this isn’t about me. It’s about Baku.”

Gotak’s expression darkens. “Baekjin…“ he mumbles. So quiet you barely catch it. Baekjin? You weren’t that invested in the whole Union thing before. But somehow that name was familiar, though it didn’t click immediately. “Baku looked… off. Nervous. Like he’d just seen a ghost, or was it anger?” You pause, searching their faces. “Anyway, he totally was out of character, suuuper scary.” Gotak’s jaw clenches, forehead creased. His thoughts probably run wild, like a hamster racing in his wheel. The other two just look at you and listen. “He didn’t say anything. Just… left. Didn’t even look back. And I was just standing there like an abandoned kitten.”

Sieun finally speaks, voice softer than usual. “That’s not like him.”

You nod, swallowing. “I know. I was so—” You cut yourself off, unsure what you’re even trying to say. “I didn’t know what to do. So I just let him go.”

Gotak exhales, rubbing his neck. “This feels familiar. I’ve seen him like this before. Once…” He doesn’t elaborate, but meets your eyes, worry carved deep. “That doesn’t mean anything good. We need to keep an eye on him. This fucking Union asshole, what did he tell Baku?”

You swallow, the unease in your stomach twisting tighter. Before you could discuss anything else the school’s bell cuts in— sharp and shrill, slicing through the tension like a warning shot. Everyone flinches, just a little.

Not like it actually scared you.

Okay, maybe a little.

Sieun’s shoulders tense, eyes darting toward the building. Juntae and Gotak are up in an instant—Gotak slinging his arm around the other boy’s shoulders, both moving off with brisk, almost mechanical steps. You’re still rooted to the spot, mind caught in a web of questions and worst-case scenarios. Motivation for class? Nonexistent.

You barely register Gotak’s voice as he checks his phone. “We’ll text,” he says, giving you a meaningful look. You manage to release a “Let me know if Baku shows up. We’ll keep in touch,” which earns a nod before they disappear into the stream of students.

Sieun, though, doesn’t move. He sits there, tense, gaze fixed on the ground, as if he is trying to solve an extemely hard math problem. It surprises you—a lot. Normally, he’s long gone by now—first in the classroom, always ahead. The fact that he even agreed to meet outside is unusual enough; that he lingers now, even more so.

As you finally gather some motivation, you move towards him. Even if he is not the biggest fan of physical touch you rest your hand lightly on his shoulder. He startles, just a little, but doesn’t pull away.

When his eyes meet yours, you try to make your “Ready?” sound soft and encouraging. You let your hand fall. Sieun nods, slow and deliberate, fingers tightening on the straps of his bag before he stands. For a moment, you walk side by side toward the building—quiet, but not alone.

You stare at the board, but the words blur into meaningless shapes. Your phone buzzes under the desk—Gotak.

Baku’s still not here. I’m worried he’ll do something stupid. I’ll look for him after class. Don’t wait up. K Take care!

You try to focus, but everything around you fades into background noise. Not the lesson, not the teacher’s voice, not the scrape of chairs matters.

Your mind drifts—from Baku back to the Union, to that name. Baekjin. Why does it make your skin crawl? Do you even want to know?

There’s a restlessness in your chest, a sense that something buried is clawing its way up. It’s as if your organs have decided to host their own bumper car tournament, slamming around with zero coordination and even less concern for your comfort.

Then it clicks.

He… He mentioned him. Your brother.

You don’t talk about him much—hardly ever, actually. Especially since your dad banned his name from the house, like that could erase what happened. He never understood. Never tried. He swallowed the rumors whole, never bothered to spit out the lies. Why? You still don’t know. But you hated him for it.

It took ages before you could look your dad in the eye again. Those days blurred together—rage simmering under your skin, your hands trembling after every slammed door, every muffled argument. Sometimes you’d lie awake, chest tight, staring at the ceiling, wishing you could scream loud enough to drown out the silence. You hated everyone who whispered, everyone who looked away. The Union was involved too, but not enough for you to remember their faces—just the name, echoing somewhere in the background.

Maybe that’s where you heard it. Maybe that’s why Baekjin’s name feels like a bruise you can’t stop pressing. And now, the more you think about it, the more that bruise seems to bleed.

Your brother had mentioned him. Baekjin. A fucking smart-ass genius who started some kind of student alliance. Back then, you didn’t know it was the Union he meant, or that their leader was both brains and fists. How well did they know each other? You never asked. Your brother and you were close, but that’s something he never talked about. There were already too many secrets wedged between you, growing wider every day.

You remember training with him—callused hands correcting your stance, laughter echoing in the backyard, sweat stinging your eyes. He wanted to go pro, once. You were—still are—fascinated by his skills. But not just you.

At school, no one dared mess with you, since his shadow was long, and your own fists learned quickly—even added your own little tricks. But things changed. He started missing practice, showing up with bruises he wouldn’t explain, drifting toward people whose names didn’t mean good. Yeah, sounds like some cliché “teenager-is-choosing-the-wrong-path-and-is-drifting-further-apart” story and maybe it is, but this time you were part of it.

The rumors started—illegal fights, debts, trouble that stuck like oil on skin. He was accused of some serious matter that got him suspended. At that time your dad even feared that your brother might end up in jail.

Everything settled, but your mom took him away. Your dad's idea. Brilliant... A new start, a break or rather some other kind of punishment. And after that, his absence settled over everything like dust. Your dad shut down, wouldn’t even let you have his number. Drastic, you were aware of that, but your dad went all in. Didn’t want you to end up like him. As if that would change anything…

At school, you became the thug’s sister. Target number one. At least that is what you felt. You fought back—too hard, maybe. The day you were expelled, your knuckles were raw and your heart felt hollow. That’s how you landed in Eunjang. A new school, a new start. Or maybe just another round in the ring.

But this time you promised to keep a low profile, quit fighting, not get into conflicts... For you? Or for someone else?

Nevermind, you were never a pro in keeping promises.

Especially the ones you made mainly to yourself.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

You blink down at your desk, realizing you haven’t turned a single page in your textbook. The blurry print slowly turns clearer, but it’s also obvious—you definitely don’t need a mirror to know—that your eyes are rimmed red.

A shadow shifts towards you.

“Hey,” a voice—flat, mildly annoyed, as if it wasn’t the first time he asks. “Got a pen?” You glance up, startled. Honestly, you’re not sure this guy even had a name until now. His hair’s messy in the way that says, *I lost a fight with my pillow,* and he’s looking at you like you’re the weird one.

You fish a pen from your pencil case with stiff fingers and hand it over, mumbling, “Don’t lose it. That thing’s done more schoolwork than I have.”

He takes it without a thanks, already turning away. You’re about to let it slide, but something cold brushes your cheek. Reflexively, you wipe it away—and freeze. A tear. Just one. Traitor.

You rub at your face harder than necessary, hoping it passes as *I’m just tired,* not *I’m emotionally unraveling.* The student glances at you again, maybe catching the movement.

“You good?” he asks, hesitant now. Like he regrets making eye contact.

You plaster on a smile that could earn an oscar. “Never better. Just contemplating the pointlessness of the educational system.”

He blinks. “Okay…”

“Anyway, enjoy the pen. Don’t get dumb ideas.”

He wisely decides not to respond to that and turns back to his worksheet. You stare down at your own notes, which look more like ancient hieroglyphs than anything useful. The sting behind your eyes finally fades, letting you breathe normally again. Even if it means dragging more of that stifling classroom air into your lungs.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The rest of the day at school just went over like usual, except for the turmoil that seems like it made itself a home inside of your head. Now it’s not just Baku, but also the memories you should have kept locked in the dusty end of your brain. As you drift outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, everything just… dissolves.

You tell yourself you’re just killing time, but the truth is, you can’t face home yet. Just one foot in front of the other. Nothing more. Every sound is muffled, the streets, the crowds, even the shifting light all fade into a dull, meaningless backdrop.

You walk, head down, letting the city swallow you. No one notices. You could vanish and the world would keep spinning.

How is Baku? Will he be alright? Did Gotak find him? You look at your phone, almost blinded by the sudden brightness. Nothing. Again. Fuck.

You keep moving, barely aware of where your feet are taking you. The ache in your chest grows heavier with every block. You’re not sure how long you’ve been walking when you realize you’ve drifted into unfamiliar streets—somewhere you wouldn’t usually go, not alone. Seems like trouble really follows you like a shadow. Great. You try to orientate yourself, but you fail. Your phone died—perfect timing—so you continue to wander around to find something you recognize. The silence is too loud, nothing or no one breaks it in the nightly haze. Wait, maybe your trembling jaw—teeth chattering together in a rhythm you can’t control—is louder than you like. The cold seeps through your clothes, but it’s nothing compared to the numbness inside. You want the grief inside to stop, to drown it out with something—anything—louder, sharper, real.

That’s when you hear it—a whistle—not the kind of sharpness you wanted. It’s coming from two guys leaning against a wall, eyes following you with lazy, predatory interest. “Hey, pretty thing, where you headed?” These words made a cold shiver run down your spine. Gross. Normally you would just roll your eyes and go past them, not letting these words go through you. But tonight, they hit differently, slicing through you and stoking the chaos inside.

You stop. For a heartbeat, you just stand there, letting their voices fill the space where your own thoughts should be. You turn, meeting their gaze, anger simmering beneath your skin. “Leave me alone, assholes,” you manage, but your voice is raw, trembling. One more chance. Otherwise, you will skin them alive. Honestly.

One of them laughs, stepping closer. “Aw, don’t be like that. We just wanna have some fun.” As if he never heard of the concept private space.

Something in you snaps.

You throw the first punch, wild and reckless, not pulling your strength. Your knuckles sting as they connect with a shoulder—not enough to hurt him, but enough to surprise him. You don’t care if you get hit—maybe you even want it, just to feel anything but the hollow ache in your chest that annoys you. Baku, the Union, your family matters and that fucking Seongje that you can’t get out of your mind—even in this situation.

Fuck it. Once again… but not the same.

He stumbles back, then laughs. “This girl got guts,” he cockily snaps towards his comrade. “True, but will you just accept being hit by that chick?” His eyes find yours again. The desperation of him accepting the fight lingers inside you, even clearer that the rationality, you took to heart before. His fist slams into your jaw, a sharp crack that sends your head snapping sideways. Pain explodes across your face, hot and blinding, but it feels good. Real. You grin through it, tasting blood in your mouth.

The second guy grabs you from behind, shoving you against the wall. The bricks dig into your back, cold and rough. His fingers are tight on your shoulders. Almost like a good massage you have yearned for. But you want more. You raise your knee, to provoke him with the pain. He lets go with a grunt, doubling over, but he’s not out. Your heart is hammering, while your breath is coming in ragged gasps.

Your blows land hard, wild, fueled by everything you’ve been holding back. Relieving everything that’s on your heart, until he backs down. And it feels good. It really does, but it’s… not enough. You don’t stop. You can’t.

The first guy comes at you again, fist aimed at your ribs. You don’t dodge in time—it knocks the air out of you. You groan, memories and troubles start to fade. Finally. With a strong punch you manage to knock out the guy who just attacked you. The training was a success, but for what price? What are you thinking? Why were you doing that just know? The rage filled atmosphere switches to the hit of realization. Even stronger than anything from the fight just now. Fuck. Your vision blurs and tears stream down your face.

Before the adrenaline in your body can pack its suitcase, a sharp, sudden crash, loud enough to make your teeth rattle, occurs. Glass shatters, spraying shards across the pavement. The sound slices through the haze of your feelings, freezing you in place. Your head snaps toward the noise, heart about to explode, every muscle tense. For a split second, you don’t understand what just happened.

The guy you’d completely dismissed—next to the other idiot who had all your attention—yelps. Seongje stands in front of him, tight grab on the wrist—probably where he held the bottle of beer before. But wait, when the hell did he appear. At which point did he get involved?

“Oh, come on, dumbass, use your fists,” he says, letting go of his grip and taking a step back. “Come on,” he adds, shoving him teasingly before easily dodging the wild punch that follows. He then punches the guy once—hard—which makes him crumple to the ground.

“Aish, you’re just a bunch of weak dumbasses,” Seongje laughs, almost disappointed.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Your adrenaline fades. The pain catches up, but it’s dull now, distant. You’re shaking and even more tears well up before you can stop them. You collapse, sobbing, all the fight gone out of you.

“Hey, stop crying, it ruins your pretty face.”

You try to glare at him through the blur of tears, but your face just doesn't listen. A sob rips from your throat, raw and ugly. You want to snap back, to tell him to shut up, but your body betrays you—shoulders shaking, hands trembling, lungs burning with every breath.

Seongje hesitates, his smirk fading. He shifts his weight, awkward, like he’s not sure what to do with a crying girl. “Shit,” he pauses for split second, like he has never been in such a situation. “Don’t—don’t do that. I can’t stand to see you trembling in fear with that pretty face of yours.” The usual unbothered guy sighs, looking away, then back at you. “You’re a mess,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual, missing the usual bite. He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’ve never seen before. “Come on. Get up. You can’t stay here.”

You don’t move. The pavement is cold beneath your knees, the night air sharp on your skin. Everything hurts—your ribs, your face, your heart. But more than anything, you’re tired. So tired.

As you wipe your face with your sleeve, blood smears across your skin. “You can go,” you say, voice rough but steadier than you feel. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

Seongje hesitates, still crouched beside you. His usual smirk is nowhere to be found. Instead, there’s something unfamiliar in his expression—uncertainty, maybe even concern. “You sure?” he asks, but you don’t answer right away.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your bearings. The world sharpens around you, the aftermath clearer then everything, leaving you shaky and sore. You push yourself up, but your legs wobble, threatening to give out. You grit your teeth, refusing to let him see you weak. “God, I am fucking wasted,” you mutter, trying to sound sarcastic, but your voice cracks.

Seongje watches you, his brow furrowed. “Yeah, you are,” he lets out with a friendly smile. “Fuck, what was I thinking? My dad will kill me if he sees me like that,” you laugh out, out of despair. He reaches out, steadying you as you sway. You want to argue, tell him to leave you alone. Back to your strong self, concentrate… but you can’t. Your legs buckle, and for a second, you’re sure you’re going down. Seongje’s grip tightens, holding you up. He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t say anything. For a moment, it’s just you and him, the street silent. And for the first time in a while also your mind.

Then, without a word, he turns and kneels in front of you. “Get on,” he says, voice gruff. “I’m not carrying you like a princess. But I’m not letting you walk home like this either.”

You blink, confused. “What the hell, Seongje?”

He glances over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “Just get on my shoulders. Unless you want to crawl home. It’s a special offer, only valid for the next three seconds.” It’s so unlike him—so out of character—that you almost laugh. But your legs are still weak, and the thought of walking is unbearable. You swallow your pride and, after a moment’s hesitation, drape your arms over his shoulders.

He stands, lifting you with surprising ease. You’re not sure what to do with your hands, so you hold on tight. Seongje doesn’t say anything. He just starts walking, his steps sure and steady. And for the first time in hours, you feel something other than pain—something warm, something safe. You zone out. It’s just you two, nothing more. Your mind is at peace, at least for a moment. You will just savor it for the time being.

For a moment, the smell of smoke lingers—warm, familiar, wrapping you in a comfort you don’t want to lose. Again, it's something like a rescue blanket.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

pt.1 - pt.2 - pt.3 - pt.4 - pt.5 - pt.6 - pt.7 - pt.8 - pt.9 (next friday)

picture was generated by AI

Taglist @slovesyouuu @quaff-le-science @4ria790 @dripoftheseus

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. This time I added some lines from wolf of the english translation of the webtoon as an easteregg haha

If you have any feedback, feel free to comment. Have a nice day!

#fanfic #fanfiction #enemies to lovers #geum seong je #geum seong je x reader #kdrama #weak hero class #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #geum seongje #weak hero fanfic #whc2 #wolf keum #whc1 #geum seongje x reader #seongje x reader #weak hero kdrama

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notiddygothgf · 2 months ago

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★ 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

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bergerhandcuffs · 2 months ago

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OK fuck it ,ya'll want bunny man fanservice?, you get bunny man fanservice

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc netflix #devil may cry anime #devil may cry netflix #white rabbit #i did this pose on the couch and said “yeah i'm gonna draw him like that ”kwnfbfsjfbbfjdjd #also yeah this is nelo Angelo's shadow #you can say this takes place after retrieving force edge #he needs some rest yeah go rest on the sofa bunny :]♡

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rowdyluv · 9 months ago

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summary:, in which jack and y/n are closer to leaving for Jersey, it’s their last lake day of the summer, but Luke’s friends bring a group of girls who make it impossibly hard for y/n to enjoy her day.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: underage drinking references, bullying(?), fake girlfriend trope, angst, fluff, use of y/n, pet names (toots), use of real names, use of internal thoughts - y/n’s notated by indention and italics, jack’s indention and bolded - , friends to lover, oblivious pining,

notes: any use of names or likeness of real people or places other than restaurants, arenas / players or player’s friends, family members, old teammates etc, are all completely coincidental

Jack's muscles flexed as he hoisted the last cooler onto the boat, the sound of ice shifting against the plastic echoing in the mid-morning quiet. The sun beaming hot rays down on his bare shoulders as he bent down to put the cooler in the back corner of the boat. Luke followed closely behind, juggling a stash of towels towered on top of a tote of snacks he had probably already laid claims to. He carried the overflowing bundle with perfected ease until he managed to trip over his own feet when stepping on the boat.

Jack’s loud laughter carried over the calm body of water, “It takes talent to trip over nothing moosey.”

Luke tossed his brother a look as he picked up the towels that splayed out across the floor of the boat. “You would know, seeing how you’re supposed to be a top notch NHL player now and you still fall on the ice, when you’ve not even been checked.”

Jack was silent. He didn’t have anything to say in return, his little brother hit a nerve at the mention of ‘supposed to be top notch.’ Quickly he shook it off, kneeling down to help him pick up the snacks that had fallen out of the tote too. It was Jack and Y/n’s last day to spend out on the lake before heading to Jersey for Jack’s preseason training. Jack didn’t want to spend it in a foul mood.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Dukers and the others are here.” Luke carefully stepped off the boat before jogging off the dock, passing Y/n on his way up.

Just the same as any other boat day, she sat on the boat's bench seat at the back next to the captain’s seat. “It’s crazy to think that in two days I’m leaving my mom, my hometown, and moving to an entirely new state.” Y/n suddenly blurted out to Jack. Who was double checking they had all of the life jackets needed.

“You’re not going to back out on me are you?” Jack didn’t turn to face her or look back in her direction. He continued his inspection. He was truly nervous she would have to go another year without someone with him in Jersey.

“No, of course not…after all, all of my stuff is sort of already there in your new apartment..It's just.. Saying goodbye is always hard for me, I'm not exactly great at letting go.” She fell silent and Jack froze in his spot. He was unsure if she had more to say or if she was waiting on him, so he waited silently hoping she’d continue. Because at that moment it sounded like she wasn’t fully convinced herself she was leaving in two days.

A soft breathy laugh was let out and Y/n continued, “But I did kind of make this agreement with you to be in this fake relationship. Don’t you think that would be a bit hard to do with me here and you there?” She played with the ends of her hair from her ponytail, unsure why she would even bring that up today. She didn’t want to think about it until she had to because the anxiety over it was already eating her alive. Yet here she was letting it fall right out into the open. She was terrified of screwing up somehow and having no one believe in the facade the two of them had created.

“Heh.. Yeah, you kind of did..” Jack sounded far away from where she was, distracted almost. He had turned around to face her now, “but that’s also later, it will all be okay. I promise toot.” He offered her a soft smile and took a seat next to her, leaning over into the cooler to grab himself a beer. “Let’s put all that out of our minds until later too, today is just another day. Let’s have fun, yeah?”

Before Y/n could give any form of response shrilling fake laughter and deep voices drew their attention away from one another.

She watched as Luke reappeared with his friends. As each familiar face trickled in, a new female face with a bigger, brighter, faker smile followed. The girls they had brought along were a bit of a surprise, their presence as annoying as they were loud. Y/n felt a knot in her stomach tighten as she saw the way one of the girls, a blonde with a figure that could make even the most stoic of men stumble, was eyeing Jack like a prize catch.

Because he is a prize catch.

Quinn arrived last, his footsteps heavy on the dock as he carried a brand new handle rope for skiing, kneeboarding, and other activities alike. He looked over the crowd and shook his head. He looked over at Y/n, an apologetic smile gracing his lips. She gave him a small one back, feeling a little better knowing he was on the same page she was with their extra visitors, he also was the only one who knows of the girlfriend arrangement aside from the Devils administration, as Jack had confided in him.

Quinn dropped the rope onto the boat and took his spot behind the wheel. “Everything ready?” Quinn asked to no one in particular.

Jack took one last gulp of the beer he had just opened before nodding eagerly. “Yeah, let’s go baby!”

The blonde giggled, her eyes sparkling like the lake's surface under the hot sun. She sidled up to Jack, her hand lingering a beat too long on his arm as she decided to sit right in between them.

The knot in Y/n’s stomach tightened further. She felt like she could be sick from the blatantly obvious come on. Who the hell does this girl think she is?

This is going to be a long day.

Y/n grabbed the red Devils hat that Jack had let carelessly fall onto the boat's floor earlier when he leaned over, feeling the soft fabric against her palms. She placed it firmly on her head, hoping it would serve as an invisible shield against the barrage of flirty glances and suggestive comments from the blonde. Y/n scooted herself as far over to the edge of the bench seat as possible to get away from her. As the boat's engine roared to life, she settled into a comfortable position, pulled out her phone from her backpack, and pretended to be absorbed in scrolling through her ‘X’ feed. The wind picked up speed, whipping her hair into a frenzy around her face as Quinn steered them away from the dock. The periodic spray of lake water was a welcome distraction from the girl's invasive proximity.

Quinn's eyes flicked over to Y/n, noticing the tension in her shoulders. He cranked up the music, the bass thumping in time with the boat's steady rhythm. The noise was a reprieve, allowing her to sink into the music and momentarily forget about the awkward situation. The boat sliced through the water, leaving a frothy trail in its wake. The cool spray on her skin and the smell of gasoline mixed with the smell of the lake created a peculiar serenity that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air.

Jack, catching Quinn's subtle nod in her direction, glanced over at Y/n. Her eyes remained glued to her phone, but he could tell she was far from engaged in whatever she was scrolling through. The blonde had moved on to flirting with Luke's friends, leaving a gap of space between her and Jack that felt like a mile-wide canyon. He leaned over, his hand gently pushing up his cap from her head so he could see her face better. "You okay toots?" he shouted just loud enough over the music for her to hear him.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, the wind tearing a few longer loose strands from her ponytail to slap against his roody red flushed cheeks. She nodded, giving him a forced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine," she simply responded back.

Jack didn't look convinced, his brow furrowed slightly. He knew her better than anyone, and the fake cheeriness didn’t sit well on her or with him. He could tell that she was uncomfortable now that he had paid some attention to her, but he wasn’t going to press the issue, instead he leaned back on the bench with a sigh and turned his attention to his older brother engaging him in a conversation about the upcoming season.

The rest of the day unfolded with Y/n retreating further into herself. She stuck to the back of the boat, a norm for her but she was usually involved in conversations or their silly games. But she had seen this play out before, if she got involved in their conversations or games today, one of the girls would find a way to spin a joke off on her. Making it seem innocent, when it truly wouldn’t be.

The atmosphere was electric with excitement, everyone except Y/n seemed to be having the time of their, intoxicated, lives. Jack didn’t seem to notice how reclusive she had become, or if he did he let her be. The blonde, whose name she hadn't caught, had attached herself to Jack like a leech, giggling at every little thing he said, touching him at every opportunity. Y/n felt like she was watching a movie that she had no part in. Her eyes narrowed at the girl’s antics, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. This was supposed to be their day, a last hurrah before leaving. Before his season started and their lives got hectic.

“Let’s put all that out of our minds until later too, today is just another day. Let’s have fun, yeah?”

Jack’s words from earlier replayed in her mind at a deafening level.

He doesn’t want me thinking about moving, thinking about the season, thinking about me becoming his fake girlfriend? He wants me to have fun. How am I supposed to have fun when he’s out here ignoring me? Well I mean I did tell him I was fine….and I won’t join the conversation but… He’s my Jack..

As the boat slowed down to a gentle drift she was pulled from her thoughts as Jack yelled out it was time to swim. Y/n’s heart sank as the blonde and her entourage turned their attention from Jack to her. "You coming?" one of the girls asked, her voice dripping with sweetness that didn't quite hide the sarcasm.

Y/n took a deep breath and nodded, slipping into the cool water. The relief of the water's embrace washed over her, but it was short-lived. The other girls followed. Jack and the guys raced one another to see who could swim the fastest to a designated marker. Y/n started to follow them out to their starting point, before deciding it was probably best to retreat to the boat. Being in the water with females who didn’t have her best interest in mind was not a good idea. She turned around to swim back and was met by the girls’ laughter that quickly turned to sneers the moment the boys were out of earshot. They circled her like sharks, their eyes assessing and cold. The blonde was the ringleader, her smirk a challenge as she pushed closer.

"You know, it's pretty sad," one of the girls began, her voice unintentionally carrying further than intended over the water's gentle lapping. "Jack only brought you because he feels bad. You're like a charity case, tagging along because he can't say no."

The blonde giggled, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "Yeah, it's like bringing your kid sister on a date to a theme park so she doesn't feel left out." The other girls snickered, their words stinging like jellyfish tentacles wrapping around her heart.

"I mean, come on," another girl chimed in, her voice nasal and grating. "You think Jack's into you? If he was, wouldn't he have already made a move for you? Plus, look at yourself and then look at him. Then you have the fact that he’s a pro-athlete, he can have anyone he wants." By this point Y/n had started to swim away. She had taken enough of their antics, clearly they weren’t a fan of her.

They were only wanting to tear her down, but were they right?

The blonde swam after her, her eyes glinting with spiteful amusement. "You think he'd choose you over someone like me?" She called out when she couldn’t catch up.

Y/n swallowed the knot in her throat as she jerked up a towel and wrapped it around her body. Quinn at some point had climbed back aboard, already nearly dry.

“Huggy, i will give you every penny to my name if you leave right now.” She whispered to Quinn joking, but sort of was deeply hoping that he would take her seriously when he saw her face.

Quinn’s eyes widened at the desperation in her voice, his gaze following hers out to the group of girls. “You okay?”

Y/n nodded tightly, her grip on the towel almost painful. “Yeah, I’m just...peachy.” Her voice cracking over the knot she desperately wanted to keep suppressed down.

Jack’s eyes snapped to her at the word 'peachy'. He was climbing up the boat’s ladder as the words fell out of her mouth. It was their word since high school when said that meant they needed the other without having to say it outright.

Of course he had noticed she had been quieter than usual, but she had pushed him away when he had tried to talk to her early on. Jack figured it was just the reminisce of their conversation from before they were interrupted by everyone else. But the desperation in her voice was clear as a bell, even over the sound of music, different chatter, and other boats speeding around.

His few strides towards her were purposeful and quick, his gaze never leaving her. He softly took a hold of her lower arm, gaining her attention, the water droplets glinting off his bare chest.

The snarky blonde looked up at them from the water, her smirk slipping.

"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice low and concerned, only for her.

Y/n's eyes searched his, hers giving him a silent plea to not do this now. She nodded again, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ye-."

“Don’t do it, don’t lie to me, toots. I heard you tell Q you were peachy. C’mon what’s up? What’s going on?” Jack pleaded, pulling her to the bench seat they had previously occupied earlier in the day. He wrapped his arm around her waist, turning her to face him before pulling her into him. He didn’t care about the wandering eyes of the females now boarding the boat, his eyes were on his girl.

She held eye contact with him for a moment before she sighed heavily and dropped her gaze to the towel piece that she had in her hand.

“It’s nothing, just those girls, they’re...they’re just saying things, Jack. It’s fine.”

Jack’s jaw tightened as he studied her, his hand moving to tilt her chin up so he could see her eyes again. “What kind of things?” He could only imagine what Angelika, the blonde, would muster up.

“They think I’m just some pity invite, that you’re only still friends with me because you feel bad or something,” she murmured, her voice thick with the evidence of barely holding back unshed tears.

Jack’s eyes narrowed and his hand holding her chin squeezed slightly. “They don’t know us, toots. They don’t know how long we’ve been friends, or how much we mean to each other. They don’t get to define our friendship, our relationship.” His voice was a soothing rumble. He dropped his hand to her shoulder, his thumb tracing circles on her shoulder attempting to ease the tension in her body.

“Even more, none of them are the ones i asked to be my girlfriend. Ya know?” Jack whispered into her ear.

“You forgot an important detail with that, fake.” Y/n laughed softly.

“Yeah, yeah but just to be safe incase others overhear, i just dropped it.” They were both laughing now.

Jack knew she was still upset, and uneasy. The two of them weren’t set to begin their arrangement until sometime after arriving back in Jersey, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to and needing to show her off after hearing what all was said. So he grabbed his phone, placed his Red Devils cap back on her head, and snapped a picture of her with the lake behind her, her smile still a bit forced but beautiful regardless. He posted it on his Instagram story with the caption 'My girl looks good in red'. The reaction was instant. His followers went wild, their excitement palpable through the screen. The likes and replies started rolling in, and Y/n couldn’t help but feel a bit more relaxed with every positive notification he received.

The blonde's eyes widened as she saw the post, and her flirty giggles turned into a scowl. It was clear she wasn’t expecting this turn of events.

“Pick out your favorites, then I’ll post them. Everyone will know then, but there will be no mistake. You’re not a pity friend. Never have been, never will be.” Jack nudged the side of her head with a simple harmless kiss to her temple.

Jack handed y/n the phone, scrolling through their photos together, looking for the perfect ones to post. The boat ride from the swimming spot had been filled with laughter and smiles, shared between just them. Y/n’s heart fluttered and she had a permanent smile on her face as she took in how many of their happy moments captured Jack had on his phone from throughout the years. His camera roll was taken up by hockey, her, the two of them, and he and his family, random memes here and there, but mainly it was them. He had her pick out a couple pictures she wanted him to post on his page as they sat cuddled up, her arm around his waist, his hand resting on her shoulder.

It was nothing new to anyone who has been around them before, but infuriating to the girls.

Y/n had picked her pictures, but before she could hand Jack his phone back, she had been lulled to sleep by the soft rock of the boat and the comfort of being with Jack. Quinn noticed she had fallen asleep when Jack’s phone fell to the floor of the boat. Jack carefully moved her to where her head was lying in his lap and Quinn covered her with another towel. Quinn handed Jack his phone and he finished making the post.

“Rowdy, do you think this is going to all work out?” Quinn asks his middle brother just loud enough for him.

“It’s me and y/n, Q.” That’s all Jack had to say before he leaned his head back and closed his eyes for the remainder of the ride.

it’s me and y/n…it has to work out.