#So if it was you feel free to let me know so I can add a link to the original post

[semperama]

hi erin you should tell us all about what you think happened after ryan followed oliver through the doors of the hotel and they went upstairs together 👀

"Get in here," Oliver says, fingers hooked in Ryan's collar.

"Why are you so bossy?" Ryan stumbles after him, through the door, and he honestly doesn't know which room this is, his or Oliver's, but who cares, who even cares.

"Why are you so infuriating?" Oliver says. Ryan loves how he says it, his accent dancing staccato over each syllable, the 'ing' transformed into a crisp 'en'. He kicks the door shut hard, and they probably just woke up half the hall, but all Ryan can do is giggle.

"How come you can even say infuri--infur--?" He laughs harder, falling against Oliver and pushing his face into his shoulder. He could have sworn they were matching each other drink for drink, but when Oliver starts shaking with laughter, it feels more like he's laughing at him than with him. "Shut up, bro."

"Don't call me 'bro' right now," Oliver says, pushing him backward and stripping his jacket down his arms at the same time. "These fucking suspenders."

"Yeah?" Ryan asks, suddenly breathless. Even more breathless when Oliver grabs the suspenders and uses them to swing him against the wall next to the door, his back hitting it hard enough to make his teeth clack together. Still, he recovers enough to add, grinning, "You want me to call you 'babygirl' instead?"

"Don't you dare," Oliver says, and then proceeds to shove his tongue into Ryan's mouth so he can't.

They do this sometimes. Usually when they've been drinking, but not always. There are no rules. It's a certain glint in Oliver's eye or a tug in Ryan's gut, the way the air crackles between them. They do it, but they don't talk about it, and it's back to normal in the morning.

"Did you do this on purpose?" Oliver asks, mouth against his jaw as he tugs on the suspenders again and then lets them snap against Ryan's chest. Ryan hisses, digs his fingers into Oliver's waist.

"Not everything is about you, babygirl," he says. Only after the words are out does he hear the echo of Eddie in his head, You'd make it all about you, again. He wonders how Buck would like being called 'babygirl'. He thinks Buck would like it.

"I hate you so much," Oliver says, but his mouth is curved into a grin against the skin of Ryan's neck. He kisses down to the base of Ryan's throat and flattens his tongue there, and Ryan rolls his hips forward, and they both groan.

"Bed," Ryan says. "Come on, bed."

He tries to push Oliver backward, but he doesn't budge, his bulk pinning Ryan to the wall. "Nuh-uh," Oliver says. "Not letting you get undressed." He runs his fingers down the suspenders, and then hooks them in the waistband of Ryan's pants. "Just get your dick out."

"Fuck," Ryan breathes as Oliver drops to his knees. His hands go to Oliver's head automatically, raking against the crunch of gel out of his curls, but Oliver grabs him by the wrists and pushes him away.

"What did I just say?" he says.

Between the alcohol and the arousal, Ryan feels like he's moving through jello as he fumbles with his fly. It's not easy, fishing himself through the slit in his briefs when he's most of the way to drunk and still so fucking hard. How long has he been hard? It feels like most of the night, but that can't be right. Someone would have noticed.

"Yeah," Oliver says, like he can't help himself, when Ryan finally frees his cock, strokes it twice. Oliver leans in, tongue out, and Ryan curses under his breath as he feeds himself right into Oliver's mouth.

It's amazing how it always feels like the first fucking time. Ryan still gets the same little illicit thrill down his spine, the same swoop in his gut. It feels insane that Oliver would even want him, but there he is, kneeling in front of him, tugging Ryan's suspenders again to pull him deeper into his mouth.

Ryan's hands go back to Oliver's hair, crunching it in his grip this time to get the product out of it, get to the soft curls underneath. He pulls a little, and Oliver pulls the suspenders in return, and somehow they get into a rhythm, Ryan fucking shallowly into Oliver's mouth, Oliver urging him on, groaning around him. He keeps trying to pull Ryan into his throat, but Ryan can see the drool leaking from the corners of his mouth, and this suit doesn't belong to him. Neither of them are strangers to being careful with a costume; it's second nature. This isn't a costume, technically, but it feels like one. It feels like Ryan has been wearing one all night, but it's stripped away a little more each time Oliver swallows around him.

Sweat sticks the shirt to Ryan's back, and he keeps reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. With alcohol sloshing through his veins, everything feels sloppy and syrupy and warm. He reaches down and presses his thumb to the corner of Oliver's plush mouth, and Oliver hums, and Ryan realizes, suddenly, how close he is. His grip slackens in Oliver's hair, and he lets Oliver take over entirely, yanking him forward again, again, every now and again letting the suspenders snap against his stomach with a sharp, satisfying pop.

"Please," he hears himself say, distantly, and then Oliver pulls him deeper, face pressed to the front of Ryan's pants after all, and Ryan's orgasm kicks him in the gut. He shoots into Oliver's mouth, feels him swallow, looks down and meets his eyes and gasps against the way his heart tries to jump into his throat.

"Come here, come here," he says while he's still coming down from it, but Oliver is one step ahead of him, getting to his feet and tugging Ryan's shirttails out of his pants, fumbling with the buttons. Somehow Oliver manages to get Ryan's shirt open beneath the suspenders while Ryan jerks Oliver's fly open, and then their hands meet on Oliver's cock, wrapping around it together, stripping it hard and fast.

"Mmm, gonna mess up your slutty waist," Oliver says, and Ryan feels the blood rush to his face as he leans in to kiss the shit-eating grin off Oliver's lips.

It takes no time at all before Oliver is spilling warm over Ryan's skin, collapsing forward so he's grinding out the last of his release, their hands trapped together between their bodies. The suit is going to be unsalvageable after all, but Ryan doesn't fucking care. He buries his nose behind Oliver's ear and breathes him in, feels the flutter of his pulse. If they move, his knees might give out, so he's happy to stay here while Oliver's come drips down his abs.

"Shower?" Oliver asks after a minute, but he doesn't move except to press a kiss to Ryan's collarbone.

Ryan peels his eyes open and looks around. "Are we in my room or yours?"

Oliver chuckles, pulls back enough to look at him. "Mine," he says. "Come on. You can borrow some of my clothes after."

The thought of it makes Ryan blush--which seems silly, given what they just did. Oliver notices, reaches up to chase the heat of it with his thumb. They have shit to do tomorrow, and it's going to be hard enough with a hangover and too little sleep. But for this moment, Ryan doesn't care. He lets Oliver take his hand and tug him toward the bathroom. He can't stop smiling.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Reveal

Anselm Vogelweide x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

This was written for the @the-oscar-isaac-collective Coffee and Cream NSFW Zine, which you can download (for free!) here!

There are so many amazing stories and fanworks that such talented people made <3

Summary: You and Anselm have been business rivals for a long time.

Warnings: Kissing, swearing, my terrible German, Pet names, talk of other sex acts, hidden relationship, enemies to lovers (sort of), Anselm being Anselm, p in v sex, cream pie, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 1740

Anselm glares at you, practically snarling as you enter his office. Somehow looking down at you despite being seated behind his desk. 

He gives a fair amount of his ire to his poor assistant who fiddles nervously with his hands as he shepherds you into the room.

“Well?” Anselms snaps, looking at you but speaking to his assistant. 

“I, erm, sir,” he tries to add on an extra layer of politeness.

“Heraus mit der Sprache.” Spit it out.

“You, erm, in the diary, your meeting, it’s-”

“Hello to you too, Vogelweide.” You scowl, injecting as much venom into your voice as possible and give him a sanguine smile. 

It was well known that you both hated each other. Loathed to be in the same room together, to have to breathe in the same air. 

You both were technically in the same business. Anselm came from old money. You from new. You begrudged his flaunting of wealth, his disconnect from the real world. He detested your obsession with your roots, your unwillingness to ‘play the game’, and your blatant refusal to follow traditional etiquette.

But in order to have some semblance of organisation, you had both decided long ago that a level of cooperation was needed. An uneasy peace to allow for business to take place. 

He gives you a dark look from under his lashes, pushing his glasses higher with his middle finger. “Hello, my dear.” 

You laugh unkindly. 

“Leave us.” He taps his desk harshly and his poor assistant turns on his heels and shuts the door on his way out. He doesn’t even give you a pitying glance. 

You watch Anselm for a moment, take in his sharp black suit and wild hair. He stays silent as you look him over, still keeping quiet as you walk around his desk, moving his chair out so you can stand in front of him. 

He swallows once, his throat bobbing under his collar. The tension in the air boils to breaking point and stretches beyond. 

It’s you who breaks a fraction of a second before him, leaning down and grabbing his cheeks as you pull him into a searing kiss. He groans, squeezing your arms and kissing you back wantonly. 

He tastes sweet; like he’s been drinking herbal tea and eating fruit cake. His hands knead your flesh, trailing down to your waist and then urging you into his lap, your thighs either side of his. 

“Liebling,” darling, he groans into your mouth, pushing his fingers under your skirt desperately and pulling the material to your waist. “Missed you.” He trips over his words slightly, too excited and delirious from the feeling of your soft thighs. 

“Anselm,” you moan back, swallowing his whines as you lick into his mouth and pull at his jacket. 

It was a lot easier to do business when you pretended to be at odds with your opposition. It gave both of your clients a sense of choice, while allowing you both to monopolise the industry without anyone noticing. You got to agree on the price of things and pretend you were undercutting the other. Share little snide words and titbits about certain customers. A lovely little game to play. 

“It’s been too long, liebling,” he bites at your bottom lip and moves his hands higher; whining and looking down when he realises you aren’t wearing any underwear. 

“Two days,” you kiss his cheek, nuzzling into his soft beard. 

“Forty eight hours,” he mumbles, hissing in a breath as you scrape your teeth along his neck. 

“Two thousand eight hundred and eight minutes.” You gasp, your voice high pitched as he runs the tip of his fingers through your soaking folds. 

“Already so wet for me.” He growls. 

“Desperate for you.”

“So needy.” He bites at your lip, pressing at the small of your back with his free hand as he sinks two fingers inside. He curls them perfectly, stroking a spot that he has burned into his memory and you all but scream. Silently you thank him for his kooky office and soundproof walls.

He flicks his thumb against your clit, circling one way and then the other, never settling on one direction and chuckling when you jump and gasp against him. He puffs out his chest, running his hand up your spine to rest at the back of your neck and holding you close as you grind against his touch.

You grab hold of his hair, your hips arching up and down with his movements. He groans and you tug a little harder until he gasps, his eyes fluttering as he fights the urge to close them, not wanting to miss a moment of the pleasure dancing on your face.  

Anselm lets out a little grunt of frustration as he hurriedly pulls his fingers from your core, your wetness already soaking into his dress trousers. 

You whine at the loss, but already know where his mind is going. He hasn’t even opened his mouth and you already have your hands on his belt. 

“That’s it Liebling, that’s it. I’m going to have an aneurysm if I’m not inside you in the next twenty eight seconds.” 

“You were inside me a second ago.” You tease, leaning in to kiss him and purposefully moving to press your lips to the corner of his mouth at the last moment. 

He tuts, “You know what I mean, my sweet.” 

“Then you should say what you mean.” 

“How dare you?” He pouts, pulling you close so he can slip his tongue into his mouth how he wants. “English ist meine Zweitesprache.” English is my second language. 

You can’t suppress your chuckle and it quickly turns into a sigh of pleasure as you raise your hips and guide his length to your entrance. 

He groans, canting his hips upwards to slip in a fraction. “Don’t tease me, my sweet.” 

“You love to be teased.” You whisper as you sink downwards, letting him stretch and fill you deliciously. 

“Ah!” His grip tightens on you, his eyes closed and eyebrows pinched together. “Missed you too much, rough and hard now and slow and gentle second?”

You nod, your forehead pressed against his as you finally take him completely. “And what about the third?” 

“Ladies choice, of course.” He smiles wolfishly as he takes hold of your hips, gently encouraging you to rock against him. He bites his lip, trying and quickly failing to hold back a deep rumbling moan, his thighs shaking at the effort to keep still. Despite the lack of movement from his legs his brace still lightly squeaks with every swirl of your hips. Echoing around the room, you hate to admit it but you’re starting to fear that you have developed a slight pavlovian reaction to the sound. 

Your walls clench around his thick cock and he groans again.

“Ah, liebling, bitte, bitte…” He nods with the words, completely lost in the feel of you squeezing around him. “Harder. I am not going to break yet.” 

“Oh, we can save that,” you raise up slowly before sinking back down, “for the fourth.” 

He bites his lip, his eyes hazy, “promises, promises,” and drags you closer for another searing kiss. He snakes his hand between you both, circling your clit with his calloused thumb.

You whine into his mouth, digging your fingers into his shoulders for leverage as you start to move faster, to truly bounce on his cock. The sound of your slick and the slap of skin against skin starts to drown out the gentle squeak of his brace, both of your moans building as you set a brutal pace. 

His fingers don’t falter as he skillfully pulls more and more sinful noises from your throat. Each thrust has him hitting impossibly deeper, more and more perfect as he stretches you so wide. The familiar burn setting your blood alight. 

“Anselm,” you whine, pleasure tightening low in your belly.

“Not close already are you sweetheart?” He grunts, pulling his left hand away from your hip for only a second to loosen his tie and the top button of his shirt. “How desperate have you been? Missing me so badly that you can barely last two minutes?” 

You hardly manage to bite back a moan as you move faster, practically sobbing as he keeps hitting so deliciously deep. You can’t help but give in to your body’s cries and chase the sweet pleasure that is on the tip of your tongue. 

He gasps, swearing low in the back of his throat. His thighs start to tense and shake as his jaw drops against his chest. 

You recognise those signs all too well. He’s close too. 

“Aw, what’s that mein kleiner Schnuckel,” my little cutie, “you’re not close already?” You tease and he groans, looking up at you with dark eyes. “So close that you can barely last two minutes?” 

He was so close, biting at the inside of his mouth to stop his body from spiralling into bliss. He rubbed your clit faster, planting his feet firmly on the floor so he could fuck up into your properly. “Of course, I’m close, my love. You drive me to absolute madness with only a touch, a look. If you said the word at any time I’d come on your command. I’d spill myself wherever and whenever you wanted. I’d fill you up and spread my spend all over your cute, little-”

Your cry cuts off his words as you squirm and buck, tensing and squeezing around him as your orgasm hits you hard. Robs you of your strength as it paralyses your muscles in ecstasy. 

“Fuck,” Anselm snarls as he thrusts twice up into your pulsing heat before he comes deep, pushing your thighs down and against him so he pumps his cum as far into you as possible. 

You’ve barely come back to your senses when he’s kissing your temple and cheeks, purposefully rubbing his beard over your sweat soaked skin. 

You giggle, pretending to go to push him away, but he grabs your wrist and holds it to his lips. “Uh huh huh, my sweet, where do you think you’re trying to escape to?” He gives you a playful squeeze, his cock twitching inside of you. “We have a second, third, fourth, and fifth round to get to.” 

“Fifth?” You press a light kiss to his neck. 

“Hmmm.” 

“What’s the fifth round?” 

“Ah, now that’s a surprise.” 

Thank you for reading!

Taglist:

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @lonelyisamyw-0love @romanarose  

@steven-grants-world  @blushingrn @to-be-a-sunshine  @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87

 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin @reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom

@alwaysmicado @spxctorsslxt @novarosewood @hammerhead96  @mylittledelulucorner

@queerly-anxious  @swiftiegirliepop @oscarssimp  @eternallyvenus @lounilu 

@pigeonmama @iolaussharpe-24 @chaithetics @sub-aro @faretheeoscar

 @queerponcho @twwcs @ingoldthewizard @ominoose @ierofrnkk

@have-you-seen-my-sanity @missdictatorme @musicalnacho @buckyssugarchick @lemonzestinmydrink 

@sonotpractical @junggoku @julesonrecord @heavydirtysoulsblog

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[tinytalkingtina]

WIP Weekend

Thanks for the tags @hbyrde36 and @queenie-ofthe-void!

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple (just in different asks please)

Mermay is now in full swing, and I published the 90's waterpark paired fics! The steddie hurt/comfort and munver documentary are coming next week.

🐶 B.A.D. D.O.G. (sequel to the college AU puppy play Stomeddie/Stommie fic) is still getting there! I keep wanting to add additional things to this and complete the emotional story arc that was set up. Alas, the porn has plot now.

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating." continues! Now with 200% more pirates than this time last week.

💥Steddie Big Bang: Secret fic is pushing 8000 words now! This can't be publicly shared yet, so if you send in this emoji feel free to pick another fic as well, and I'll write 3 sentences for both. Can't wait to share the details about this with folks after claims.

👽 My Star Trek AU Enemies to Lovers has been laying off to the side for a while now. Let's maybe start working on the next chapter of Human Engineer Eddie Munson and the adventures of Vulcan Security Officer S'tevan this weekend

Tagging some folks to join in and work on their own WIPs this weekend!

@pearynice @apomaro-mellow @vthx @eriquin @fuctacles

@dame-zoom-a-lot @fkinkindagauche @griefabyss69

@strangerthingswritersguild

Enjoy a snippet from 🏴‍☠️ below the cut!

"That fucking idiot backpacker with the sports car came in again," Eddie ranted as he slammed the door closed. "I don't know how many times I’ve told him his car isn't built for off-roading, he keeps blaming us when it breaks down. I can’t bear-proof your Lamborghini dude!" Steve swallowed hard as Eddie stripped out of his coveralls. He wanted to hold him down and lick the sweat from his body. Or edge him for an entire hour and make him forget how to speak. Or...or maybe Eddie could be the one tying him up. Steve’s brain offered up the idea of Eddie handcuffing his hands to his headboard with that stupid novelty belt he liked to wear to gigs and watch him bounce on a dildo. Maybe if he was really good Eddie would— But what if the newest stories in the notebook weren’t about him anymore, and suddenly Eddie was writing about sucking off someone named ‘Angus’ or ‘Jarnathan’? He should definitely read the whole thing. You know, for safety reasons. And research. (And okay, maybe because his dick was already half hard from staring at Eddie’s grease-covered hands, and he wanted to find out what happened to the vampyre.) After he was sure Eddie was snoring away across the hallway, Steve made himself comfy under the covers, holding his phone's flashlight with his mouth so he could stroke his dick and play with his nipples at the same time. He quickly found the place where Robin had given up and dove back in: The King’s other hand dipped even lower to tease and tickle at his pink flower, still yet unfurled despite the heat thrumming through Edward’s veins. Perhaps if the king went gently, the two of them might join in unholy passion later that night. But the undead mouth currently swallowing his cock burned with the heat of hellfire itself. Edward was helpless to resist its siren call that was also demonic! “Mmmm mpmpph. Mmmmph mm mmph mmm muh mmph muh mmmph, mmmm. Muh mmmph mmm mm. Mmm muh mmmpph mmmmm,” the vampyre king moaned around Edward’s cock, meaning: “Come for me now!” And come for Stefan Edward did. His coin purse tightened in the vampyre king’s grasp and then pushed through their pennies and nickels and dimes out of Edward’s cock and into Stefan’s waiting throat. There were even some quarters in there for the vampyre king to sustain himself with. Truly it was an impressive load of semen.

[illiath-the-fae]

Just want to add my 2 cents here. It might be worth a little more, not sure if you consider someone who researched the process of therapy for transpeople getting surgery, and wrote a published research paper on that process as worth more than 2 cents, but if you do, here goes. If not... oh well, here goes anyhow :)

Psychologists are expected to be involved in the process of "authorizing" people to get gender affirming surgery (if that gender-affirming surgery is for a different gender than is listed on their birth certificate. For anyone else they can just walk into a surgeon and book it if they have the money).

There is little to no guidance as to what that means, other than us needing to diagnose gender dysphoria (or the ICD-10 gender-incongruence/gender-identity-disorder/gender-dysphoria code). That diagnosis requires a 6-month documented history of symptoms.

Now, some surgeons require more detailed letter than the WPATH standard, but most just require a "WPATH referral letter".

So... Why am I jumping in here? Well, two-fold. Firstly, it's not a requirement for all surgeons that there be any information about the length of time in which an individual met with the clinician before the referral letter is written... AND there is no requirement as to what topic(s) the clinician is required to cover to make their determinations.

That said, making such a diagnosis DOES require ruling out other potential conditions (differential diagnosis is one of my favourite thought exercises, as I've tied other clinicians in mental knots with it *grin*), but a diagnosis can be made in a single session (or less) if the clinician feels comfortable doing so.

Now, let's follow up the original question thought experiment to a reasonable level. Let's say the purpose of people meeting with a clinician and getting a referral letter is because there's people who are going out of their way to attempt to get gender-affirming surgeries for a gender not on their birth certificate. Okay. Given the number of surgeons world-wide who do NOT require referral letters, and the number of clinicians who'll just whip up such a letter if you ask for it, we'd expect their to be a relatively statistically significant number of individuals who underwent gender-affirming surgery who expressed regret over the surgery (because they were doing it for something other than gender-affirmation, and surgery is "permanent" [we don't have time for me to go on tangents here, so let's roll with that]), whenever we do studies on the regret expressed by individuals who undergo gender-affirming surgery.

We do not see that in the data.

What we see is a LOWER regret rate from individuals who undergo gender-affirming surgery than individuals who do almost any other activity.

We see HIGHER regret rates from people who choose what FREE ice-cream flavour they get.

We see HIGHER regret rates from people choosing what to watch on television.

We see HIGHER regret rates from people who decide what clothes to wear for the day.

And we for damn sure see MUCH FREAKING HIGHER regret rates from people who undergo a gender-affirming surgery if it matches the gender on their birth certificate!

So... is it anti-trans to require people to "prove" their "trans-enough" to get surgery? Many transpeople would state that to be the case, however... and hear me out here, with us already doing it, we seeing fantastic quality of life improvements from EVERY person who underwent surgery. So, seems to me we should be offering it to MORE transpeople.

Heck, in my own study, I have a person who regretted their gender-affirming surgery. It WAS NOT because they got the surgery, but because they had a complication during the surgery. Do you know the rate in which complications happen during ANY surgery? And especially trans-related surgeries? Do you know how many transpeople regret getting the surgery if they had complications? I can assure you, the rate on that last one is around the same as the total number of transpeople who regret getting the surgery in the first place.

Also, and here's where I throw the "loved ones" of the transpeople under the trolley and run it back and forth a few times to make sure...

In almost ALL circumstances of regret from trans-people getting gender-affirming surgery? It's BECAUSE OF THEIR LOVED ONES STILL DISCRIMINATING AGAINST THEM. It is NOT because they didn't want the surgery.

We have the data to support this. The research is out there. Heck, I've got my own research archive, which I'm thankful for because a lot of that research was on the HHS and CDC websites! (it's gone now, RIP science under the Dumbest-Timeline).

So, if you want the TL;DR - Sucks to be you I stuck it at the end, glad you got here :) If we only look at the "regret rate" outcome measure for gender-affirming ("cross-birth-certificate-gender") surgeries, until that number reaches the same for individuals who get... oh... something "benign"... hair replacement surgeries, that'll do... then I recommend we allow MORE trans and GNC people to get access to those surgeries, not putting up MORE barricades.

How is it anti-trans to want to make sure that someone is actually trans/ it's actually a gender thing and that it isn't like sexual trauma + dissociation or something else before someone gets surgery? Like I feel like that's a pretty good safeguard to have 💀

thats already a thing that happens, at least here in the united states (idk how it is in the netherlands where lucy is from)

you need to spend a year talking with a therapist while on hrt before they will write you a letter to get insurance to cover surgery

idk how the process is before going on hrt itself and if the questioning to get on hrt is similarly annoying

she just wants to make the process more difficult

[yourneighborhoodneighbor]

i was reading a fic, and i had an angsty idea.

danny, working at WE. and something something concerns about him going rogue or keeping secrets, whatever. bruce, or various bats depending on where in time this is set, investigate and stuff, and meet danny A Lot in civilian personas. and dnany starts getting very paranoid and scared! until he has a full on breakdown. bat(s) don't realize how badly they are affecting danny until they get close to him again (mayhaps after determining he is fine and innocent and whatever) and he flinches. he sweats. he looks pale. he shakes. maybe a lil anxiety attack, as a treat.

and the bat(s) realize they done Fucked Up and made this innocent WE employee scared of them. not as the bats, but their civilian personas. they realize that was workplace harassment. and fuck why didn't they realize sooner?!

it's too late. the damage is done.

[sweetreveriee]

Just thinking about how for Luke’s parents every parents worst fear came true. Their son ran away, they haven’t had contact in months, don’t even know if he’s alive or where he is, and then one night they turn on the news and there he is, but it’s not because he’s a star. No. He is dead.

The last words that Luke and his mom said to each other were in anger. And we know that Luke’s dad wasn’t even home when he ran away as we can see him just pulling up in the driveway when Emily runs out.

Luke’s last interaction with his mom is him saying he never wants to see her again, but then up until his last days he regrets saying that and keeps looking for ways to reconnect.

But he never got to, because he died. And how did his parents find out? A news channel.

[bleue-flora]

So um, in light of my last post I was inspired to look into other dsmp people's ages because I feel like we don’t really think about it too often and oh does it make things interesting…

Just for reference and consideration, here are some United States Legal Age Minimums:

Drive: 16-18

Adult: 18-21

Vote: 18

Drink Alcohol: 21

Political Office: 25 (Representative) 30 (Senator) 35 (President)

Military: 17-18

Also Note: On average, the brain is scientifically still developing key executive functions of adolescence until around 25 - and oh wouldn't you know it 90% of the server fall under that, meaning no wonder we have a bunch of wars their prefrontal cortex isn't fully developed and wouldn't you know it that part of the brain is responsible for regulating attention, behavior, and emotion as well as the processing that Actions Have Consequences... huh whelp that makes sense.

Anyways… age data is below (I didn't do everyone nor every event - nobody got time for that ;D... I didn't have time for this to begin with lol...) But I specifically want to highlight that not only was Dream 21 from Jan-Aug of his Imprisonment, but Sam was also 21 till Jun, and Quackity was literally 20 while he was daily torturing Dream... 20?! They were roughly a year apart, all of them so close. Like can you imagine, treating your peer like that? Sam is like a couple months older than Dream and that's it. Quackity can't even drink legally in the United States. That's insane...

(* to signify canonical Immortality)

Ok, so the full list of members and ages is at the bottom, but first, here are some key events I picked just to highlight their ages at the time.

Server Creation - April 24, 2020

GeorgeNotFound - 23 Callahan - 23 Dream - 20 Sapnap - 19

L'Manberg War - August 2, 2020

BadBoyHalo - 25 WilburSoot - 23 GeorgeNotFound - 23 Callahan - 23 Punz - 23 Eret - 21 Awesamdude - 21 Dream - 20 Fundy - 20 Skeppy - 20 Ponk - 20 Quackity - 19 Sapnap - 19 Niki Nihachu - 19 Jack Manifold - 17 Purpled - 16 Tubbo - 16 Tommy - 16

Pogtopia vs Manberg War - November 16th, 2020

Philza - 32* BadBoyHalo - 25 HBomb - 26 WilburSoot - 24 GeorgeNotFound - 24 Callahan - 23 Punz - 23 Karl Jacobs -22 Antfrost - 22 CaptainPuffy - 22 Eret - 21 Technoblade - 21* Awesamdude - 21 Dream - 21 Connor - 21 Schlatt - 21 Fundy - 21 Skeppy - 20 Ponk - 20 Quackity - 19 Sapnap - 19 Niki Nihachu - 19 Jack Manifold - 18 Purpled - 17 Ranboo - 17 Tubbo - 16 Tommy - 16

Exile - December 4, 2020

Ghostbur - 24 Technoblade - 21* Dream - 21 Ranboo - 17 Tubbo - 16 Tommy - 16

Doomsday - January 6, 2021

Philza - 32* HBomb - 27 Callahan - 23 Punz - 23 CaptainPuffy - 22 Eret - 21 Technoblade - 21* Dream - 21 Fundy - 21 Ponk - 20 Quackity - 20 Sapnap - 19 Niki Nihachu - 19 Jack Manifold - 18 Ranboo - 17 Tubbo - 17 Tommy - 16

Disc Confrontation - January 20, 2021

HBomb - 27 BadBoyHalo - 25 Callahan - 24 Punz - 23 Antfrost - 22 CaptainPuffy - 22 Eret - 22 Awesamdude - 21 Dream - 21 Ponk - 20 Quackity - 20 Sapnap - 19 Niki Nihachu - 19 Jack Manifold - 18 Ranboo - 17 Tubbo - 17 Tommy - 16

Quackity’s First Prison Visit - March 16, 2021

Awesamdude - 21 Dream - 21 Quackity - 20

Techno's Visit- June 6, 2021

Technoblade - 22* Awesamdude - 21 Dream - 21

Jailbreak - November 28, 2021

Philza - 33* HBomb - 27 BadBoyHalo - 26 George - 25 Callahan - 24 Punz - 24 Karl Jacobs - 23 Antfrost - 23 CaptainPuffy - 23 Foolish Gamers - 22 Eret - 22 Technoblade - 22* Awesamdude - 22 Dream - 22 Connor - 22 Fundy - 22 Skeppy - 21 Hannahxxrose - 21 Ponk - 21 Quackity - 20 Sapnap - 20 Niki Nihachu - 20 Jack Manifold - 19 Purpled - 18 Ranboo - 18 Tubbo - 17 Tommy - 17

Comprehensive List From Oldest to Youngest: Name - Date of Birth (Current Age) - [Join Date] Age when Joined

Philza- March 1, 1988 (36) – [Nov 16, 2020]  32 *Immortal*

HBomb- Jan 4, 1994 (30) – [Sept 22, 2020]  26

BadBoyHalo- April 2, 1995 (28) – [May 19, 2020]  25

Wilbur- Sept 14, 1996 (27) – [July 12, 2020] 23

GeorgeNotFound- Nov 1, 1996 (27) – [April 24, 2020]  23

Callahan- Jan 19, 1997 (27) – [April 24, 2020]  23 

Punz- Jan 31, 1997 (27) – [July 7, 2020]  23  

Karl Jacobs- July 19, 1998 (25) – [Aug 26, 2020]  22 

Antfrost- Aug 27, 1998 (25) – [Sep 5, 2020]  22 

Captain Puffy- Sept 18, 1998 (25) – [Nov 16, 2020]  22

Foolish Gamers- Dec 18, 1998 (25) – [Jan 16, 2021]  22 *Immortal*

Eret- Jan 9, 1999 (25) – [July 19, 2020]  21

Technoblade- June 1, 1999 (23) – [Sept 22, 2020]  21 *Immortal*

Awesamdude - June 8, 1999 (24) – [April 28, 2020]  20 

Dream - Aug 12, 1999 (24) – [April 24, 2020]  20

Connor- Aug 26, 1999 (24) – [Nov 16, 2020]  21

Schlatt- Sept 10, 1999 (24) – [Sept 20, 2020]  21 

Fundy- Oct 10, 1999 (24) – [July 7, 2020]  20 

Skeppy- Jan 17, 2000 (24) – [July 18, 2020]  20 

Ponk- April 18, 2000 (23) – [May 7, 2020]  20 

Quackity- Dec 28, 2000 (23) – [Aug 11, 2020]  19 

Sapnap- March 1, 2001 (23) – [April 24, 2020]  19 

Niki Nihachu- Nov 3, 2001 (22) – [Aug 6, 2020]  18 

Jack Manifold- Aug 14, 2002 (21) – [Aug 3, 2020]  17 

Purpled- Oct 24, 2003 (20) – [July 9, 2020]  16

Ranboo- Nov 2, 2003 (20) – [Nov 17, 2020]  17 

Tubbo- Dec 23, 2003 (20) – [July 7, 2020]  16 

Tommy- April 9, 2004 (19) – [July 4, 2020]  16 

They are all babies confirmed... things make so much more sense... brain development guys it's important ;)

[shivunin]

💠Alternate Universes💠

A list of AUs intended for writing/art prompts. Tried to keep it general/open to interpretation as much as possible. Thank you to everyone who sent in ideas! (plus bonus Dragon Age-specific AUs at the end, as this is a DA blog c:) Send a number and I will write a short AU about:

Rival market stalls

Fairytale

Post-apocalypse

Pirates

Cowboys/western

Spies/assassins

Gaslamp fantasy

Murder mystery

Cyberpunk

Soulmates 

Gothic horror (or romance)

Space travel/opera

Roommates/neighbors

Mermaids

Urban fantasy/paranormal (werewolves, vampires, ghosts, paranormal investigators, etc.)

Courtly/medieval

Noir/Private Investigator

Heist

Circus/carnival

Period (specify which time period)

Time Loop/time travel

Dragon Age-specific AUs:  (MC refers to the Warden, Hawke, or the Inquisitor)

22. The MC as a different class (mage/warrior/rogue)

23. The event(s) that led to the Warden’s recruitment never happened 

24. Companion AU (MC as a companion instead of the protagonist)

25. Different choice taken for a major plot decision (i.e. Harrowmont vs Bhelen, Hawke vs Stroud left in the Fade, etc.)

26. The game is actually a tabletop campaign (D&D etc.) your MC and companions are playing together

[pharawee]

And now to find out how My Stand-In will manage to traumatise me this week. 🤡

[theflowerofhumanity]

Green-Blooded Jealousy

Among the crew of the USS Enterprise, the Bridge officers saw a disproportionate amount of action. Those privileged few, orbiting the captain like so many moons, regularly had the kind of adventures that motivated exhausted but starry-eyed cadets in Starfleet Academy to study just a little harder and to stay up just a little later.

But those officers could also be somewhat isolated by the rarefied air of the Bridge. They were usually the last ones to hear the latest gossip, even the salacious, speculative kind that tore through the rest of the ship in just a few days. There were exceptions to this rule, of course: Lieutenant Uhura was a popular social butterfly, and as chief engineer, Scotty probably heard all kinds of talk but was wise enough not to repeat any of it while he was on duty. The ship’s first officer, though, might have been the very last to hear any of it. Spock tended to ignore all but the tallest tales even when he did hear them. In typical Vulcan fashion, he dismissed anything that lacked the potential to threaten the overall morale of the crew and fortunately, nothing had fit that description this early in the voyage.

The same privilege and separation from the lower decks that put the Bridge crew out of the loop made them a favorite subject of that same gossip. Half of the women on board carried a torch for one of the senior officers, with Captain Kirk’s boyish good looks and charm making him the clear front-runner. To some ordinary crewmen, the captain and his inner circle were more like celebrities than fellow members of Starfleet.

So when two crewmen working alongside him in the lab struck up a conversation about a relatively recent rumor, Spock took notice only when one of them remarked, “Chapel? The blonde with the great legs? Damn. Some guys have all the luck.”

His companion chuckled. “Well, I don’t see your epaulets, Sharma. Everyone knows she’s been sweet on a Bridge officer for months. You think she’s going to be interested in a lab rat?”

Spock frowned, his hands going still. Under the influence of an alien virus, Christine Chapel had confessed that she was in love with him not so long ago. He remembered the encounter with crystal clarity—and he knew that it had caused her a great deal of embarrassment. But how had that translated into this supposed common knowledge? Since neither man was paying any attention to him, however, it appeared that no one had correctly guessed for which Bridge officer the head nurse had eyes. In any case, their talk had already moved on to a different topic. Spock went back to his research, putting thoughts of Christine (and her great legs—the observation had been slightly crude but accurate nonetheless) in the back of his orderly mind.

It never occurred to him to wonder about the identity of the man.

A few days later, Spock laid claim to the empty corner of a rec room for dinner and a game of chess with Jim. The chatter from a table near the door washed over him like so much white noise as he began setting up the tridimensional board. Until—

“He was with her down there, after all. On Exo III, I mean.”

Exo III. The name was enough to pique Spock’s interest. They’d found Dr. Roger Korby—or whatever had remained of him—on that desolate planet. He lifted his eyes from the chess pieces he was arranging, unconsciously tilting his head with curiosity. The speaker was an ensign whose auburn hair was almost indistinguishable from her uniform.

“I guess chivalry’s not dead,” her dark-haired companion remarked, laughing.

“Not while Captain Kirk’s alive,” agreed the redhead. “I heard that they’ve been seeing each other for months already. If that’s true, it seems like a pretty quick rebound, but well…can you blame her?”

The brunette lifted one non-committal shoulder. “He’s not really my type.”

“Sure, you say that now, but if he turned that gigawatt smile on you—”

“It’s a megawatt smile at most.”

Both of them rose from the table and headed for the door, giggling as they continued to bicker over the order of magnitude that best described the power contained within Jim Kirk’s smile, not that either girl had probably ever seen that expression for themselves.

A deafening silence accompanied the ensigns’ departure. Spock didn’t recognize his own sudden, intense agitation until he swept the board he’d just assembled off the table. He stared with astonishment first at the mess of pieces strewn across the floor, then at his offending arm, which trembled beneath his gaze.

It is not logical to envy, he reminded himself even as he wondered if that was the sensation he was experiencing.

Christine Chapel was almost nothing to Spock—maybe not even a friend. When had they ever had a real conversation? He wasn’t available, in human parlance, even if he had the time or inclination to pursue an intimate relationship. If Christine wanted companionship and comfort in the wake of losing her own fiance, she had no reason to seek those things in him. Jim, on the other hand, was an obvious choice. Was it possible that their experience on Exo III had forged a bond between them that had grown into something more?

Even if such a thing had occurred completely unbeknownst to Spock, he wondered further: their mission was still young, had he ever seen Jim carry on a romance with a crew member? Not even with Miss Rand…

“Enough. Enough!” he muttered as he knelt down to collect the scattered chessmen. It was just some talk. There was no empirical evidence that the captain was spending time with Nurse Chapel in any capacity, and he had no reason to be jealous of such a relationship if it did exist. Such a reaction was utterly irrational. It was below him. Jim was his friend, Christine his colleague.

Ordering a cup of spice tea from the food synthesizer, Spock settled back into his seat to wait for Jim.

@multirptrash

[trans-axolotl]

hellooo & happy pride ! i have a question about psych meds/withdrawal/harm reduction if you have the space for it— i’ve been on ssri’s for 14 years (!) since i was 11 years old (!) and i would looove to come off them but unfortunately i am dealing with chronic health issues (pots/mcas/eds) at the same time so i’m nervous to try and taper on my own

do you have any ideas of people/orgs i might be able to talk to about my specific situation and get some help coming off safely? or just a direction to point me in to start searching…every psychiatrist i’ve spoken to just wants to increase dose or add in another med 😭

Happy pride anon!!

I'm sorry to hear that you haven't been able to find support for changing your medication choices. It's so frustrating to feel stuck on meds that aren't what you want to be on, especially when's it been happening for years. Disclaimer as always that I am not a medical provider or psych med expert, so please do your own research and consult with trusted sources when possible!

There are some helpful resources that I want to share, and defintely just want to emphasize that before making any medication changes, it can be really helpful to do research, throughly understand the risk for your own situation, and make an in depth plan for how you want to approach your medication changes. Tapering will always be safer than just completely quitting medications, and it can be really helpful to consider how other medical issues you have will intersect with med changes. Sometimes, stopping some meds cold turkey can be life threating, so it is crucial to really do your research and understand your risks.

Even tapering meds can cause some difficult physical and mental symptoms, so it can be helpful to consider when will be the best timing, how stable other parts of your life are, what support you have from friends/family, and what will happen if symptoms escalate while you're in the process of tapering off. A lot of times, withdrawal from meds can cause some of the same symptoms that you might have originally been taking the meds for, so having a coping plan ahead of time allows you to be ready to make decisions in the moment. I think it's also important to know that tapering safely can be a really slow process, sometimes lasting months or over a year depending on your dosage, how long you've been on a med, and what your tolerance for withdrawal symptoms is.

The Harm Reduction guide to Psych meds is a really awesome resource from the Icarus project that shares a lot of tips for the process of medication change.

Mind.uk has some pretty good basic info about medications that can be helpful for understanding side effects, withdrawal info, etc.

The Withdrawal Project from the Inner Compass initative is an amazing resource that collects information from patients, experts, science, anecdotal experiences, and provides information about things like safe tapering schedules, withdrawal symptoms, and things to know before tapering. They also have a forum where you can talk to other people who are tapering and get advice and support. You might also be able to get reccomendations for medical providers in your area who would be willing to help you with tapering, for example.

Wishing you the best, anon, and feel free to reach out with any other questions!

[reginrokkr]

Recently, I've been more on the mood of discussing dynamics and do light RPing on Discord now that I have more time to talk with people, hence my lack of activity here in the writing sphere. Under cut I'll be sharing my Discord if any of you peeps would like to add me ♥︎

[umamaki]

cw: lowk red flag caleb lol, virginity loss

Caleb is pissed when you get asked out for the first time. He had deliberately warned everyone in both of your social circles to stay away from you. Not without threats of violence or death, either. So yeah, he’s pissed as fuck when you tell him. Did he have to burn the whole world down merely to keep you all to himself? To protect you from perverts and creeps?

But, unfortunate and naive, you were so damn excited for this date. He couldn’t spoil your mood. Not when you asked him which dress to wear—both of them too short for his liking—and certainly not when you asked him to zip up the back for you.

There was just something about how you looked, all dolled up and cute to see someone who wasn’t him. He can already barely control himself around you; even the thought of another man having access to you like this makes him utterly sick. “It’s just not a good idea. All guys want the same thing.”

“You’re a guy aren’t you, Caleb? So what, are you telling me you’re like that too? Hmm?” He wants to wipe the playful smile off your face. You just think everything’s some fucking game.

“He’s gonna want to kiss you. Touch you. Fuck you. Have you ever been fucked? Huh, pipsqueak?”

He thinks he went too far then, notes the way your eyes widen and lips slightly part. You shake your head, but he already knows. He knows everything about you. So when you ask if he can help you, give you some advice, he knows exactly how he will.

“So naive, let me just show you.” He smashes his lips against yours. The force would’ve sent you falling backwards had he not steadied you with his hand on the small of your back.

“This is how to kiss…” he mutters it into your mouth, not caring that your teeth are hitting each other.

“And this…” he lifts your skirt just enough so that he can pull your panties to the side and slide his fingers along your puffy folds. “This is how it feels to be fingered.”

“Ah—Caleb!” You squeal when he fully plunges his finger in deeper than your own fingers ever could. He adds another, and soon the room is filled with your moans and the lewd squelch of his fingers thrusting in and out of your soaked pussy.

His lips are back on yours, and this time his tongue is shoved inside your mouth, claiming it. He goes faster when he feels your walls clench around him, and lets you grip his biceps while you come around his fingers and leave behind crescent shaped indents on his arms.

He nearly throws you on the bed, eager to yank off your underwear and free himself from his own boxers, wasting no time in aligning his tip to your still sensitive cunt.

“This is how to take it like a good fucking girl.” You try your best to relax, to be so good for him as he buries himself into you. He lets you get used to his size, going slow. Not moving until you practically beg him to, then there’s no going back. He’s brutally snapping his hips against yours and watching your tits bounce through your dress.

“Already gonna come on my cock? You really are inexperienced. Can’t even control yourself. Go on then. Fucking. Come.” With two last jerks of his hips, your climax washes over you and he tries so fucking hard to delay his own orgasm. He begins to pull out but your legs lock him in place. He cums on the spot—still inside you.

“Don’t care that I ruined your dress? How you gonna go on your date now, baby?”

“Hm. Guess I have to cancel,” you say, faux disappointment coating your words.

He pauses. “There was no date.”

“There was no date.” You confirm, wearing that same stupid grin from before. Luckily your schedule is free, because he has a hell of a punishment waiting for you after that.

[valiasims]

Cozy Cabin Collection - Bedroom

Hey everyone!

The final part of the Cozy Cabin Collection is here! It is a bedroom set and includes a modular closet with items to fill them up with.

I'm a little sad to say goodbye this cabin theme because I gained a lot of followers through the time I was making these sets and I also learned a lot of new skills and techniques. When I came up with the idea of a large collection to guide us through autumn and winter, I hadn’t expected it to become so significant in terms of sentimental value. I was always thinking about the next idea to bring to life and living in a cabin in my mind. Despite this being a sad moment, I’m so excited for what’s next! I’ll be creating a set for a commercial lot, and I’ve had this idea for about a month and a half. After seeing what the next expansion pack will be, I’m even more excited because I think it will complement it well.

A bit more about this set: It started as a bedroom set but somehow turned into a closet set with bedroom items. At first, I only wanted to add two closet pieces with the door, but I figured it would be more versatile (and not too much extra work) if I included the corner piece as well. A little info on how the door works: You can slot the door onto the closet pieces, with three slots available on each piece. It only makes sense to use the side slots if you have two or more pieces placed next to each other. I added multiple slots for hanging clothes so you can use the in-game clothes (or other CC ones) that are grouped together, but also place individual items without using the TOOL mod.

The wicker basket, folded sweaters and the hat box are stackable.

For the curtains, I made a curtain rod that, for some godforsaken reason, looks completely different in-game than the rod on the curtain items themselves, despite them having the same texture and everything. This was the reason I couldn't include them in the last set—I just couldn’t get them right no matter how hard I tried. I even checked out other CC that does the same thing by separating the rod, and they all had the same problem. Somehow, the lighting on them looks different, and I couldn’t find a solution. So sorry for this issue but hopefully it's not too noticable.

I think that’s all! I’m really grateful for all of you being here—thank you, and I hope you’ll like this set as well. Let me know if you have any issues, and feel free to leave your thoughts below so I can see what you like and what you don’t.

The Set Includes

Wooden Bedframe

Bed Mattress

Decorative Pillows

End Table

End Table Lamp

Wooden Bench

Closet (3 types+corner)

Closet Door

Hanging Elegant Coat

Hanging Jacket

Hanging Puffer Jacket

Hanging Tops

Wicker Basket

Designer Hat

Fluffy Hat

Folded Sweaters

Decorative Footwear (3 styles)

Hat Box

Makeup Bag

Curtain Rod

Closed Curtain (3 heights)

Opened Curtain (3 heights)

Antler Wall Lamp

-DOWNLOAD HERE- Public release on the 15th of March 6PM CST

[kisssukuna33]

HusbandSukuna! Who's never been the one to understand today's relationships. 50/50? No, his woman will never touch a single bill with her delicate fingers as long as he's alive and well.

HusbandSukuna! Who never understood the whole "giving your relationship time before proposing" thing. You aren't a real man if you drag out your relationship and take what you have for granted, Atleast that must have been what he was thinking when he put a big rock on your finger after dating for only 7 months.

HusbandSukuna! Who takes his role as your fiancé VERY seriously. He asked you to move in with him just right after he proposed. He does everything he can to make sure you feel comfortable in his house. He even went as far to renovate half of the house to your liking despite your much protesting that it's not needed.

HusbandSukuna! Who checks everyday to see if you are wearing the ring he put on you. it almost become a habbit for him to kiss the ring in your finger every single morning. Not just in the morning, whenever you two hangout in the public he intentionally kisses it to give other people the signal that his girl is strictly taken.

HusbandSukuna! Who wants to get married as soon as possible but he respect your time and choices. He doesn't want you to get overwhelmed by this at all, so he waits patiently ( had to restraint himself from asking like 5 times)

HusbandSukuna! Who gets so freaking happy when you finally confront him about being ready for marriage. The moment those words slip from your mouth his hands instantly go to your waist to pull you closer, closer till your foreheads are touching, He places a warm kiss on your temple and the next thing you hear makes your heart warm and fuzzy.

"You are the best thing that ever happened to me, I promise to be the best husband and I swear on my life I will take care of you and protect you till I die, I love you"

HusbandSukuna! Who jumps straight into the wedding planning. He hears from his married friends how stressful wedding planning was to them and he determines to not make you experience any bit of the stress, He tries everything in his power to make things go smooth as possible.

HusbandSukuna! Who breakdown in tears the moment he saw you walking the aisle to everyone's shock. The grumpy tatted 6'4 scary big guy who has given them nothing but attitude crying over seeing the love of his life walking down aisle? Who would have thought.

HusbandSukuna! Who immediately intertwine your fingers with his as he looks into your eyes like he sees nothing but the whole world in them and wait no minute to whisper "The prettiest, mine"

HusbandSukuna! who finally breaks free from his staring as the wedding officiant clears his throat to let him know that there's a whole wedding left to finish.

Everyone expect him to do a short vow and get done with it. Sukuna isn't known as the most expressive guy after all, but to everyone's surprise the vow lasted whole 15 minutes!! It was filled with nothing but love and appreciation for you and the little grin plastered in his mouth at the end of the vow makes it obvious how proud he was of himself ( I mean practicing this costed him a years worth friend too, after he suggested Sukuna to add some dirty degrading sex joke about you in the vows he ended up punching the guy as a result, so hell yeah he's proud of this!)

HusbandSukuna! Who keeps the honeymoon destination as a surprise till last minute, and your heart fills with joy as you realize he took you back to the beach you two first met, a place special to you both.

He booked the hotel room with the best view to the beach as expected.

HusbandSukuna! Who's heart feel warm all of a sudden, it's only a year ago he believed himself to be someone who's unable to be loved. Oh how much have changed since then.

HusbandSukuna! Who takes your hand and drags you to the balcony for a dance.

The smell of the beach, evening lightening, sounds of the ocean..All adds to the atmosphere as you two get lost in yourselves.

HusbandSukuna! Who takes a glance at the beach and sees a young family, not much older than both of you playing in the sand with their little girl.

HusbandSukuna! Who has a small smile tugged at his lips as he mentally promises to himself that he will return here again after you two finally complete your own little family.

No grammar checks, forgive me I'm too lazy

What do we think about part 2?

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ 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?

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!

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