#add chosen somewhere in here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

notiddygothgf · 2 months ago

Text

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

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

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

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

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

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

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

It didn’t always feel that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was 10:18 PM.

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

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

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

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

But tonight… you couldn’t.

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

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

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

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

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

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

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room went still.

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

“So am I.”

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

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

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

Not working?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was probably right.

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

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

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

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

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

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

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

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

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

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

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

He froze.

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

But you didn’t.

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

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

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

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

YOU

| Guys we’re going out tn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, a year ago, your life changed.

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

Dante.

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

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kill me, you thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced down.

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

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

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

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

All you could do was crack the window open.

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

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

But he was.

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

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

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

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

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

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

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

What the fuck is going on?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

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

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

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

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

A pregnant pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

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

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

No. Stop that.

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

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

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

That hit its mark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

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

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

You didn’t have to look up.

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

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

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my god.

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

He laughed. “You remembered.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? You needed it.

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

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

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

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pulled the door open.

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

“Hey, princess,” he said.

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

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

The door clicked shut behind you.

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

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

“Did you?” You answered.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

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

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

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

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

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

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

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

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

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

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

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

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

Then he stepped in behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I missed this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There it was.

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

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

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

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

And then, he was gone.

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

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

I could treat you so much better.

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Babe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t help it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were leaving him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

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

I could treat you better.

I’ve always been in love with you.

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

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

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

YOU: I need you.

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

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

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

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

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

wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

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

2K notes · View notes

bunnis-monsters · 10 months ago

Text

Bee Hybrid Lore Pt 1

What do the bee hybrids look like?

I’ve had quite a few asks about this and I’m here to explain!

Firstly, with each new queen, the bee hive becomes more diverse and each new generation of bee hybrids looks different. So one generation may look wildly different than the other, while some may look relatively similar with little differences.

For the base bee hybrid that has only had bee queens; they have a somewhat human shape. Their eyes are big and bug like, their mouths always in a smile. They are colored yellow and black, and are fuzzy all over. Some have human like hands and some don’t!

They are usually more bee like than human, and some cannot communicate unless they send pheromone signals to their queen, so they can’t speak. But, they are still a human and bee hybrid, just more bee like. I’d say these are what a hive usually starts with, and it evolves from there.

The bee hybrids you reign over are very diverse! This is usually preferred in a hive, since there is only one female the males are expected to be diverse and provide quality eggs for the queen.

Your bees look a bit more human, most of them have hands and lips, can speak and know bits and pieces about human culture. Some are intelligent while others are your dumb little babies!

Saying this, bees vary in size. Some are as tall as 10 feet(possibly crossed with a giant mother) while others can only grow as tall as your waist. It all depends on who mothered them and which give they’re from.

There’s often trades with other hives for some of the queen’s best children to come and mate with other queens and join the hive. That’s how each hive has so many different types of bee hybrids!

Though, there are some hives that are strictly the base bee hybrid, and those hives are usually run by corrupt queens that refuse to trade their sons or take in any new males to add to the gene pool. This usually results in the eventually death of the hive, because new generations will inbreed with the queen and become unable to produce with honey due to deformities.

So the short answer is they can look a variety of different ways, so use your imagination!

What are some kinks they have?

Most of the bee hybrids are into breeding, lactation, sharing, and praise(giving and receiving).

They’re mostly into pleasuring their queen, and although they enjoy working, they’d rather be between your legs making your eyes blurry with pleasure at all times of the day.

You are their first human queen, so getting to explore your body and find out what makes you tick is very pleasurable for them!

What are they like?

Like with appearances, every generation of bee hybrids is different, but I’ll lost some common traits between them.

Every bee hybrid is extremely loyal and protective of their queen. For some maybe that’s their original queen, or maybe their mother or the one that’s taken over the hive and treated them well. Whoever they choose to be their queen, they will die for them.

Though some bee hybrids are extremely intelligent, a lot of the masses are a little dumb. Not stupid or anything, but not too bright either. They don’t understand some things from the human world and struggle with problem solving, so the more intelligent bee hybrids usually guide the rest while the others so easy repetitive tasks like collecting and making honey.

All bees have a big sweet tooth and can be persuaded into doing things for others if given something sweet to keep for themself in return.

The first person they protect is the queen, and the second are any of her eggs/hatchlings. They are fiercely protective of the queens young and will gather them up and flee after the queen has been taken somewhere safe during a dangerous situation.

Roles in the hive

Queen: this is the female that they have chosen to be queen. The queen can be of any species as long as she can incubate their eggs. She is seen as the top of the hive and if she dies, the hive will either die out or be in grave danger. Usually, queens try to have good relationships with at least one other hive so in the case of her death, her hive can merge with the other, thus saving her children and subjects. Many will die off due to depression and starvation because they are loyal to their queen and would rather die than be without her, but the ones that survive will be taken care of by the sister hive.

Princes: these are the sons of the queen. Some are traded/married off to other queens for diplomatic reasons. Since there is only one female per hive(the queen), more males are needed to help make the hive more diverse and to make sure no inbreeding happens. They are usually loyal only to their mother, and sometimes act as spies or assassins if need be. There have been cases where princes have fallen and love with their new queen and abandoned their mother, but it’s rare.

Princesses: these are the daughters of the queen. They are raised until they are old enough to leave the hive, then are sent out to start hives of their own. About 1 in 100 eggs will hatch a female, so the female children are both celebrated and feared. They are usually loyal to their mother as well, but will take care of their own hive and put their subjects first.

King: this is the queen’s official mate, who will provide more of her eggs than most. He is the one that stays close by her side, but the king has no power without the queen. If he crosses her, his status is gone and he may even be kicked from the hive or executed. The queen is not required to take on a mate, but most do.

Workers: these are the majority of the bees. They do the most important jobs in the hive and keep everything working. They protect the hive, attend to the queen, forage for food and water, build the comb, and so much more! They run the hive and make sure the queen is always happy.

Drones: if the queen does not have a king, their job is to be there to mate with her and fill her with eggs as much as possible! All the bee hybrids get a turn, but they’re the ones that fuck her and keep her belly nice and swollen. If the queen has a king, they’ll not fuck her as often, but their purpose is to mate with the queen, so that’s what they’ll do when the king isn’t able to completely fill her.

Baby bees: their job is to be cute and grow big and strong so they can take over the hive one day!

Typical day in the hive

In the morning, the queen is woken up by her attendants, stretched out with their fingers before whoever is next in line gets their turn to fill her with eggs.

While the queen is being mated, bees that are not getting their turn start to leave the hive to forage.

After being filled with eggs, the queen is bathed and fed honey, then given her breakfast. She’s taken to the nursery to attend to the baby bees and gets to choose what to do with her time until lunch.

Some days she has lunch with other hives and visits her sons, other days she walks around the hive and listens to the complaints and suggestions from some bee hybrids, and is often touched and felt up by her subjects.

Then she is mated again, usually the bee hybrids are unable to hold themselves back from mounting their queen when she’s just so pretty!

After that, she is given dinner and put to bed.

When she’s more heavily pregnant, she skips all of this and retires to her room after lunch and is pampered. They massage her, feed her, and just coo over her swollen belly.

Then she’s put to sleep, and the cycle continues the next day.

Want to know more? Send me asks and I’ll explain more bee hybrid lore!

2K notes · View notes

greenplumbboblover · 7 months ago

Text

[Download] Lyralei's Pose Addon (Early Release)

It's finally here! 🎉 An successor to Virtual Artisan’s incredible Pose Addon!

VA’s Pose Addon has always been an essential part of my game, but it’s no secret that it had a few quirks and issues. While fixing those, I couldn’t resist adding some exciting new features to take it to the next level!

DOWNLOAD:

Simblr.CC

Requirements:

Cmomoney's Pose Box

Why Not Use Virtual Artisan's Pose Box with this mod?

This mod is an update to their original mod! Since it’s no longer available on their website, I decided to fully integrate it into this mod.

What does that mean?

This mod includes VA’s Pose Addon, so you don’t need to download it separately. Just make sure to delete the old version to avoid any glitches or conflicts! 😊

⭐ New Features:

Most things that are mine can be found under "Photo Shooting" > "Lyralei's Pose Addon".

👀Better Look at

Ever posed a sim to look at something next to them, but they do this weird "eye roll-y" and "nudging slightly to the left" type of look at?

Or maybe you simply wanted to make the eyes look somewhere and not the head?

Let's check it out:

Here we have Morgana, looking normally...

Left = Va's Pose addon - Right = Lyralei's Pose Addon.

To get started, first pose your Sim as usual! Once they’re in position, simply click "Look At..." to make it work.

Massive thanks to @thesweetsimmer111 for helping me on this!

Look at with just the eyes:

As mentioned, you can also just move certain parts of the body! In this case, the eyes!

(Left: No Look At, Middle = Looking left, Right = Looking up)

This is done with something called a "Track Mask". When selected, the only parts of the sim will move that fit the chosen trackmask.

For example: Track Mask "EyesOnly" will ONLY animate the eyes!

Blending Poses

Can't find a pose online that fits your needs, but you do have 2 poses that would totally fix that?

Not a problem anymore! With "Pose Blending" you can use a pose "base" and then overlay another pose to create your own dynamic poses!

Here are some examples!

On both cases, we have the "base" pose on the left. Then I have chosen to blend it with the pose in the middle, to get this as an end result! :)

How to:

First, pose your sim as you normally would

Go to "Photo shooting..." > "Lyralei's Pose Addon..." > "Utils..." > "Blend" > Choose whichever option you'd like to use! :)

Pick the Track Mask you'd like to apply. If you only want the upperbody to be affected, click that option.

Click/type in the pose you want to blend it with....

And tada!

Sitting/Laying poses:

Even that's possible! :) Keep in mind, though: The base pose HAS to sit/lay/etc. Otherwise, your sim will elevate!

Categorised Pose List

Frustrated because every time you want to grab a pose from your list, it takes 3455325352 years for the list to load? Well, wait no more!

Completely customizable through XML, you can now sort poses in their own respective categories!

Need a sitting pose? no problem! Just go to Lyralei's Pose Addon > Take pose From... > Common List > Sitting, and there you have all your sitting poses! :)

Can I customise this list myself?

Of course! I wrote a How-To here: Click me!

🕰️ Show History

The Add-on remembers your pose history!

Whether you’re a dedicated “Pose by Name” user or prefer the simplicity of “Show by List”, both options now display your pose history for quick reference.

Note: Each Sim has their own individual history list. This means you’ll only see the pose history for Sim X when clicking on them, and not for Sim Y.

What did I fix for Virtual Artisan's Pose Addon?

I've made sure to keep everything as it used to (and if I made a replacement for it, it's now labeled with "[LEGACY]" at the beginning of the interaction).

But, of course there were some bugs that came with it.

Changelist:

There is now an interaction that uses both look at & reaction simultaneously. (In case you don't want to use my look at interaction).

Fixed an issue where reactions would sometimes or never show on the sim.

Fixed an issue where sims didn't always want to look at the item.

Fixed an issue where certain poses get called twice, making it harder to keep reactions or even look at history data.

Optimised the code here and there.

Most interactions will now continue on posing your sim if you exited out of the interaction, rather than resetting it. (this counts for "Change Expression" and "Look At").

DOWNLOAD:

Simblr.CC

#ts3 #the sims 3 #the sims #sims 3 #sims #sims 3 cc #ts3 cc #ts3cc #sims3cc #sims 3 shopping #sims 3 poses #sims 3 story #ts3 script mod #sims 3 script #sims 3 script mod #sims 3 mod #ts3 mod #ts3 mods #sims 3 mods

776 notes · View notes

dinogoofymutated · 9 months ago

Text

NSFW! Gambit/Fem!AFAB!reader SECOND FIC OF HALLOWEEN CELEBRATION LEHHHGOOO!!! I really hope you guys like this one, as I had a lot of fun writing it! Sorry if the smut at the end is a little barebones, I was running out of steam lol. Here's your meal my hellions!

A bat flies through your window one night, and although you're dreadfully afraid of rabies and scared to touch the little thing, it's in really bad shape and you can't stand by and just let it die. You spend the next few days nursing the little guy back to health, when one day he up and disappears. The next night you go out with your friends, and feel like you keep seeing a familiar pair of eyes in the crowd.

TWs: MDNI!!!!!! Smut, Mirror sex, bitchy neighbors, alcohol consumption, semi-public sex. vampire stuff, only half of this has been beta-read. I'll add more if I think of any.

The bat hadn’t struggled once when you scooped it up into a spare shoebox. It didn’t scramble away, or even flinch, really. It hadn’t made a single sound or squeak, either. All it did was look up at you with strange, tired eyes. Black scelera, red iris, black pupils- paired with an exhausted haze. He was cut up, battered, and beaten. If it weren’t for how compliant it was, you might have thought the thing was feral. Which didn’t exactly help your shaking hands or constant flinching as you used the lid to urge it into the cardboard. But your fear be damned, you couldn’t just leave the little guy on the doorsteps of your apartment- the thought of the bat being crushed by clumsy feet, or poked and prodded by the little hellions that were the children who lived here was more than enough to give you the push you needed.

Besides, it was almost… cute, for something you thought was so scary. A little vampire bat with those strange eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went. He never failed to perk up every time you came home from work. Despite the many struggles and attempts you had trying to find something he could eat, he never seemed to hold it against you. Happy to see you when you took the lid off the shoebox to check in on him, and not too upset with you when you inevitably had to put it back on.

Well, before he escaped, that is.

You knew you were going to have to let him go at some point. You were just trying to do the right thing and reach out to a wildlife rescue, or something. Hoping that they’d do something more to help him before he was set back off into the wild. But one day you came home and he was just, well, gone. The lid of the shoebox had been tossed aside, the box itself a little squished and damaged, the bat nowhere to be found. You searched your apartment for absolute ages, unable to find any trace of his existence or escape aside from a window you were sure you had locked before you left for work that afternoon.

You sigh as you look out the window of the Uber, thoughts drawn back to the bat as you pass billboards and cornfields, hoping he had escaped the city and found himself somewhere a bit safer. Ashley and Sophie, your neighbors from across the hall, are giggling about something in the seats next to you. The chatty girls are more like acquaintances than they are your friends, but on the surface, they seem sweet. When they invited you out tonight you had been surprised, if a little hesitant. You had wrestled with your anxiety every step of the way, but once you were strapped into the sexiest costume you could find and buckled into the almost-too-small backseat of the Uber, you had started to feel a little excited- despite the fact that you stood out like a sore thumb, with the girls having chosen matching costumes at the last minute and left you out of the loop.

“I think we should hit the corn maze first,” Ashley says confidently from the seat next to you. It’s enough to finally clue you back into their current conversation, debating on where the night should start once you get to the Halloween festival. -It’s an “adult only” event, with more than its fair share of alcohol and more than a few scare actors who linger around to give everyone a fright- and there’s a lot to do. It’s almost like the fair, just, you know, spooky.

“What? No! I’m telling you, it’s not a good enough photo-op until the moon comes out. We need to do it last!” Sophie sounds adamant, and you wonder how many times they've actually had this conversation leading up to tonight. You try not to snicker as Ashley rolls her eyes, Sophie pouting across the way. They bicker a bit more before Ashley turns to you, smiling slyly. There’s an unnerving way about the way she’s looking at you, something ticking in the back of your brain that you just can’t shake.

“What do you think?” She asks you, Sophie leaning over to stare at you directly, Puppy eyes full-throttle as she pouts. You don’t really want to be caught between the spat of theirs, so you take a moment to think, before shrugging with your answer.

“I think we should start with drinks.” You say after a moment, and both girls gasp in excitement.

“Girlie you are so smart!! I knew we invited you for a reason!” Ashley’s high-pitched voice cheers harshly in your ears as she lightly slaps your arm, but you smile at her anyway, despite the fact that her tone made it feel rather belittling. It’s fine. This is fine, it will be fine. Your anxiety feels like a ticking time bomb, but you know that when you get there and start having fun, it will eventually fade into the background of the noise and lights of the festival. At least, you hoped it would.

The festival is pretty packed when you get there, but the wide walkways and plentiful games, areas, and events make it more approachable. After the first watery drink of the night, you start to relax a little. And as bitchy and frigid as the girls can be sometimes, they’re a lot of fun when it comes to a party! Carnival games, photo areas, rides, and jumpscares? You find yourself laughing most of the night as the three of you goof off and stumble your way through the corn maze, clown maze, haunted maze- a little repetitive in that area, but fun nonetheless.

The funny thing was, despite all the people here, and everyone the girls have stopped to flirt with and talk to, you keep seeing this one particular guy. He was certainly one to stand out in a crowd, tall, dark, and handsome with what looked like a permanent smirk on his face. But the one thing you couldn’t seem to shake was his eyes. They had to be contacts, right? Black Scelera, red irises, black pupils… just, strange. And familiar, somehow. You feel like you see him everywhere you go, somehow always in your vicinity, but not really in a stalkerish kind of way. Besides, it was more than likely just a coincidence.

After a while of playing various games and a couple more watery drinks, you’re feeling pretty warm and a little crowded. Ashley and Sophie had run into some acquaintances they knew and had stopped to chat for a bit. They talk about some of the more busy and exciting things you haven't been able to check out yet, but the longer you stand there, the less appealing all of this starts to sound. You’re beginning to feel a little overstimulated, and go ahead and let the girls know you’d rather sit this one out. Sophie doesn’t answer you at all, and all Ashley does is wave you off. It sparks some annoyance in your chest, but knowing that you’re overwhelmed and everything feels like it's at 100% right now- you shrug it off.

You find a bale of hay to sit on where you told them you’d wait, relieved at the feeling of the cool night air that’s uninterrupted by masses of warm bodies and hot breathing. The sound of the crowd is a little muffled over here, and the slight breeze just gives you everything you need for a quick break from the chaos, eyes closed as you lean back onto your hands. Not for long though, as someone plops down onto the space next to you pretty much immediately.

“Busy night, ay, cher?” Your eyes flick open quickly, and the source of that thick Cajun draw just so happens to be the handsome man you had been seeing all night. You blush a little, both out of nervousness and from the fact that he was even more attractive up close. The cool air suddenly feels sweltering with his eys on you like this.

“...yeah, I guess so.” You say after a moment, pressing a cool palm against one of your hot cheeks for a quick moment. The stranger chuckles at you, a flash of a fake fang appearing with his smile.

“Name’s Remy, Remy LeBeau.” He holds his hand out for a handshake, which you take with a smile. “Pretty girl like you gotta name?” You can’t help but giggle a little, and tell him your name, butterflies in your stomach with the way he’s looking at you.

“Nice to meet you, officially.” You say, and he cocks an eyebrow at you with that signature smirk of his. “I mean- like, I feel like I’ve been seeing you everywhere tonight! Not in a creepy way or anything, I just…” You take your hand back from him, covering your face in embarrassment as you apologize again with a sigh. God, why were you so awkward? You drop your hands into your lap as Remy begins to laugh, with you blushing furiously in a way you pray you can blame on the alcohol.

“ s’ good to know I make a lasting impression,” Remy says, and it’s charming enough to make you crack another smile.

“I promise I’m not normally this strange. It’s been a bit of a night.” The words come out like a sigh, and you glance over where the “stressors” of the night had run off to, strangely thankful when you can't see them through the crowd. You feel like your heart skips a beat when you look back over at Remy, with a smile on his face and a fondness in his eyes you feel like might be a little too friendly for someone you just met.

“I don’t mind, Cher. You’ll find that I like strange.” He replies, sending you a wink. You let out a short laugh, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“You know what? I believe you.” You say, all Remy does is smile wider. You glance at him again, looking at him from head to toe as you take in his appearance up close. You can’t really tell if he’s wearing a costume, or if he had just stuck on some vampire teeth and called it a night. Either way, he looks good, and you really do not want to make a further fool of yourself.

“What led you here, anyway? Costume catch your eye?” You flirt, hoping you don’t come off as nervous as you are- not really one to flirt with handsome strangers. But hey! When the opportunity presents itself… Remy raises his eyebrows, interested.

“Sure, Somethin' like that.”

You and Remy talk for a really, really long time. From the outside looking in, just about anyone would presume you were a couple with the easy-flowing conversation and back-and-forth flirting. You just clicked! It was so easy for your nerves to wash away, and for a long moment, all of your anxieties about the night were long forgotten. One of the two of you had scooted closer in the duration of your flirt-fest, not that you really noticed while caught up in his words and charismatic smile- your sides being pressed together and his hand resting behind you. He’s close enough to lean in and kiss you, and honestly, you certainly wouldn’t mind if he did.

“So you want my number then?” The words are admittedly cocky, but damn did this guy make you feel so confident in your own skin.

“You hear me say I didn’t?” Remy replies, cocking his head at you. You can't help but laugh, smiling like some cheesy idiot.

“Do you flirt like this with every girl?”

“Jus’ the ones I like.”

You really hadn’t noticed how long the two of you had been sitting together, an hour? Maybe an hour and a half? Your phone had been long forgotten, and you weren’t really planning to check it either until you heard a giddy squeal from your right. Both you and Remy look over to the noise, only to see the girls, without their clique from before and presumably done with all of their roaming at the moment.

“Hey girlie! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Ashley says, drawing you into an awkward side hug that you don’t return, confused.

“I told you where I’d be?” She brushes you off, locking eyes with Remy for just long enough for her eyebrows to raise and a glint to light up in her eyes.

“Who’s this?” You don’t have time to answer before Sophie is in front of you, taking your hands and dragging you to your feet.

“Come get food with us!! We need an excuse to sober up, and we’re not doing it without you, bestie!” Both of them are being a little more friendly than normal, and it's enough to make you a little suspicious. But, food did sound pretty nice at the moment. You look back at Remy with a sheepish smile, and you find that he’s already looking at you.

“ S’ alright, Cher. I’m a patient man.” He gives you a reassuring smile, and you relax a little more, unable to keep yourself from smiling as butterflies light up in your stomach. The girls drag you away pretty much immediately, talking about some afterparty or whatnot, but all you can think of the entire time is the implications of that statement.

“Where’d you find a man like that?” Sophie’s voice finally catches your attention while in line for the carnival food, and you give her a questioning look.

“Sorry?” You ask, and both of them giggle in that way that just seems to set alarms off in your head.

“I’m serious! Almost every guy we’ve seen tonight has been like, a seven. That one is literally a ten.” Sophie giggles again, sending Ashley a knowing look. You blush a little, thinking about Remy again, but there’s just something about this conversation that’s making you uncomfortable.

“Well, I didn’t exactly find him. He approached me.” You admit, shrugging your shoulders. The girls exchange skeptical looks, before laughing again.

“Really?” Ashley asks this time, a wolfish smile on her face. It’s rhetorical- and feels just plain bitchy. Your face screws up, and you think about confronting her, but they quickly and ignorantly delve into a separate conversation, and you reluctantly decide to let it go. What the fuck was up with them? You don’t fall into conversation with them for a minute as you try to collect yourself, knowing you’d rather ride home with them than pay for a separate Uber. And starting a fight was definitely not going to work in your favor, seeing as they were your neighbors. They had a pack mentality like no other, and after tonight you’d much rather be able to ignore them forever instead of having a neiborly feud.

Eventually, you do decide to join the conversation. The line for food was ridiculously fucking long, and although it was moving, you still felt so impatient. Your phone is dying, and you’d really rather save your battery for Remy’s number and the ride home- so you talk and hope for the best. Eventually, Ashley says she needs to go to the bathroom and hands her wallet to Sophie before she stalks off. She’s gone for a while. A really long while. As you’re finally inching your way to the end of the line, Sophie tells you she’s going to find her. You actually welcome the peace and quiet, and promise to hold the spot. 4th in line. 3rd. 2nd. You’re starting to get anxious by the fact that neither of them had returned, but you get to the end and they’re still not back.

You buy a funnel cake for yourself, almost worried about the two as you walk back to the hay bale where you left Remy. The crowd finally starts to clear a bit, and when the Hay bale is finally in sight, you actually assume that you were looking at the wrong spot for a minute- until you recognize the costumes, and then spot the brunette they are both latched onto.

Ashley is in his space, her costume unzipped just enough for anyone walking past to get a view. Sophie is leaning across his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair and twirling the ends with manicured fingers You can’t see his face- but it didn’t really matter anyway.

You don’t mean to drop the funnel cake, but you do. There's a shot of ice through your veins when it clicks for you, finally, as you watch them from a distance- it was a ploy. A stupid fucking ploy. You were the ugly friend- If they could even call you that. You were invited to make them look better. The matching costumes, the conspiring looks, the whole thing about Remy. Jesus Christ, had you always been this blind? Your face is warm with humiliation, eyes watering as you desperately try not to cry.

Remy had nothing to do with it- of course, he didn’t, you just met him, but as you look at the two draped over him… You just feel like you can’t really compare. You know better. You do- but god, did it hurt. You don’t want to go over there for them to make fun of you again, and you sure as hell don’t want to feel the sting of rejection that will inevitably come when he ditches you for them. Before you know it, your feet are moving. You’re not thinking clearly- hardly thinking at all. You see a side entrance, or maybe a fire exit, not that you really care. You can’t read anything through your tears, closing the door behind you and plugging yourself into darkness as it clicks shut.

Inside, you find a mirror maze- again, what was with all of the fucking mazes? The overhead lights are off, what little light that’s coming from the outside dimly reflecting through each and every silvery mirror. It’s completely abandoned, with not a single soul in sight. You step over some shattered glass as you make your way further into the maze, and understand it was probably because drunks and mirrors don’t mix.

You find a dead end in the maze, and it’s like your legs give out. You can't help but just sit on the ground and sob for a minute. The backs of your hands are stained with the mascara that you’re sure is streaking down your face. You feel like an idiot- stupid, dramatic, pathetic. And you looked it, too. Every mirror reflects the mess of what you have become until you can’t stand to look at yourself anymore, pulling your knees to your chest and tucking your head into your arms.

It's a quiet reprieve. You sit for a minute, long after your tears have dried. Your breathing begins to return to normal as the humiliation really starts to settle in. You’re so tired, and exhausted, and find yourself wishing you had never come out tonight at all, visioning your comfy bed that waits for you at home.

“The one an’ only,” He replies. It’s hard to see him in the low lighting, but it’s not like you’re looking around much anyway. There’s a silence between you two, and your gaze is locked on the floor, refusing to look at him with your stupid pout and tear-stained face.

“Pauvre ti bête. Looks like you need new friends, Cher.” The sound of the voice makes you flinch, the daylight scared out of you as a dark figure sits down by your side.

“Remy?” You wipe at your face again, knowing it was to no avail, and that the damage to your makeup had already been done.

“Sat for a while, waitin’ on you.” He says, after a long moment, and it makes you feel so much fucking worse. You curl into yourself a little more.

“Sorry, I just… I dunno, I thought you looked busy.” The words are more of a whisper than anything, and he chuffs something that’s not quite a laugh in response.

“I guess you could say that.” He hums, leaning back on his hands as you finally turn to look at him. “Hadda swat those girls like damn mosquitos to get 'em off. Felt like they were tryna swallow me whole.” You can’t help but laugh at that, rubbing your eyes a bit.

“...Trust me, they were probably trying to swallow something.” The words are out of your mouth before your brain can really catch up. Remy laughs a full laugh, smiling brightly at you now that you’ve started to come back out of your shell once again.

“Sorry, that was crude.”

“Sounded pretty funny to me,” Remy’s grin is contagious, not that you ever would complain. You roll your eyes at him with that big smile on your face, leaning your head against the mirror behind you.

“I guess I can’t really blame them, either.” You mumble, eyes going wide once you realize that that was most definitely not supposed to leave your lips. “God damn, I really have lost my filter!” Remy begins to laugh again as you cover your face, flushed with embarrassment. He doesn’t seem to mind the comment at all. Pulling your hands away as he struggles to contain his laughter.

“I like you, y’know that?” He says, and it makes you smile. You sit in comfortable silence for a bit, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning on his shoulder, eyes closed. Your thoughts slowly begin to wander. Remy’s very sweet, and the fact that he still came looking for you despite everything… It meant a lot. You can only imagine how uncomfortable he had been with Ashley and Sophie hanging off of him, waiting, wondering where you had gone. If he notices as your smile slowly becomes a frown, he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry I left you out there.” You say quietly, breaking the silence that had become so uncomfortable for you. “I hadn’t realized they invited me to be the “ugly” friend until right then and I just needed to get away from it all.” There’s a featherlight brush of skin against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, Remy pushes a few strands of hair out of your face, thumb lingering against your skin. You find yourself caught up in his piercing gaze. It’s almost like he’s looking into your soul.

“Pretty dumb choice to invite you if they were looking for an ugly friend.” His voice is low, and his cool hand feels nice against your flushed skin. You can’t drag your eyes away from his, gazes locked together as the tension only grows- thick enough to cut with a knife and choke you as you breathe it in. It’s he who breaks the eye contact first, stunning red irises flickering down to your lips and back up again.

“Really,” You ask, but it’s less of a question and more like a filler, mind unable to provide anything other than that. You’re caught up in that little action of his, swallowing, unable to look away from him. Suddenly, you realize just how close he really is.

“Mais oui,” He mumbles, close enough for you to feel the slight breath that comes with the words. His thumb and finger prop up your chin, but he moves no closer, waiting for you. It’s hardly a debate for you to decide to brush your lips against his own.

It’s like fireworks explode behind your eyelids when the space between you closes, his lips melding against you perfectly. It’s soft and sweet. Gentle for a man as much of a flirt as he appeared to be. He kisses you a few times, just like that, until the kiss starts to develop into something a little more heated. He turns to face you a little better, the sharp fangs in his mouth grazing your bottom lip as he leans over you and licks at the seam of your lips- which you eagerly open for him. Fuck, he was a good kisser.

Before long, you’re leaning back on your palms, and one of Remy’s knees presses between your thighs. Your elbows buckle just a little, and he’s quick to catch you. One of his hands is on the small of your back as he keeps you propped up, the other one flat against the floor as he keeps both of you from falling. He nips at your lip- the tip of his canine just barely splitting the skin before he kisses away your yelp, licking the blood away just as quickly as it had appeared. As embarrassing as it was, the action alone was enough to get the attention of heat slowly building in your abdomen. His kisses trail from your lips down to your neck, kissing the sensitive skin there.

Your eyes slowly open, half-lidded as you weave your fingers through his hair, tongue softly licking at the stinging soreness of that bottom lip of yours. He’s not as aggressive with the rest of you, kissing and sucking dark spots into you as the sharp canines only drag and graze. Your eyes wander to a mirror across from you- one just barely lit from what you were sure was a hole in the roof- the full moon lining up just perfectly enough to light the mirrored room.

It takes a second for you to recognize what you see in the mirror.

You see yourself. Just yourself, leaned over as if you were hovering, neck exposed with purple marks blooming mysteriously across your skin. It’s you. Just you. Only you.

A gasp is ripped out of your throat, and if the way your spine goes rigid wasn’t enough to alert Remy, it was the fast, pounding beat of your heart. Your eyes are glued to that image reflected in the mirror, even as Remy removes himself from your neck and finds himself staring at that same image. He stiffens, an unreadable look on his face before he recovers with an amused hum.

“Well, Don’t we make a lovely couple?” He muses. And when you finally look back at him, his strange eyes and sharp fangs, you realize exactly what he is. A wave of familiarity washes over you again, but you can’t place it as the horror begins to wash over you.

“Oh my god.” You breathe, almost stuck in disbelief. This could not be real, could it? That smirk of his makes yet another appearance, and yet something feels off about it. Deceptive, almost. It does not reach his eyes.

“What, you afraid?” He asks with a chuckle. You wonder for a moment about the situation you had put yourself into, held in the arms of what could only be a vampire. All you can do is look at him, wide-eyed. If stories were to be believed, he’d be caging you in his arms, holding you in an iron grip before he strikes- bleeding you dry without care…

But he’s not. Yes, he was holding you up, but the arm around you is loose. His body language is open- and you get the feeling that if you tried to make a run for it, he’d let you. He’s not vicious. He’s not snapping at you or pinning you down. Hell, he had the chance to bite you earlier while you were pliant and eager, and he didn’t.

“...I don’t actually know, right now.” You finally respond, and something shifts. His breath catches in his throat, and the barest glimpse of vulnerability is gone within a second as he leans back a little, giving you a chance to sit up a bit more. You do so hesitantly.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Cher. Just wanted to give you a proper thank you.” He rumbles. He takes one of your hands, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss to your knuckles, gaze never leaving your own. Black, red, black. Where had you seen that before?

“Proper… what?” You furrow your eyebrows, trying your damndest to make sense of it all. Black, red, black. Black, red, black. Sharp teeth. Vampires, bats, Vampire bats. Vampire bat. Vampire bat. For the second time tonight, it all clicks for you.

“Holy shit. You-? The bat?-” You feel like you’re at a loss for words. Remy smiles again, fangs catching the low light of the mirrored room.

“That’d be me.” He admits, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “ ‘Thought I was done for until you showed up. Most vamps like that? They don’t make it inside ‘fore the sun comes up.” He chuckles, but the seriousness of the situation is not lost on you. Saving the life of an immortal being rather than the life of a small bat is something huge, it felt like it, at least.

“Did you follow me here? Is that why I kept seeing you around tonight?” You ask. Remy simply shrugs his shoulders, letting your fingers go as he inches forward, looming over you once again.

“Think of it as more of a happy accident.” Remy sets his arms on either side of you, leaning close enough for his nose to gently brush against yours. You think he’s going to kiss you as his hand comes up to cup your chin. Instead, Remy runs his thumb across your lower lip, which you hadn’t even realized had started to bleed again. He brings the thumb to his mouth, licking the smear of blood. The sight is seductive. Arousing. You find yourself staring at his lips, conflicted. He sets his forehead against your own, hovering over your lips. There’s a heated look in his eyes when you look back up at them.

“Tell me to leave, Cher, And I’ll go.” You swallow as he says the words, a flutter in your chest and a growing warmth within you. You bite your lower lip, your hesitance quickly being overshadowed by want.

“... You're not gonna suck my blood or anything?” You ask, lips beginning to brush against his own. He chuckles, and this time he’s close enough for you to feel the sound as it rumbles through his chest.

“Not unless you want me to…” He’s teasing you now, making you chase his lips until he’s fully sure you really want this, and you do. When they finally meet, his lips press against yours just as spectacularly as they did the first time. One of his hands snakes around the back of your neck, shielding the lower part of your head as he lowers you to the floor. You find yourself lost in his kisses, thinking of only him and the way he treats you so gently.

He props himself up with one strong arm, the other cupping the side of your face rather reverently, his thumb stroking across your cheekbone. Your hands can’t help but wander up and down his torso, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt. You feel him smile against your lips as you do, kissing at the corner of your mouth, and then your jaw, before the fluttery movement traces a path over each and every discolored spot on your neck, kissing the marks he had given you not even twenty minutes earlier. Your hands come up to tangle in his hair as the kisses venture further. His cold face presses into your open cleavage, an open palm dragging up from your thigh and sliding beneath your top, softly squeezing the bare skin of your waist. You find yourself arching into his touch, eager for his soft caress.

You have goosebumps down your chest as his fangs graze the skin, his fingers hooking around the neckline of your shirt and the bra underneath it from the inside. The cool air hits your bare breasts as he tugs it down, your nipples pebbling at the frigid draft. Your breath hitches at the feeling as his lips venture down your sternum, his free hand moving out from under the fabric to palm and toy with one breast as he begins to tease the other. He chuckles at you when you let out a whine, fingers tugging on his locks.

“Have a little patience, Cher.” There’s a seductive lure to his voice as Remy tells you to have a little faith in him, pressing one last kiss to the swell of one said breast as he moves back up. He easily draws you into another long, heated kiss. He continues to play with the breast in his hand, pinching and testing the supple give of the skin. Your muffled whines and moans are music to his ears as he presses his knee against your heated core, only relenting with his playful touches when he slides his palm under your spine, forcing you to arch your back. He lets go of your lips to drag his attention back to your breast, now sucking at the stiff peaks, careful of his sharp teeth.

“Remy,” His name comes out inadvertently, the sound making him groan against you. Your hands have slid down from their hold on his scalp, now resting against his wide shoulders with a tight grip on the fabric of his shirt. His palm wanders up and down the expanse of your back, thriving off of the feeling of your hot, flushed skin against his cold body.

The feeling of your top being bunched around your waist starts to become uncomfortable and suffocating. You squirm to try and take it off yourself, but Remy is quick to stop you. He pulls it off of you slowly, kissing every inch of skin it drags against as it goes. Once it's off, he leans back to get a good look at you, cursing under his breath as his hands find your thighs. You know for a fact you’re flushed and red from the neck down. The sight only encourages Remy further, quickly sitting up and removing his own shirt, keeping his gaze on yours throughout the movement.

It’s not surprising when his upper body catches your attention, the lean muscle impressive for a man who’s basically dead. Or was he? When he’s back within reach, you run your right hand from his happy trail till you reach his collarbone, fingertips pressing into the cold skin as you try to feel for a pulse. He hums, a mischievous glint in his eye when he realizes what you’re doing.

“You won’t find a heartbeat, cher. Not from me.” Remy confirms your thoughts. You can only hum in response, leaning up to press a soft kiss where your hand had been, over his heart. Remy lets out a low groan at the action, inciting a slow grind of his hips against yours.

“Merde.” He mumbles.“You play a dangerous game, makin’ a dead heart flutter.”

“Do I really?” You ask, biting your lip. Remy leans in, just far enough to teasingly brush his lips against your own before he moves down the length of your neck, never touching you in the way to crave so badly.

“I get the feeling you like dangerous games.” There's something sharp against your neck, the tips of his fangs gently dragging across the skin. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but not out of fear. He grinds his hips into you once again, your hips eagerly bucking to meet his own. You swallow deeply at the sound he makes at the action- realizing that you just might want him to bite into you. It’s crazy. You feel crazy. It must be so tantalizing for him to be pressed against you like this, fully aware of the red-hot blood rushing through your veins and the constant pounding of your heart. And yet, he never takes the bait.

Remy’s lips meet your own again right as your hands meet the buckle of his jeans. He sighs against your lips as you undo it, sliding your hand underneath the stiff fabric to feel the hardness he hides underneath. He’s… big. Not necessarily long, but he’s thicker than you had expected him to be. You stroke him over the fabric of his boxers, feeling his length twitch under your touch. When he separates from the kiss, he tucks his head into your shoulder. You can’t help but giggle at the action as you begin to pull both garments down, his cock slapping against his lower abdomen once freed.

“Are you sensitive, Remy?” You ask him, turning your head to bury it in his hair. You wrap your hand around his cock, hearing him moan before cursing quietly when you give him a slight squeeze.

“Sometimes.” He mumbles, one of his calloused hands coming up to one of your breasts, gently rubbing his thumb over your nipple to encourage it to a stiff peak. You can’t help but let out a surprised moan as he pinches and teases, feeling his smile against the skin of your shoulder.

“But I got nothin’ on you.” Remy kisses your breast, before taking a long, slow lick across the sensitive skin. He takes the nub into his mouth, giving it a short suck before he lets go of it with a pop.

You almost want to whine and complain when Remy removes himself from you, but quickly lose the thought as you watch him remove his pants and boxers in one movment. Once he’s done, he slowly slides his hands from your ankles to your hips, hooking his fingers underneath the fabric of your bottoms. He kisses the space beneath your belly button, red eyes trained on your own as he slowly drags the clothing down, undressing you until you’re bare. He licks his lips at the sight of you, slowly spreading your legs as he begins to kiss from your knees to your…

“You don’t- you don’t have to do that.” You stutter out once you realize what he’s doing. You’ve never been eaten out before, and the sight of him between your legs has already got you flushed and nervous- embarresed, even. Remy’s eyes shift back up to your face, his fingers sliding between your admittedly slick folds as you try to hold back a moan.

“Vampires are creatures of desire, cher. Thirsty ones at that.” He rumbles, and it’s like everywhere he touches you is on fire, his cool hands stroking you into a lustful heat. “Should I beg for you to consider?” He’s got this knowing look on his face, watching you as you bite your lip, face twitching with pleasure every time those fingers of his graze your clit. He slides a finger into you without resistance, curling it just right. You buck your hips into the feeling, nodding vigorously as a final go-ahead.

Remy dives into your cunt like a man starved.

Every lick of his tongue and curl of his fingers has you seeing stars. Fuck, did it feel good. He touches you expertly, finding spots within you that you didn't even know you had. He lets a moan slip now and then, fully immersed in the warm wetness of your pussy.

Your legs are hooked over his shoulders, a hand splayed across your lower abdomen to keep you from bucking up into his mouth as he enjoys himself. You feel close to cumming embarrassingly quick- quick in a way you had never known yourself to even be capable of.

“Remy!” It's an urgent call of his name, your hands tangling themselves in his hair as you attempt to warn him. He hums in response, right over your clit, and it does nothing but push your body further. You come with a rather embarrassing noise, hips twitching and thighs pressing into the side of his head. You can't help but assume that not needing to breathe was only a bonus for the man currently suffocating between your pillowy thighs.

He lets you ride out your orgasm with enthusiasm, pressing sweet kisses to the skin around your sensitive cunt as your breathing begins to even out and your legs begin to relax around him.

He looks absolutely wrecked when he sits up. His hair is messy, a pussydrunk smile he's certainly not afraid to hide spreading across his face.

“You feelin’ alright, cher?” He asks. You eagerly nod in response, leaning into his touch when he crawls back over you to place a kiss against your lips. You've never been one to taste yourself, but you find that you don’t mind tasting it on his lips. Remy's cock begins a slow grind against you, grazing your clit with every stroke. You moan into the kiss, a string of spit between your mouths when you separate long enough to catch your breath.

“Fuck.” The word is whispered, but that doesn't stop Remy from catching it. He lets out a low laugh, collecting your wetness as he grinds.

“You ready for me?” He asks. You nodd, closing your eyes as you eagerly wait for the stretch of his cock. Exempt, he stops.

“I need you to give me a yes, cher.”

“Yes-” He swallows the rest of that word in an eager kiss, finally sliding into your heat inch by inch. You both moan in union, feeling every inch of that slow stretch. He's cold. Not freezing, but cold. It's unlike any feeling you've felt before, and surprisingly, you want more of it.

His body begins to warm a little more everywhere the two of you touch- and god, does it feel good. Remy favors a steady pace, with powerful thrusts that hit you right every single time. It felt like he was made for you, and he most definitely felt the same. Remy kisses you like a man in love, fucking you in a way that makes you see rings instead of stars.

Every smack of his hips against yours is rather careful, measured even. It's only when he pulls out of you and flips you onto your stomach like a ragdoll that you realize the kind of strength he holds- suddenly grateful for his caution. He's quick to go back to rearranging your insides once he has you on your knees, front pressed against your back as he kisses at the nape of your neck and slides his arm around your front, palm splayed under a boob with his thumb on the valley between.

“Look at us, love.” His chest rumbles against your back, and it's not even a whole minute before the position changes again, Remy pulling you against him as he sits up onto his knees, holding you steady as he makes you face the mirror.

You wish that you could see his reflection in that mirror as you gaze upon the sight of you, red face flushed and needy. You don't see the way he holds you pressed so tightly against his chest, or the way he admires that evocative image of you, shaking with each thrust.

“Aren't you a sight, bele.” His breath is cold against your ear, his hand coming down to circle your clit as his thrusts pick up in pace. You can tell he's close, reaching that peak just as fast as you reach your own. You grasp at his hands, moans and whine only getting louder as that pleasure gets ever-so-close.

His groan against your ear is unnecessarily hot, his thrusts stuttering right before he pulls out of you. His cock rests just below your lower lips, using the friction of your thighs as he reaches that high. He cums in thick streaks, your own release following directly after.

There's a buzzing sound right as Remy sits back, placing you in his lap as he kisses across your shoulders sweetly. You relax against him, boneless as you both try to catch your breath. The buzzing stops for a moment before it continues again. You hardly register the noise, and are certainly in no condition to try and find the source.

When Remy looks over to the sound, he finds your phone hiding beneath the scattered clothes on the floor. It's his shirt, and he reaches over to grab it. The phone is set to the side as he maneuvers you around, dressing you in his shirt like a gentleman.

“Cher?” You hum, only halfway aware at the moment as Remy calls your name. He hands you your phone, and you open your eyes just enough to unlock it and see the fifteen missed calls from Ashley and Sophie.

“God damnit. Can't I have any peace?” You curse. Remy laughs, watching from over your shoulder as you check the additional excessive Snapchat messages from them.

“Maybe we should send them a message, no?” Remy reaches over to your phone, swiping over to the Snapchat camera, angling it to where both of your sweaty, disheveled faces are inframe, along with the line of purple hickies that trail down your neck. Jesus christ, you were about to fuck him all over again for even suggesting this. Who knew you were into revenge like that?

“Oh fuck yes.”

592 notes · View notes

le-fruit-de-la-passion · 7 months ago

Text

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 1

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in the last chapter)

Notes: Prompt suggested by a lovely anon ask and that I absolutely ran away with 💞. I hope you enjoy🌻!!

(Chapter 2) (Chapter 3) (Chapter 4/End)

“And another thing-!” you yell through the phone mic.

Viktor does not want to know the other thing.

For the first time in his life, he really wishes you would stop talking right now.

After months of a tumultuous relationship with a guy Viktor didn't believe was worthy of licking the sole of your boots, you had finally chosen to break it off tonight. Part of him (a large part of him if he's being honest with himself) is absolutely delighted at the news. Not only do you deserve so much better than the kind of scumbag who cheats on their partner, he can't help but think, selfishly, that there's a small chance for him to make his way into your heart. A chance to confess how he's felt for years now, how he's felt since the first time you smiled at him, and for you to see him in a new light. Not as a friend, but as a man, deeply, stupidly in love with you.

It's currently very hard to bask in the joy of all that potential because you've been talking over the phone for over two hours about every single thing your now ex-boyfriend had ever done to you.

“-and it's like, I should have known, you should never trust a guy who refuses go down a woman-“

Or hadn't done, in that case.

“Sweetheart, I don't want to say I told you so,” Mel speaks up at the other end of the line, voice firm but comforting, “but I did tell you so.”

“She did tell you,” Jayce pipes up, elbowing him in the arm. Viktor winces quietly and shoots his beaming friend a deadly glare. “Right Viktor?”

He lets out a non-committal mumble.

You've already moved on though, rambling about something else your Romeo had done. It's not like he was going to add anything helpful, anyway.

As soon as you had called him earlier that night, Viktor could tell something was wrong. The slight tremor in your voice, the lightest slurring of your words; you had been crying. He can read you like an open book, and you always come to him for advice whenever you need someone's help. No one else. That trust is something that means the world to him.

A second after he had asked what was wrong, you broke into tears and sobbed your way through a half-inaudible story about someone cheating and a breakup over text. And Viktor, like a coward, had panicked at the idea of discussing your romantic life with his very bothersome feelings getting in the way.

So he went to see his roommate for help, breaking the intimate bond of confidence you usually share together in the hopes of finding someone better qualified at handling the situation.

Which turned out to be an even bigger mistake.

Jayce isn't bad at discussing emotions per se; in fact, he's leagues above Viktor in that department. Where he tends to bottle up his thoughts and stew in them for hours on his own, Jayce will always be up for a talk, no matter the time or topic, that shining smile on his lips.

However, despite this, Jayce is a very poor listener.

His leg has been bouncing up and down for the last hour, like a puppy that needs to go pee outside. He's barely listening, only commenting every now and then, in favour of grinning at him and whispering embarrassing words of what he thinks is encouragement.

“Tell her you'll be there for her!”

“C'mon, say you'll go over to see her!”

“Vik, this is your moment!”

And then, there's Mel.

Because somewhere in the middle of this living nightmare, he thought perhaps a feminine, calm and composed presence like Mel would help you relax. Mel is the perfect listener, always striking that perfect balance between lending an ear and giving solid guidance. Viktor often finds himself wishing he could learn from how well she seems to understand everyone around her.

And yet her addition to the phone call seemingly just made everything worse.

You were definitely already a few drinks in by the time you called him, and now with her there as empathic support, you've lost absolutely all sense of self-restraint.

“And he was so bad with his tongue, did I say that before, Mel? He had no idea what to do with it, just shoving it in my mouth like a worm-”

Viktor is going insane. Hell is really just a never-ending phone call, with the girl you like telling you about sex with her ex.

“Yeah, honey, you did,” Mel sighs, even her otherworldly patience starting to wear thin. He can hear the fatigue in her voice; its close to one AM on a week day. “Maybe you should go to bed for the night, and rest up a little?”

Her extremely wise suggestion falls on deaf ears once again. He's not sure anything could stop your monologue now.

He's usually always so enamoured when you talk about anything. You're always so passionate, full of fire, ready to challenge the status quo and refusing to let anyone's opinion get in your way. It's captivating.

Now, he's mentally arguing the ethics of just pressing the ‘end call’ button to end his suffering.

“I just want someone who'll love me you know?” you drunkenly whine. “Someone who's gonna want to listen to me rant about stupid things. Who's gonna kiss me like it means something. Someone who's actually going to eat me out,” you spit out, clearly still bitter on the topic, “and who's gonna think of me as the only one for them.”

There's a pause, the first one in what feels like hours. You breathe slowly into the mic, only interrupted by a small hiccup. The next words come out quieter, defeated.

“And I don't know anybody who would ever be that person for me.”

Someone speaks up right after that.

“I would.”

And for a second, Viktor really wonders who said that.

Then it registers that that was his voice.

And then the math all adds up in his head, and he realizes it was him.

There's an odd, deafening silence in the room. It's like the pause button on a video has been pressed. For a second, he thinks maybe he's just hallucinated the whole thing.

But then, Jayce smiles at him with one of those handsome, enormous grins of his, and the dread of knowing this is very real sinks in.

“…Sorry, Viktor, what did you say?” you ask, voice no longer shaky.

There are three possible routes to take from here.

He could A., lie and hope you think you misheard him. Not a very likely scenario, because Viktor heard himself say the two cursed words crystal clear. You would call him out instantly.

B., he could hang up, and never talk to you again. Drastic, but a necessary evil. At least he would avoid the embarrassment of ever having to talk to you again. Knowing you, you wouldn't let him off so easily, though.

C., he could be honest. He could tell you he wants to hear you talk about anything and everything, except perhaps your shitty exes. He could tell you he's looked your way for a very, very long time, and that he'd never found the right moment, the right words, to tell you. He could tell you he loves you.

Unfortunately, before he has time to consider his choices and weigh the various pros and cons, Jayce starts answering for him with triumphant laughter:

“Oh my god, Viktor finally said he would-”

“-Would call you back later, yes, goodnight!” he quickly yelps, almost throwing the phone down as he presses the button to end the call. The black screen stares back at him tauntingly.

Meanwhile, Jayce looks at him like he's grown a second head:

“Why did you hang up?!” he protests, picking up the phone and wagging it over Viktor's nose, “This is it! You did it! It's your moment!”

Viktor snatches the phone back, shoving it into his back pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.

“My moment is absolutely not going to happen on the phone, with two other people listening in, while she's ranting about an ex-lover!” he hisses out.

Jayce's expression softens, like he's just now realizing these might not be ideal circumstances. The smartest man Viktor has ever known is somehow also the most dense.

“Maybe she didn't hear,” he adds in a tone that unsuccesfuly tries to be comforting”, “Maybe she heard ‘high wood’, like a… forest of pines?”

Before Viktor can ask how, exactly, a forest of pines of all things would have fit into their conversation, something against his hip vibrates in an awfully familiar pattern.

It's his phone.

“…or maybe not,” Jayce concludes.

#arcane #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #viktor imagine #anon prompt #mine #i am finally posting fics with embellishments. this is truly a day for me.#anon ask #arcane x reader

370 notes · View notes

ihaznoclue · 3 months ago

Note

Can I just request like headcanons for ratchet and Optimus with like a young human reader (platonic) who doesn't really have the best home life and so she sees the base as a home and sees the two bots as parental figures

Hopefully I'm not too late, if I am please feel free to decline ^^

Love ur works btw :3

Pairings -> Optimus Prime and Ratchet x Reader (Platonic)

Warnings -> Family issues

Note -> Reader sees Optimus and Ratchet as parental figures

Genre -> Fluff

Optimus Prime and Ratchet

Ratchet

Grumpy Guardian Mode - Ratchet absolutely notices the signs that something is off at your home, even if you try to hide it from him. He's incredibly perceptive especially when it comes to injuries or behavioural changes. It just his medic instincts that just kicks in

Protective Dad mode - If anyone ever made a comment about your home life or tried to take advantage of you, Ratchet would not let that slide, not one bit. He would be so ready to throw a wrench.. literally

Tough love, soft heart - He's not super-touchy feely but you'll notice how he starts to make sure you have food to eat, a blanket and somewhere to rest when you're at the base, he always makes sure you are comfortable here at the base

Optimus

Gentle Authority - Optimus is calm, steady and safe. He's the kind of presence that makes you feel protected just by seeing or being near him, you start to feel more grounded every time he talks to you int hat soft and calming tone

Talks like a dad - He gives you wise advice, encourages you when you're down and supports you without judegment, your dad has never done that.. But Optimus will always remind you that you're more important than other stuff

Safe Haven - After a while, Optimus talk with Agent Fowler and quietly arranges it so you're allowed to stay at the base more often than staying at your house, under "security observation" but in all truth, Optimus just wants you to be somewhere safe

Together - Ratchet and Optimus

They will both notice how you are starting to relax and hang out more at the base, how your shoulders drop, how you smile more often than being upset and how you stop flinching at sudden noises

At some point, Ratchet will set up a little space for you in the corner of the medbay and Optimus adds a shelf of your belongings - books, sketchs anything you have brought

You would sometimes fall asleep near Ratchet's workstation and he'll cover you with a blanket if you didn't have any int he first place

Optimus checkin and just exchanges a glance with Ratchet who says "We have to protect her"

They may not be your actual parents but they become your chosen family, offering warmth and a gentle guidance in a world that has been harsh for someone so young

A/N - If anyone is struggling with family issues, I Hope it will get better for you <3

-A<3

#tfp #transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #transformers prime x reader #optimus prime tfp #optimus #tfp optimus #transformers optimus #optimus prime #ratchet x reader #ratchet tfp #tfp ratchet #ratchet transformers #ratchet #tfp optimus prime #optimus prime x reader

148 notes · View notes

big-ooof · 3 days ago

Text

Still Yours, Somewhere

dad!Jay x f!reader

note: exes to lovers again trope, co-parenting, reader lets Jay back into their lives.

The knock comes exactly two minutes later than you expected. You know because you’ve been checking the clock like you’re waiting for a delivery, not for the man who broke your heart quietly. It wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that came with slamming doors or screaming matches. No. Jay left like smoke—soft and invisible. One day he was there, cooking ramen at midnight, whispering in your ear when the baby was finally asleep. And the next, he wasn’t.

You pull the door open before he knocks again. Jay’s standing there in a black hoodie, duffel bag over his shoulder, baseball cap pulled low. It’s casual, like he could be any neighbor in the building. But your heart doesn’t buy it. Not when it recognizes him before your eyes even finish the scan. He looks tired. And sorry. And thinner than the last time.

Before you can say anything, there’s a squeal behind you. “Appa!!”

Tiny feet thud across the floor as your daughter charges past you, curls bouncing, her socked feet sliding slightly on the hardwood. Jay drops the bag and crouches instinctively, catching her with open arms like his body knew before his mind caught up.

“Hey, baby,” he breathes. It’s the softest thing you’ve heard in weeks. She clings to him like he’s never been gone. Like he didn’t miss her third birthday party or the week she had the flu and refused to sleep anywhere but curled on your chest. You swallow that memory back.

“Come in,” you say, stepping aside. Jay doesn’t look at you as he walks past. You don’t blame him. He’s not the one holding grudges—but he knows you might be. And he’s not wrong.

She leads him to the corner of the living room where her pink plastic kitchen set waits like a shrine. You head into the actual kitchen, the one with sharp knives and dishes that need to be washed. He doesn’t follow right away. He’s too busy being Appa.

You listen to the distant sounds of make-believe: her bossy little voice instructing him on how to pour invisible tea. His quiet chuckles. A clink as he knocks over a toy cup. Your chest feels too tight.

By the time he steps into the kitchen, you’ve already cut fruit, poured juice, and stacked mail that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

“Thanks for letting me come,” he says. Voice low. No stage voice, no idol voice. Just Jay.

You set the knife down carefully. “You’re her father,” you say. “She wants you here.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And you?”

You look up slowly. “I want what she wants.”

It’s not cruel. It’s honest. Jay flinches like he expected it but hoped otherwise.

“You’re doing amazing with her,” he says after a beat, nodding toward the playroom. “She’s happy. She’s… her own person. That’s all you.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t let it show. “I know.”

He laughs, bitter and self-aware. “You always did.”

There’s another beat of silence, the kind that feels louder than noise. Then you say, “I didn’t let you back into our lives for me, Jay.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

You continue, “I let you back in because she loves you. Because she deserves the chance to have that—to feel like her dad didn’t disappear.”

Jay doesn’t speak. But the emotion in his eyes says it all. You could’ve closed the door. You didn’t. You could’ve erased him from the bedtime stories and the framed photos. You didn’t. Not because you couldn’t. Because you knew what it would take from her. And Jay realizes it now—that this is grace. That this isn’t forgiveness yet, not even close. But it’s something. A bridge. Maybe the first step toward becoming someone worth being chosen again.

He clears his throat. “I brought her that book she liked. The one with the frogs and the paper umbrellas.”

“She still reads it,” you say. “Sometimes, she sleeps with it in her bed.”

He looks like that hurts more than it should.

“She talks about you all the time,” you add. “Even when you weren’t around. She made up stories about where you were—said you were helping stars fall into the sky.”

Jay chokes out a breath. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. “She really said that?”

You nod. “She missed you so hard she made magic out of it.”

He sinks into one of the stools at the counter, suddenly too exhausted to pretend anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking. “For all of it. I wanted to be better than this.”

You lean on the opposite side of the counter. Not close. Not yet. “You still can be.”

And that’s where you leave it. Not a promise. Not a punishment. Just truth. A place to start.

You let Jay stay on the couch. Offered it without ceremony, just tossed him a folded blanket from the linen closet and pointed at the cushions. Neither of you pretended it was more than it was. A neutral zone. A seat on the sidelines.

Your daughter was thrilled, of course. “Appa’s having a sleepover!” she giggled, curling against him like the time apart hadn’t even dented her instinct to cling. She made you pull out the spare toothbrush and left her bunny next to his pillow like a peace offering. You went to bed alone as usual that night. And every sound from the living room felt louder than usual.

In the morning, he’s already up. You pause in the doorway, surprised to find him half-dressed—sweatpants, a loose t-shirt you hadn’t seen since before the split—and standing in your kitchen like muscle memory brought him there.

He doesn’t hear you right away. He’s focused, pouring juice into a pink cup, crouching slightly to meet your daughter’s sleepy gaze where she sits at the table in her oversized Spider-Man pajamas.

“Like this?” he asks, holding up a slice of apple with cinnamon sprinkled on top.

She nods emphatically. “That’s how Mommy does it,” she says.

Jay glances up then, sees you leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You don’t speak at first. Neither does he.

But your daughter breaks the silence. “Appa, can you pick me up from ballet today?”

You freeze.

Jay hesitates. “I… have a meeting. But maybe next time.”

“Oh.” Her face dims just enough to punch air from your lungs.

You move to grab your coffee mug, shielding your emotions behind routine. “It’s okay,” you say evenly, directing your words to your daughter. “We’ll go together like usual.”

Jay watches you a second longer than necessary. Like he wants to say something but knows it’ll come out wrong.

He doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he lingers after breakfast, helping her zip her coat, tying her shoes without you needing to ask. It’s jarring how naturally he steps back into it. Like the gap in time is something only you felt.

She hugs him goodbye, arms tight around his neck.

You’re halfway out the door when he calls after you. “Hey.”

You pause, turning slightly.

He looks unsure. But he says it anyway. “You always made it look easy. Raising her.”

Your throat tightens. “It wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

You nod, jaw tense. “Good.”

Jay steps closer, voice lower now. “You know… you didn’t have to let me back in.”

You meet his eyes. “I just let our daughter see her father again.”

Something shifts in his expression. Before he can say more, your daughter tugs your hand impatiently. The moment passes.

That night, he texts you: Thank you. Again.

You almost don’t reply. But then you do: She deserves you. Just don’t make me regret it.

A typing bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back: I won’t.

The next few weeks fall into a fragile rhythm. He picks her up once a week. You watch from the window sometimes as she runs to him, trusting. You don’t invite him back inside again. But sometimes he lingers at the doorway longer than he needs to, eyes flickering over you like he’s memorizing the new edges.

He asks questions. “Does she still hate broccoli?” “Is she still scared of the vacuum?” “What songs does she fall asleep to now?”

It’s slow, careful. Like walking barefoot through a house you used to live in, afraid of stepping on the broken things you left behind.

One Friday night, she asks if he can stay for dinner. You hesitate. Jay stands in the doorway, silent, waiting for your answer.

Finally, you nod. “Sure. If you can handle mac and cheese with a side of chaos.”

He grins, relief etched into every line of his face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

That night, you all eat together. For the first time in over a year. Jay sits across from you, helping your daughter scoop peas into her mouth with exaggerated praise. The air feels weird—nostalgic, sharp-edged. Too much like before. You catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. You ignore the way it makes your stomach twist.

Later, after she’s tucked in and snoring lightly under her blanket, you find Jay standing in the kitchen. He’s holding that same frog-and-umbrella book. “She wanted me to read it,” he murmurs.

You nod, leaning against the counter. “She used to fall asleep in your arms with that one,” you say. “Wouldn’t let me read it after you left.”

Jay swallows. “I didn’t think she’d even remember me.”

You glance at him. “She remembers everything.”

He nods slowly. His voice lowers. “Do you?”

The question hangs in the air like a blade.

You meet his gaze, guarded. “I try not to.”

But it’s a lie. Because some nights, you still dream of soft laughter in shared bedsheets. Of lullabies sung together. Of Jay's warm hand on your back when the baby cried at 3 a.m. Of what it felt like to be a family.

He nods, like he knew the answer anyway.

For the first time in a year you leave your apartment without a diaper bag or a mental checklist. Jay insisted—offered, actually. Said he wanted time alone with her. That he could handle bedtime. You didn’t argue. Not because you needed the break (you always need the break), but because something in his eyes made you say yes before your pride could interrupt.

Now you’re standing outside a dimly lit lounge, wrapped in a long black coat, dress peeking beneath the hem, a little mascara smudged in the corner of your eye. You hadn’t expected anyone you knew. But the universe has its timing.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice says over the music. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turn, startled. Jake. His hair is slicked back a little, glass of whiskey in hand. No cameras. No entourage. Just him.

You blink. “Jake?”

He laughs. “Hey. I thought I was hallucinating for a second.”

You smile, a little sheepish.

Jake tilts his head. “So… you’re out, and Jay’s on dad duty?”

You nod. “He offered. I figured, why not?”

Jake leans against the bar, eyes thoughtful. “That’s good. It’s really good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He hesitates, then gestures to the empty seat next to him. “Wanna sit for a minute?”

You do. There’s something soft about Jake—always has been. The easy charm, the warmth. He’s the type who remembers birthdays and makes sure everyone eats on time during rehearsals. He sips his drink, eyes scanning you carefully. Not judgmental. Just aware.

“Jay talks about her all the time,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “He does?”

Jake nods. “Every chance he got. Even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“He always said he didn’t deserve to be in her life,” Jake continues. “That he missed too much. That he screwed it up.”

You stay quiet.

Jake glances at you. “We didn’t push him. But I think we all knew… he wanted to come back. Just didn’t know if you’d ever let him.”

You look down, voice quiet. “I didn’t do it for him.”

“I know,” Jake says gently. “But I’m glad you did it anyway.”

You feel your throat tighten. The music hums around you, too loud and too distant all at once.

Jake softens. “He’s different now. I’m not saying he’s fixed or perfect. But I’ve known Jay a long time. I’ve never seen him hurt over anything like this before.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want to break him.”

“I don’t think you did,” Jake says. “I think he broke himself. You just stopped trying to hold the pieces together.”

The silence between you stretches. A respectful pause.

Then Jake grins, lighter now. “Also… for what it’s worth? She looks just like him. It’s scary.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and it feels strange on your tongue. “She acts like him too,” you murmur. “Stubborn as hell. Walks into a room like she owns it.”

Jake smirks. “Yup. That’s Jay.”

You check your phone after a while. No missed calls. No texts. Just a photo Jay sent an hour ago: your daughter curled into his chest, bunny squished between them, both asleep on the couch. You stare at it longer than you should.

When you get home, the apartment is quiet. You slip your shoes off, letting the familiar hush wrap around you. Then you see them. Jay, asleep on the couch, her small form tucked beneath his arm like she belongs nowhere else. The bunny is squished between them. His hand is still resting protectively on her back, even in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Less burdened.

Your heart aches. Not with anger. Not even with regret. But with something more dangerous—hope. You should wake him. Tell him to get up, go home, not make this more complicated than it already is. But you don’t.

Instead, you pull the blanket off the recliner and drape it over both of them. Gently. Carefully. Your fingers hover over his cheek for a second too long. Then you turn away. Because you’re not ready. But maybe you’re not as far from it as you thought.

You don’t realize he’s been staying longer until you start hearing his laugh in the quiet parts of your day. Not echoes. Not memory. But real.

He drops her off on Wednesdays now. Brings her back from school on Fridays. Shows up with bubble tea and new coloring books like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t spend a year behind a wall you couldn’t knock down. And somehow, you let it happen. Because she’s thriving. And you are… softening. Against your will, against your better judgment.

You still sleep in separate rooms. You still keep a safe distance. But he’s in the kitchen more. Sitting across from you at the table. Making coffee the way you like it even when he’s not staying over.

One night, she’s already asleep when the sky cracks open. Rain slams against the windows. The kind of storm that steals power without warning. The lights go out while you’re rinsing dishes. You mutter a curse under your breath. Somewhere in the hallway, your daughter stirs but doesn’t wake. You’re about to reach for your phone when Jay appears beside you, flashlight in hand.

“I found it in the junk drawer,” he says. “Pretty sure it’s been there since we moved in.”

You exhale a laugh. “Figures you’d be the one to remember that.”

You light a candle from the counter. It flickers softly, casting his face in gold. The silence settles warm and close.

“Feels like that night we stayed in the countryside,” he says after a beat. “The power went out and we just sat in the dark, eating instant noodles and playing 20 Questions.”

Your chest aches. You remember it too. You look at him over the candlelight. “You played dirty. You asked me what my favorite Jay was.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming. “And I believe you said bedhead Jay who makes pancakes shirtless.”

You try not to smile. You fail. There’s a beat. He shifts closer.

“I miss this,” he says quietly.

You freeze. “The candlelight?”

“No,” he murmurs. “You. This. Us. I miss us.”

You turn away, hands braced on the sink. “Jay…”

“I know. I don’t get to ask for anything. I lost that right. But I see you now. Every day. And I don’t know how I ever let this go.”

The air between you pulses. “Don’t do this,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair. You left. You let me carry all of it.”

“I know,” he says. “And I hate myself for it.” He steps behind you…close, but not touching. “You didn’t need me. But you still let me be her dad. You chose what was best for her. Even if it hurt.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know.” His voice cracks then. “But I want to do something for you now. I want to earn this. If I ever have a shot at it again.”

You turn to face him, candlelight flickering between you. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something you remember loving once. Something you’re terrified to reach for again.

“I don’t trust you yet,” you say.

“I don’t expect you to,” he answers. “But I’ll show up. Every day. Until maybe you can.”

There’s a silence, heavy with history and hope. You nod, just once. “Okay.”

That night, he sleeps on the couch again. You linger a little longer after tucking your daughter in her room. When you pass him curled under the blanket, eyes still open in the dark, you whisper: “Goodnight, Jay.”

And he whispers back: “Still yours, somewhere.”

You don’t know when it starts happening. Maybe it’s the way he starts remembering which side of the coffee maker your favorite mug goes on. Or how he folds your daughter’s socks the exact way you like them — tiny, neat rolls instead of mismatched clumps. Maybe it’s when he buys your brand of coffee creamer without asking. Just slips it into the fridge like he belongs there.

The truth is… it’s all of it. Jay is showing up. Consistently. Quietly. Without the grand gestures or dramatic apologies. And it’s fucking terrifying. Because for the first time since everything fell apart, you’re starting to want him again. Not the idea of him. Not the memory of who he used to be. This version of Jay is soft, present, and utterly unrushed in how he’s returning to you.

It’s a Tuesday when it happens. He comes by after work with groceries and insists on cooking because you “look tired,” and he’s still annoyingly good at reading your face. Your daughter squeals when she sees the box of star-shaped pasta and grape juice.

“You’re spoiling her,” you tease, watching him in the kitchen.

Jay shrugs. “She deserves it.”

You don’t argue.

Later, while she watches a cartoon in the next room, you sit on the couch folding laundry. Your laundry. You don’t even realize you’ve accepted his help until you see him across from you, quietly folding one of your t-shirts.

He hums softly under his breath a familiar tune. One you used to hear in the mornings, back when his voice was the first thing you woke to. Your fingers freeze mid-fold. He doesn’t notice at first. Just keeps moving, steady and gentle. Until he glances up and sees your face. You’re staring at the shirt in your hands. Your lips pressed tight.

Jay sets down the pair of socks he’s holding. “What?” he asks softly.

Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. “You used to do that. After we put her to sleep. You’d hum while folding laundry. Like it made the silence less lonely.”

Jay swallows. “I remember.”

You meet his gaze. There’s something breaking in your chest, and you can’t name it. “I used to sit here… after you left. And fold the same shirts. Same socks. Alone. And it felt so loud.”

His eyes are wide now. Still and raw. “I didn’t realize how loud I was until you were gone,” he says quietly. “How much space I took up… without giving anything back.”

You exhale shakily. “You were good at being a father. But you forgot how to be my partner.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I think about it every night.”

You shake your head, blinking fast. “You’re doing everything right now. I see it. She’s happier. She sleeps better. She laughs louder. And I’m—” You pause. Heart thudding. “I’m starting to remember what it felt like to need you.”

Jay leans forward. His voice is reverent. “I don’t want you to need me. I just want to be someone you’d choose again.”

You look at him, mouth parted slightly. There’s too much in that moment. So you do the only thing you can. You nod. Press your hand against your chest. Breathe through the ache. And whisper, “We’ll see.”

That night, after he leaves, you find one of his hoodies in the laundry basket. It smells like his cologne. You don’t wash it. You just hold it. And for the first time in months, you let yourself cry — not out of anger or exhaustion, but because hope is starting to live here again. Quiet. Steady. Just like him.

You wake up to the sound of coughing. Then a whimper. You don’t think. You just move—half asleep, feet bare against the floor as you rush to her room. She’s warm. Too warm. Her forehead is burning under your palm, her cheeks flushed and eyes watery. You cradle her carefully, whispering soft reassurances as you grab the thermometer from the drawer. 102.7.

Shit.

You don’t want to panic, but the fear hits low in your stomach. You try giving her water, then medicine. She cries. Too weak to protest, too tired to keep her eyes open. You need help. And you know exactly who to call.

Even though it’s almost 2:00 a.m., he picks up after one ring. “I’m on my way.” No hesitation. No questions.

Fifteen minutes later, Jay is at your front door, hair messy, sweatshirt inside out, worry carved into every inch of him. “She okay?” he breathes, stepping inside like muscle memory.

“She’s burning up,” you whisper. “She won’t really eat or drink.”

Jay’s already moving—kneeling by her bed, brushing the damp hair off her forehead with trembling fingers. His eyes are glossy. Terrified.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispers. “Appa’s here, okay? Just rest.”

You sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Silence pressing down hard and heavy. Every now and then she whines softly in her sleep, and Jay flinches like he’s been shot.

You rest your head back against the wall. “She gets sick maybe twice a year. Always hits her like a truck.”

He nods, jaw clenched. “I hate that I wasn’t here the last time. Or the time before that.”

You say nothing.

He turns toward you. Voice low. “Thank you for calling me.”

Your eyes sting. “She asked for you.”

His lips part, like that breaks him a little more.

You glance down at your hands. “You came so fast. I didn’t expect—”

Jay swallows. “I’ve been waiting for you to need me.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. “I didn’t call because I needed you,” you whisper. “I called because I knew you’d come.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “Is that not the same thing?”

You finally look at him. And there it is again—that ache. That sharp, familiar pull toward him that never really left.

“She’s going to be okay,” he says gently, watching you instead of her now.

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. But I don’t know if I am.”

You feel his hand brush over yours—light, tentative, but there. When you don’t pull away, he threads his fingers through yours. It’s stupid, how something so simple can feel so huge.

“You’ve done everything right,” he murmurs. “I see that now. You were everything. I was the one who disappeared.”

You clench your jaw to keep the tears at bay. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“And I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for that.”

You look at him, heart raw and cracked open. “I want to,” you whisper. “God, Jay. I really want to.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth. And for a moment, neither of you move. Until you both do—at the same time. The kiss is soft. Not desperate. Not messy. Just real. Like memory. Like grief. Like relief.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, reverent and trembling. Your lips move together like they were always supposed to, like this was always the ending waiting to happen. It doesn’t fix everything. But it changes it.

When you finally pull back, breath shallow and heart racing, he leans his forehead against yours.

“I’ve loved you this whole time,” he whispers. “I just forgot how to show it. But I feel like I know how now.”

Your voice breaks. “Don’t make me remember just to lose you again.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I swear I won’t.”

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you almost believe him.

You wake up on the couch. Your daughter is asleep between you, curled against Jay’s chest like she always used to be. His arm is draped around her back, careful and protective. And his other hand… is holding yours.

You must’ve dozed off after she settled. You remember the medicine kicking in, her little body cooling under a fresh set of pajamas, and Jay—watching both of you like you were made of porcelain.

Now the morning light is beginning to stretch through the blinds, and everything feels too quiet. Too still. You slip your hand away first. Jay stirs. His eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep, but he looks at you instantly. Like he was already halfway awake, waiting for you to move.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravel-soft.

“Morning.”

You both whisper. Like anything louder would shatter whatever this is.

He glances down at your daughter, then back up at you. “She feel cooler?”

You nod. “I think the fever broke sometime around 4. Her breathing’s calmer now.”

He smiles. Soft. Relieved. You smile back instinctively. And it hits you how dangerous that feels.Smiling like this. Soft like this. Easy like this. Like the kiss didn’t happen. Like everything didn’t just change.

Jay makes breakfast. Like he used to. Like it never stopped. Your daughter pads out in her socks and oversized T-shirt, still groggy, but hungry enough to ask for toast with strawberry jam and cut-up bananas on the side. Jay doesn’t even ask how she wants it. He just knows. You watch him from the doorway.

And it hits you all at once: this is what he would’ve looked like if he never left. Hair messy, standing at the stove in a hoodie, humming under his breath while flipping pancakes. Your chest aches. It’s so normal. So close. It makes you want to run and hold on all at the same time.

He catches your gaze when he turns. And something in his expression changes. “I didn’t dream it, did I?” he asks softly, like he already knows the answer.

You don’t play dumb. You shake your head once. “No.”

A beat. He nods slowly. Then says: “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You swallow. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. The pan sizzles between you.

“But?” he asks.

You meet his eyes, finally. “But if we do this again, I need you to show up every day. Not just for her. For me.”

Jay walks toward you slow and careful. Like he knows you might bolt. He stops just close enough for you to feel his warmth. “Then let me show you.”

You blink up at him. “Jay…”

“I don’t want the easy parts,�� he says. “I want the hard ones. I want the mornings where you’re mad at me and don’t want to talk. I want the late nights where we both forget the laundry and fall asleep on the couch. I want you. All of it. Again.”

You inhale shakily. “Then you’ll have to earn it. Day by day.”

“I will.”

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

After breakfast, he kisses the top of your daughter’s head, tells her he’ll be back tomorrow to take her to the aquarium like he promised. Then he turns to you. Doesn’t try to kiss you again. Doesn’t linger too long. Just touches your arm. Just once.

And says, “Thank you. For yesterday. For last night.”

You nod. “Thank you for showing up.”

And then he’s gone. The house is quiet again. But this time, it doesn’t feel like something’s missing. It feels like someone’s coming home.

Jay hasn’t been sleeping much. Not in the way that matters. He closes his eyes. Sure. Lies still. Tries not to look at his phone when the hours slip past midnight. But rest? That settled, bone-deep kind of quiet? He hasn’t had that in years. Not since the night he packed his duffel bag and closed the door behind him without looking back. Not since he heard his daughter cry from the other side of it and still didn’t turn around. Not since he told himself he’d be a better father if he left. That maybe she’d grow up stronger if she didn’t see him fail her mother every day. That was the lie he told himself, anyway.

“Jay” a voice says, knocking him out of the spiral. Jay looks up to see Jake, standing in the doorway of the studio, holding two takeaway cups and a familiar look of concern. “Thought you might want coffee. You look like you haven’t blinked in an hour.”

Jay offers a tired smile. “Thanks.”

Jake walks in, settles beside him, and hands him the cup. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches Jay scroll absently through his notes app: blank entries, half-written reminders, an unsent message sitting at the top: “You looked at me like I’d never left, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Jake finally breaks the silence. “You’ve been different lately.”

Jay sighs. “Is that a nice way of saying I look like shit?”

Jake laughs, but it fades quickly. “No. You look like someone who’s trying not to hope too hard.”

Jay doesn’t answer.

Jake softens. “She let you in again, didn’t she?”

Jay nods once.

“She called me,” he says quietly. “When our daughter got sick. Middle of the night. No hesitation.”

Jake blinks. “That’s… big.”

“I didn’t even put my hoodie on properly,” Jay murmurs. “I just ran.”

Jake doesn’t interrupt.

Jay looks down at the rim of his cup. “I kissed her.”

There’s silence. Then: “Yeah,” Jake says gently. “I figured. You’ve had that look on your face lately.”

Jay lets out a shaky breath. “It didn’t feel like a regular kiss. It felt like falling off a roof. And realizing she’s the ground.”

Jake leans back. “You still love her.”

“I never stopped.”

“But you left. Essentially prioritized the team over your family.”

“I thought it was the only decision. Less likely to hurt her with all my stress and pressure and—” he breaks off, voice tight. “I thought walking away would protect her. Protect them.”

“And?”

Jay swallows. “It just proved I was the one who needed protecting. From myself. I didn't even discuss it with her, I just left.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She made a life without me. Raised our daughter like she was built for it. And now… I’m watching her do it all, and I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t deserve a second chance.”

Jake is quiet for a while before saying, “Jay… You never had to earn her.”

Jay’s head lifts.

“You loved her—you still do. You chose her. She had your daughter. She waited for you longer than most people ever would. You didn’t lose her because you were bad. You lost her because you didn’t trust yourself to be enough.”

Jay blinks hard.

Jake goes on. “Between the two of us, you know her better. But I don’t think you realize that she doesn’t want the perfect version of you. She just wants the version that stays.”

That line hits something deep. Because for years, Jay thought he had to be exceptional to be loved. To deserve a family. A home. But maybe what she needed was never a savior. Just a man who didn’t flinch when things got heavy.

Jay doesn’t say much after that. Just thanks Jake for the coffee. And when he gets home that night, he pulls out the hoodie you gave back last winter — the one you returned, folded, silent, after the breakup — and he wears it again. Not because he wants you to see it. But because he wants to believe he still fits in it.

Your daughter is finally asleep. Her fever’s gone, but she clung to you all day. Fussy, needy, small in that way only sick kids can be. And Jay… he came by with soup. You told him it wasn’t necessary. He showed up anyway.

“Bone broth,” he said when you opened the door. “With garlic, ginger, seaweed. My mom used to make it whenever I got sick.”

You took it from him wordlessly. Still warm in your hands. Homemade.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “She’s sleeping. But she’ll want it when she wakes up.”

He nodded, lips twitching into a quiet smile. “I figured. I didn’t come to stay...”

And yet— he’s still here. You’re both on the couch. Some movie is playing in the background, but neither of you is really watching it. He’s sitting on the opposite end, elbow propped, body angled toward you. You’ve curled into the corner with your knees up, hoodie sleeves pulled past your palms.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not talking like exes. You're just talking. You don’t even realize you’re laughing until he says something about your daughter’s tiny dramatic tantrums, and you choke on your tea.

“She gets that from you,” you say.

Jay grins. “No way. That is pure you energy. The hands? The fake crying? I’ve seen you throw a pillow at my head for less.”

You laugh again — this time, genuinely — and it makes your chest ache. He looks at you a second longer than he should. You feel it. That pause. That old gravity.

“I missed this,” he says suddenly.

You freeze. “This?” you repeat. “Sick-day soup and accidental couch therapy?”

Jay smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You laughing. With me. Like it used to be.”

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “It wasn’t always like this,” you whisper.

He nods. “I know.”

“Some nights, you wouldn’t even come home.”

“I hated myself more for that than you’ll ever know.”

Silence. Then softly, you ask: “Why’d you leave for real, Jay? Not the version you told everyone. Not the version you told me.”

He hesitates. And then, quietly: “Because I thought you'd be better without me. And I hated that I might’ve been right.”

You close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at the floor, knuckles white against his knees. “I wasn’t better,” you say. “I was just surviving.”

“I’m tired of watching you survive without me,” he murmurs.

You look at him—really look. At the way he’s leaning forward now. Elbows to thighs. Eyes full of regret and something achingly familiar. There’s something about the way he looks tonight. Like he’s been trying to come home for years and didn’t know where to knock. You shift a little on the couch.

The silence stretches.

He moves to stand. “I should—”

“You can stay,” you say quickly, voice small. He freezes. “If you want.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something breaks in his face. Something he’s been holding in for years. “I do,” he says.

So he stays. Not in your bed. Not with any expectations. Just on the couch. Shoes off, hoodie pulled over his head, hand falling asleep somewhere between you both. You wake up later to find his hand just barely brushing yours again. And you don’t move it. Not this time.

You wake up to soft breathing and the faint rustle of blankets. The sun is barely up, gold bleeding gently through the curtains. You blink against it and register two things at once: Jay is still here. And so is your daughter, tucked against his side, tiny hand wrapped around his hoodie drawstring like she knew he’d protect her in her sleep.

Your heart clenches. You sit up slowly, blanket falling from your lap, and take them in. Jay’s head is tilted toward her, one arm around her back. Protective. Loose. Natural. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, mouth slightly parted, lashes thick against his cheeks. He looks peaceful. He looks like someone you used to know. And in this moment — in your living room, on your couch, holding your daughter — he also looks like someone you could know again. Someone you want to.

You don’t wake them. Instead, you slip quietly into the kitchen and start making breakfast. You’re halfway through whisking eggs when you hear the soft creak of the floorboards.

Jay steps in, carrying your daughter on his hip, her cheek still red from sleep. “She woke up and asked for you,” he says softly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this part, the normal part.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Thanks,” you murmur, watching as he gently lowers her into her booster seat.

He helps without asking: sets the table, fills her little cup with apple juice, grabs napkins. It’s not choreographed. It’s not even discussed. It’s muscle memory. You make plates. He finds the right spoon for her. She babbles about a dream she had where a duck stole her blanket, and Jay listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, your kitchen feels full.

Later, he helps you fold clothes that no longer fit your daughter in the living room. He doesn’t say much. Just folds the baby clothes carefully, the way you used to show him. You’re about to thank him when he holds up a tiny pair of leggings and smirks.

“Why does everything this small make me want to cry?” he jokes gently.

You glance over. “Because you missed this part.” Jay flinches. You soften your tone. “I mean… you missed it. Not your fault. Just… time passed. And you weren’t here for all of it.”

Jay looks down at the leggings again. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches. You finish folding a shirt, placing it in the pile.

Then he says quietly: “You made it look easy. But I know it wasn’t.” You glance at him again. “I should’ve been here.”

You don’t answer. Because it’s not a question. He puts the folded pants aside and shifts to face you more directly.

“I don’t want to be the guy who just drops in for soup and a bedtime story.”

You blink. “Then what do you want to be?”

Jay holds your gaze. “Someone who stays. Someone you look forward to seeing in the morning and who comes home at night.”

Your throat tightens. You fold another shirt slowly, buying yourself time. Then—softly: “You don’t feel like a guest anymore.”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod. And in the silence that follows, something like a promise begins to grow between you... unspoken, still fragile, but real this time.

That night, after your daughter’s asleep and the house is quiet, you sit on the edge of the couch with a glass of water and whisper: “Staying isn’t about never leaving the house. It’s about not leaving us.”

Jay nods, eyes locked to yours. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and you believe him. You really do.

Your daughter’s staying the night at your parents’ place. A last-minute offer. “You need a break,” your mom said over the phone. “We haven’t had her overnight in weeks.”

You almost said no. You almost felt guilty. But Jay, sitting across the room, gave you a quiet nod when he overheard the offer. A subtle, hopeful smile. And for some reason, you wanted to see what the night might feel like without the space between you constantly being filled by someone else.

So here you are. Just the two of you. Again.

The faucet is leaking in the kitchen. A rhythmic, hollow drip you’ve been ignoring for a week now. But Jay doesn’t. He grabs your small toolbox after dinner and crouches under the sink like it’s second nature.

You watch him work: sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, a smudge of dust across his wrist. He mutters something under his breath when a bolt slips, and you smile without realizing.

“How do you still know where everything is in my house?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t look up. “It was mine too. For a long time.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. It was. When he finally emerges from under the sink, flushed and slightly damp from the spray, you hand him a towel without thinking. Jay takes it — your fingers brushing — and he pauses.

Looks up at you. Lingers. You both stand there for a moment too long.

Your voice is quiet. “You want tea or something?”

He hesitates. “Sure.”

The tea never gets made. Because somewhere between boiling the water and finding the honey, he walks around the kitchen island and stands behind you — not too close, just there. Warm. Quiet. Waiting. You feel his presence before you turn. “Jay—” you start, barely a breath.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice low. You nod. “If I kissed you right now… would you stop me?” You freeze.

His voice is careful, reverent. “I’m not asking because I want to complicate things. I’m asking because… I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that night.”

You swallow hard. “I haven’t either.”

He moves just a little closer. You can smell the clean scent of his hoodie. Feel the heat radiating from his chest. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for you, but won’t until you give him permission.

So you turn—slowly—and meet his eyes. There’s something heavy in your chest. Hope, maybe. Fear. Longing. All tangled.

You whisper, “Jay…”

And he leans in, just enough that his nose brushes yours. “You can stop me,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips. “Say the word and I’ll pull away.”

You don’t say it. Instead, you reach up, trembling and cautious, and press your palm to his cheek. His eyes flutter shut. Then you kiss him. Soft at first. Tentative.

But when his hand finds your waist, when you breathe his name into his mouth like it still belongs there, it deepens. Grows urgent. Familiar. He kisses like he’s still memorizing you. Like this moment matters. Like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he rushes it.

And for a long, quiet second, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The forgiveness. The ache. The still-burning truth that somewhere in you, you never stopped loving him. When you finally pull away, you're both breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Eyes shut.

Jay speaks first. “I’ve waited years for that.”

You don’t move. “Was it what you expected?” you whisper.

He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “No. It was better.”

You could say something sarcastic. Deflect. Joke. But you don’t. Instead, you whisper, “Stay. Just… stay tonight.”

Jay meets your eyes. “I will.”

And this time, when you curl into him on the couch, it’s not out of convenience or exhaustion or obligation. It’s because being close to him finally feels right again.

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enha x reader #jay x y/n #jay scenarios #jay x reader #dad jay #dad!jay #enha fanfic #park jongseong #enha angst

130 notes · View notes

countrydionysia · 8 months ago

Text

2024 Rural Dionysia Announcement

Io! The time of the year has come again for the Rural Dionysia!

How to participate

The Rural Dionysia is meant to be a smaller competition than its urban counterpart, as such, we have selected only 3 categories:

Freestyle poetry

Modern hymns

“Complete the fragment”

Freestyle poetry

Your poem can be about any chosen topic (myth, personal experience etc.) in any written format. It doesn't have to be religious in nature.

Modern hymn

An hymn must sing the praises of a deity of your choice. Unlike the "freestyle poetry", your work must be of religious nature to fit in this category.

Complete the Fragment

Each year, we choose a fragment from an Ancient Greek poet to work with. The challenge is that the initial fragment must be included somewhere in your piece in its original order. This means you can fill the gaps however you want, but you can’t switch the order of the words in your piece or remove words from the original fragment.

Here is the fragment selected for this 2024 edition:

Fragment 113 by Alcaeus (trans. David A. Campbell; Loeb 142)

…kiss…(they) began…knowledge…sits…are…mortal

Here is the Greek text for reference. Note that because the word "they" is implied, it will be acceptable to keep or modify this word.

If in doubt for any of these categories, remember that you can check submissions from the previous years to get an idea of how others have done before.

Submitting your piece

Please submit your piece through submissions on this blog. All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. but you can only choose 1 category per piece and each person may only submit 1 entry per category each year.

Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks. If your entry needs a trigger warning, kindly add them at the end of your submission and we will take care of adding them in. Check the rules below for further information about submissions.

Calendar of the event

Nov. 16: Official announcement and opening of submissions. Dec. 17: Final submission day. Dec. 18: Vote opening. Dec. 25: Vote closing. Dec. 25-26: Announcement of the winners!

No worries though! We will be posting reminders about each step when the time comes.

General rules

Roleplay and fanfic are not acceptable submissions. This is a religious festival, please respect our faith and do not submit an entry if you are roleplaying or writing fanfiction.

Unlike with the City Dionysia, entries do not necessarily have to be about specific deities or Hellenic polytheism except for the “Modern Hymn” category, which has to be dedicated to one or many gods of your choice.

There are no meter restrictions. This is up to the writer.

All stories, myths, and poems must be entered using the submissions button.

All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks.

An entry may only be submitted to a single category.

Each person may only submit one entry per category each year.

Winners for each category will be decided by popular vote.

Admins of this blog cannot participate, for obvious reasons. As for now, this includes @thegrapeandthefig @verdantlyviolet

Questions about the rules? Check the blog for past answers, your answer might be in there. And if it's not, simply submit an ask. We'll answer in the best delays possible.

#dionysusdeity #hellenismos #hellenic paganism #hellenic polytheism #hellenic gods #country dionysia #hellenic festivals #hellenic pagan #hellenic worship #hellenic revivalism #hellenic reconstructionism

271 notes · View notes

sense8week · 2 months ago

Text

June 2025 is Sense8's 10th anniversary

To mark this momentous occasion, we'll be having our first Sense8 Week! An annual event to celebrate our beloved show.

This event will run from June 9th to June 15th. To be featured in the blog just make sure to use the tag #sense8week. We also have an AO3 collection for fic and podfic.

Prompts

The following prompts were chosen so people can create in different mediums. Feel free to pick one or to mix and match. Get creative!

June 9th — Connection | Favorite character | Blue

June 10th — Visiting | Favorite scene | Green

June 11th — Sharing | Favorite relationship | Yellow

June 12th — Separation | Favorite antagonist | Orange

June 13th — Sex | Favorite sex scene | Red

June 14th — Cluster | Favorite cluster moment | Violet

June 15th — Free Space | Rainbow

—

FAQ under the cut

Q: What can I make for #sense8week?

A: Anything! Fics, gifsets, art, video edits, meta, any form of fanwork is allowed and encouraged.

Q: Is NSFW allowed?

A: Pal, we've all seen the show, of course it is (just add somewhere on your post that your work is NSFW and we'll share it)

Q: Is there a minimum or maximum?

A: Nope! You can create without limitations.

Q: Do I have to submit something everyday?

A: No, you can submit as many or as few works as you like.

Q: Do I have to focus on a ship?

A: No, this event is open to all types of work Gen or otherwise.

Q: Is this event poly friendly?

A: Yes, all ships are allowed.

Q: I have a question that's not listed here.

A: Send us a message and we'll try to reply as soon as possible.

#sense8week #sense8 #sense8edit #netflixedit #riley blue #nomi marks #lito rodriguez #will gorski #wolfgang bogdanow #kala dandekar #capheus onyango #sun bak #fandom events #admin post

107 notes · View notes

zwolfgames · 1 month ago

Text

The Shadow Cursed Lands.

Aight, here we are again. Everyone's favourite act, act 2, starts now.

Warnings: Technically kidnapping, Karlach cries :(

Other parts: Prev Part , Next Part , The List

(3rd person POV)

"This place stinks!"

Karlach complains as your little band of misfits walk through the path leading into the Shadow Cursed lands.

"Well, yes, everything here is rotting." Gale adds matter-of-factly, even jots a finger up as if pointing it out. Astarion quickly takes said finger to push Gale's hand back down to communicate that he's being embarrassing.

"It is a curse laid upon this land long ago; it saps up all of the living energy of this land." Halsin sighs sadly.

"Of course it's a curse; it's in the name, Shadow cursed lands." Astarion scoffs.

"None of you understand the beauty of this place; my lady Shar has made it her own." Shadowheart sighs in contentment.

You all but wish to groan. Ever since you'd stepped foot on this cursed soil, Wyll has been clinging to one of your arms while Lea'zel has practically attached to your side, if not for the two centimetres she's left to just not touch.

You've almost fallen over both of their legs...

"Is Y/N still breathing?" Halsin calls out from the front; he's been slowly pushed up front to get you away from him. Your companions seem to have agreed that aside from the tadpole issue, the druid is common enemy number one. After that stunt he pulled at the Crèche and all...

"No, they're dead." Astarion scoffs.

You make a dramatic dead face, making Karlach chuckle slightly.

"What?" Halsin asks in concern, trying to look backwards.

"They're fine." Wyll answers.

Halsin huffs with a curt nod, continuing to lead the group.

"So what do you reckon lives here?" You ask, trying not to shudder at the shadows grazing your back.

"Cursed shadows and vitality-drained past civilians, I'd imagine," Gale answers with a nod.

"Shadowheart, your deity has chosen quite an atrocious place to call her own." Lae'zel mocks.

Shadowheart fumes in silence, knowing it's not worth it to fight the Gith on this at the moment, especially since shadows are coming closer due to the lack of moon lanterns your group has.

"Everyone, quiet down. We should be finding the goblins here soon; they should believe we're part of them." Gale speaks.

"Who made you boss?" Astarion raises a brow.

"I am not acting as the boss; I am merely-" Gale starts before getting shushed by Halsin as the large man approaches the goblins.

"Fellow true souls... We have received a mission here in the shadow-cursed lands... you are to be our... escorts?" Halsin tries. Astarion rolls his eyes at the bad acting, knowing he could have done better.

The goblins raise their gnarly brows too. Maybe the random note you had all found in the goblin camp wasn't very accurate anymore... oh well-

Wyll seems to get a really good idea and pulls out some ugly lyre he must have gotten somewhere – oh wait, the Spider lyre... right... something something on that note about a guide.

"We've brought the Lyre..." Wyll interrupts. Showing the instrument.

"You play?" You ask in a whisper. Wyll stiffens up slightly, realising he doesn't... actually... no one does...

"Give me that." Gale scoffs, using some sort of spell to get it going into a song.

The lyre plays a soft yet eerie tune. Filling the dark lands with sounds it hadn't heard for a while.

Slowly, a bug-like clattering noise came closer. Big exoskeletal legs, by the sound of it. Honestly, you should have expected so. Spider lyre... It's going to be a spider....

"Who have we here? Followers of my lady?"

This strange drider speaks. His white hair flowing slightly in the almost nonexistent wind.

"Followers of the Absolute. They have a thing to do in Moonrise Towers." One of the goblins nods.

"I see... I am Kar'niss, your guide. You'd do best to stay close and not stray from my ladies' guidance." Kar'niss, or the drider, warns. Clutching his strange lantern tightly.

That is before he starts clattering away. Expecting you all to follow.

Lea'zel had already taken your arm tightly, on guard around both the goblins and the drider.

"You have quite a young follower with you." Kar'niss speaks to the two goblins walking closest by him.

The goblins turn to eye you for a moment before nodding along.

Lae'zel tightened her hold on you, almost afraid that the drider would take you from them.

She wasn't that wrong, however, as Kar'niss swiftly scooped you up for observation. And this being was damn tall due to his arachnid appendages. Almost like a centaur, just creepier.

You pale quickly as he looks you over from head to toe.

"I haven't seen a young one in quite some time... My lady would surely like to see you." Kar'niss states eerily. His eight beady black eyes flickering over your scared visage.

"Give them back." Lae'zel demands hastily, her teeth almost bared in honest rage at you being taken out of the group's reach.

"You do not demand of the guide!" One of the goblins yells back at your Gith friend.

Lae'zel then promptly bashes the goblin in with her greatsword.

The group stops moving as everyone tries to guess who is aggressive towards whom.

The hesitant glances only take a moment before a fight breaks loose. About half of your companions immediately try to jump Kar'niss to get you out of his chitin-covered hands.

The drider scowls in disdain as he dodges a spell or two, scurrying away with you firmly planted in his arms. A disadvantage for him since it keeps him from using his sword.

You yell to be let go to no avail; he's taken a fascination and will take you to the absolute.

"Get back here!" You hear Wyll yell angrily as he sprints after the both of you. As a folk hero, he does run quite quickly. Perhaps Lae'zel could beat him if she wasn't preoccupied with slaying the leftover goblins out of rage.

You yelp in surprise when Kar'niss starts scaling the wall like a true spider. Making your body weight lean onto his chest due to the change in gravitational direction.

The stone brick tower you're being taken up on... is this Moonrise Towers – oh fuck!

Your companions had to give up their chase when Kar'niss got too far since they were now left without the protection of the moon lantern.

---

"And who might this be?"

A foreign voice speaks with great intensity as you're presented by the drider.

"I have found a little one in our ranks." Kar'iss explains. You'd been recently immobilised by spider threads. Sticky and restraining against your skin.

"And this is of note... why?" The old man before you asks. A dog made of solely bones lay by his side. The grey-bearded man wears quite the imposing armour, glinting in the sinister light of Moonrise Towers.

"I had presumed since you miss your daughter so... you'd appreciate a new young one." Kar'niss speaks.

You're flabbergasted. The old man is flabbergasted. You're somehow both just as perplexed at such a suggestion.

Your head suddenly pangs with a painful twist. A voice speaking to you telepathically.

'Child, do not trust Ketheric Thorm... Do you hear me?'

The voice booms in your head. It's quickly silenced as this supposed Ketheric sets a gauntlet-covered hand upon your head.

He seems to have noticed your mind's intruder.

"Do you serve the absolute, child?" Ketheric asks in a stern manner, the gem of his headpiece sparkling slightly.

"Uh.. yessir. With my life, body and soul." You declare in what leftover confidence you can muster up.

You realised you'd need to keep up the act of a mindwashed subject before you got killed out of suspicion.

"Come." Ketheric demands of you, his deep voice shivering down your spine as if audibly bass-induced.

Your mind debates on whether or not to do as he says... Do the followers of the absolute still have a shred of free will? You don't recall the answer, so obedience it is.

You now stand before this intimidating-looking man. The unfamiliar voice in your head silenced sheerly through his imposing aura.

The man grasps your jaw in his armoured hand. The cold metal practically sears into your skin. Causing a mild flinch. You hope it isn't that noticeable. Wouldn't want your act to drop.

Ketheric finishes his observations of you. Moving his hand in a fluid motion from your jaw to the side of your face, tucking a strand of your messed-up hair behind your ear in a slightly soft manner.

"Bring them to our paladin. She will keep her eyes on them and ensure proper training." Kethric decides in a grave tone. Letting Kar'niss take hold of your upper arm to drag you down into the tower, via the actual stairs this time.

Paladin...? What are they going to do? Teach you sword fighting? Aren't you a little too... magical for that?

A dull thud in the back of your head springs to life again. It's been getting worse ever since you got taken from the party...

Kar'niss drops you off at a familiar-looking drow woman, who is currently sharpening her greatsword on a grimy grindstone.

"You!" The woman gasps as if you personally disgraced the ground she walked upon. You recognise her now... The woman on the beach who had intended to kill you while you lay there vulnerable.

"Maybe..." You murmur awkwardly. Her hair still reminded you of your mother, though the comparison was making you increasingly uncomfortable considering she was part of this cult.

The drow goes over the details with Kar'niss briefly before almost hoisting you up by the arm.

"Barely any muscle to you. And Ketheric wants you trained? Pathetic welp." The woman snarls.

You recalled the drider had called her Minthara, so that was what you decided her name was.

She went on to grumble about being saddled up with burdens, one after another, as she dragged you towards a training area.

You were unceremoniously handed a sword. The cold grip of it feeling heavy against your skin. Being used to staffs and smaller daggers... this was a mile out of your comfort zone.

To your complete surprise, Minthara came running up towards you with a sword of her own. Slashing down at you without a shred of mercy behind her ruby eyes.

You let out a startled grunt as you block the attack just in time. Your arms immeadiatly bursting with warmth from the unfamiliar excersize, straining your muscles greatly.

"Lazy sorcerers. Can't even hold a sword." The drow snarls as she thuds the blunt side of her swords' handle into your abdomen. Making you buckle down and heave for breath. The attack rendering you breathless and in pain.

By the gods... where was the party when you needed them?

-------

"What do you mean, we can't go to Moonrise towers alone?" Gale snaps at the leader of the Harpers.

After your sudden abduction, they had ran around the Shadow-cursed lands in desperate search for you. Hoping dearly that wherever you were was safe.

Everyone was a bundle of nerves, ready to explode.

No one even dared to look at Halsin or he'd just go bezerk.

Jaheira was telling them of plans to infiltrate Moonrise towers, and that the party could under no circumstances go in alone and disrupt the Harpers' careful planning.

"If this child you speak of really got taken by a cultist, then they will be there. Alive or not." The female druid repeats once more. That little 'not' unsettled everyone greatly.

"When- When are you doing this attack?" Wyll pipes up, trying to stay calm and focused, as a folk hero should.

"In two days, we will strike from the bridge. You are all free to fight alongside us... or don't. Perhaps you plan to take advantage of the chaos of the battle to find this child?" Jaheira questions, obviously having better things to do than search for a child that isn't hers.

Lae'zel was bordering on furious, having to choose between wanting to be mad that the Harpers would assume they'd dishonour the art of war or being angry that they couldn't go get you sooner.

Off in the corner, Shadowheart was busy trying to get Karlach to stop crying. Whether the burning thiefling did so to try and score pity points or because of genuine emotion... nobody knew.

It's not like the tears could roll down her cheeks, as they evaporated rapidly.

"Fine, fine. We'll find Y/N during the attack." Gale almost spits. Honestly, he was scared out of his mind right now, imagining you dead on the floor of some cold dungeon cell.

Lae'zel attempted to snarl in protest, which Astarion hesitantly stopped, earning him a hateful glare from the Gith.

"I just hope they're safe..." Karlach sniffles, wiping a burning tissue over her red cheeks.

"Let's just aim for alive..." Shadowheart cringes. Not wanting to imagine the torture you're in.

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

"I said high swing, not mediocre lopsided goblin swing!" Minthara screams at you, you're currently seeing spots, as you've been relentlessly sword training for the past two days.

The low amount of sleeping hours you're permitted, along with the meager diet and bad overall vibe of Moonrise towers, has been bringing you into great fatigue.

The drow woman did not seem to notice, though you've heard drow are often raised on harsh training like this...

Your knee almost gives out as she barks at the goblins on the side to stop yelling about being used to insult your technique.

"Again, Y/N. Now or no dinner." Minthara barks. You almost groan in exhaustion, you really needed dinner...

To your absolute delight, the alarm sounded, the tower was under attack, you presume. Maybe your party finally came for you... You almost gave up hope.

Before you can slink away into the crowds of fighting goblins to try and spot Halsin's height or Lae'zels' war cries, you're grabbed by your trainer.

Minthara quickly shuffles you away with her to what you presume is a safe room. Under the instruction of Ketheric, no doubt...

There went your chance of saving. The woman covered your mouth with a rag to shut you up in case you called out for help, standing guard at the door.

Goodbye hope....

Yayyy! A chapter (kinda).

Not as long as I wanted it, but I figured doing all of Act 2 in one chapter was a bit too much; there's still a whole bunch after Y/N's rescue. Don't say hi to Act 3 just yet.

Will make a post to bundle all the links regarding this series together because I'm getting lost myself. Also, holy space being I have 170 followers on here? Like, hi everyone? What the heck. Thank you <33

The exam period starts now, so I'll see what I can post. Sad ;(

From an overworked interior architect to you all, do not study architecture-related things; it's actually hell.

BTW is Grammarly bad as a grammar checker?

Until the next one :3

#yandere #yandere x reader #xreader #oneshots #platonic yandere #gender neutral reader #gn reader #bg3 #platonic bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #platonic yandere bg3 #shadowheart #bg3 ketheric #ketheric thorm #minthara #laezel #karlach #platonic yandere x reader #platonic

56 notes · View notes