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★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader
★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.
★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞
★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?
★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!
★ w.c: 10k
pretty ; chapter index
YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.
It didn’t always feel that way.
When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.
For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.
But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.
You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.
And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.
The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”
Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.
You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.
It was 10:18 PM.
You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.
You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.
Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.
“Hey,” you said.
He nodded. “Hey.”
You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.
“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”
“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.
You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.
But tonight… you couldn’t.
It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.
“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”
He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”
You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.
Nothing.
You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”
That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”
“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”
His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”
“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”
He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.
“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”
“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”
He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”
“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”
He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.
“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.
The room went still.
He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.
But he didn’t reach for you.
Didn’t say I’m sorry.
Didn’t say I missed you.
Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”
Not working?
Not working?
“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”
He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”
“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”
“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”
“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”
“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”
He was probably right.
“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.
“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”
“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.
You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”
That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:
“You could be so much happier without me.”
And just like that, everything inside you stopped.
Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.
“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”
You didn’t say it back.
Not this time.
Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?
Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”
He froze.
“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.
But you didn’t.
“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”
And you meant it.
Even if it destroyed you.
You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.
Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?
YOU
| Guys we’re going out tn.
When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.
You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.
Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.
The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.
You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?
“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.
You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."
You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.
No, a year ago, your life changed.
So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.
Dante.
It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.
That was until you turned the corner and saw him.
Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?
Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.
You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.
But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.
Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.
You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.
Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”
But you didn’t wait up. No way.
You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.
Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.
You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.
His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”
A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?
A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”
Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.
He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?
He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.
For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.
“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”
You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”
And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.
You were done.
That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.
You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.
But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.
You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.
Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.
But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.
Kill me, you thought.
That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.
Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.
You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.
The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.
The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.
Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.
Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.
Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.
Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.
You glanced down.
There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.
The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.
“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.
You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?
All you could do was crack the window open.
“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”
“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.
But he was.
“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”
“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”
“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”
“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”
Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.
Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.
“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”
What the fuck is going on?
In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.
“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”
Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”
“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”
“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”
“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”
You snorted. “Oh, please.”
He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”
“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”
“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”
“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”
A pregnant pause.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.
“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”
Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?
Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”
You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”
You stared at him.
“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”
He’s not being serious
… Is he?
One look at him, and you knew he was.
You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”
“Why?”
You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.
“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”
Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.
No. Stop that.
Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”
He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”
You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”
That hit its mark.
His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.
“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”
“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”
“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”
He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…
You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.
Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”
He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.
“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”
You almost respected his commitment. Almost.
You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.
“What do I have to do to convince you?”
You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.
“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.
Then… you shut the window.
The next day came with no promises of peace.
You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.
And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.
You didn’t have to look up.
You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.
“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”
You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.
There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.
You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.
“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.
You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”
“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”
“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”
“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”
Oh my god.
You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”
He laughed. “You remembered.”
You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”
Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”
You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”
“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.
“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.
“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.
“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”
She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”
“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”
Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”
You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”
And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.
The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.
You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.
“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”
He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.
“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”
You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”
He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”
You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.
There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.
You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.
“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”
You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…
You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.
Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”
You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.
And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.
You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.
One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation.
What? You needed it.
The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.
God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.
You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.
You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.
Knock, knock.
Your hand froze.
You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.
Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.
You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.
It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.
You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.
Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.
“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”
You pulled the door open.
Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.
“Hey, princess,” he said.
There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.
You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.
The door clicked shut behind you.
You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”
“Did you?” You answered.
“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”
You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”
“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”
You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”
“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”
Your breath caught.
After all of this time?
His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.
Okay… what the fuck is going on?
“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”
Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.
He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.
Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”
You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.
He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.
“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”
He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”
“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.
Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.
Then he stepped in behind you.
Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”
His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.
“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”
The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?
You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.
And, God, the sex… The sex was great.
He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.
You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.
“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”
His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.
“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”
You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”
His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.
“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”
And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.
His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.
God, I missed this.
You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.
You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.
But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.
You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.
“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”
He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.
“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
There it was.
“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”
He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.
But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.
“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”
And then, he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.
I could treat you so much better.
Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.
You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.
And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.
Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.
You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.
But you didn’t.
You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.
"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"
It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.
“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.
You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.
You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?
You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.
“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”
Babe.
The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.
The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.
But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.
You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.
The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.
“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.
You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.
You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.
You couldn’t help it.
You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.
His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”
He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”
“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”
You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.
“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”
His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”
“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”
There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.
“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”
He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.
“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”
He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”
“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”
His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.
You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.
You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real.
You were leaving him.
“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”
But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.
Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.
“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”
As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it.
But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.
And there it was: Dante’s old number.
The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.
I could treat you better.
I’ve always been in love with you.
A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.
So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.
YOU: I need you.
You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.
a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok
I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.
also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!
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More Posts from See-the-thrill and Others
vigilante izuku head canons plsss, can be nsfw or a mix of both
Nsfw warning-these are not exactly head cannons,sorry, but a small scenario I guess
He definitely didn't shower for a long period of time and you couldn't even blame him. So he smelled..bad
He'd feel guilty about it and when you two saw each other again after like 1 months of him being gone,you immediately went in for a hug
He didn't know what to do,he felt bad knowing how bad he smelled but eventually he returned the hug, placing a wet kiss on your forehead
"..I missed you"
You helped him out by running him a bath and washing his hair for him
That night he refused to let go of you, holding you tight into his arms and cuddling you the whole time
He would kiss your face and cheeks, telling you how much he missed you and your hugs
He couldn't help himself but felt a bit needy,he was away from you for so long,can you blame him?
He didn't notice it but he started humping your leg while you guys cuddled,it was honestly out of instinct! He didn't mean it!
You asked him about it and he just confessed to you how needy he was,he missed getting intimate with you
He had you sitting on his lap and gently riding him,you were doing it slow and carefully
He was never into rough sex
He would whine and whimper almost femininely, laying down onto the bed
His hand would grip either on the bedsheets under him either on your thigh
"please..you feel so good.. please don't stop"
He loves creampies,he just came so fast and so hard without any warning, moaning out loud
Poor thing,he didn't even think about the possibility of his classmates hearing him. And they definitely heard him
They questioned the both of you in the morning
My whole world
Dante x fem reader
Author notes: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, friends with benefits to lovers, no smut but there is sexual innuendos, confessions in the rain, you guys argue.
I fall in love with him more and more everyday.
Today was a great day or so you thought. Dante brought you your favorite breakfast to bed and spent the whole morning cuddling you. You then went out with Lady and Trish to go shopping in the early afternoon. You saw a cute dog while walking back to Devil May Cry and the owner let you pet him then give him a treat. You then got ready for a night out with your little squad.
Now you’re at the same old bar your group always goes to but you have to watch many women ALL over Dante. If looks could kill they’d all be dead. Dante too on accident. Or is it an accident at this rate? You and Dante probably have the most complicated relationship.
You’ve know each other for a couple of years because he helped you move into your apartment. You ironically moved into the open apartment right next to Lady. They were coming up to her apartment when they saw you struggling to carry everything by yourself. Dante quickly rushed over to you and took the extra boxes in your hands and asked if you needed help.
Lady also pitched in and after a couple of hours, you three got everything into your apartment. To thank them you ordered a pizza and gave them some beers. You all sat down eating and drinking while introducing yourselves. Before they left they each gave you their numbers to keep in touch since you didn’t know anyone in town.
After that night you three regularly met up to hang out in your apartment. Within a couple of weeks they introduced you to Trish and she ended up moving the get togethers to the bar. You don’t mind of course because sometimes cleaning up after the four of you got tedious.
Dante would always stay to help you clean up though. He would also check your apartment to “make sure everything looks good still.” You believed him at first then once you found of the groups profession, you now know he was making sure no demons were lurking anywhere.
But that is the reason why you and Dante got close fast. The little clean up sessions would end up being late night talks or motorcycle rides. You two would talk everyday whether that be over the phone or meeting up.
The relationship didn’t change much until a few months ago. You two were hanging out in Devil May Cry watching a movie and eating pizza. Before you even realized you were in his lap making out with him. Neither of you two know how you two got there but that didn’t stop you two.
That night you ended up sleeping together too. You woke up before him, in his bed. You were also stuck in place because Dante had a tight hold on you. So you just laid there and thought about everything. How did this happen? Will this change things? What will Dante think? Will this ruin your friendship?
You hear a groan in your ear so you wiggle around to try and face Dante. He realizes what you’re trying to do so he loosens his grip on you. Just enough to let you turn around but once you’re facing him he holds tightly onto you again.
“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he mumbled deeply. You already thought his voice was deep and beautiful but his morning voice is something else. It sends a warmth back to your core. Trying to ignore the heat of your lower area you bury yourself into him.
“Good morning,” you murmur back.
“Want some breakfast? I think I got some stuff. I actually went grocery shopping this week.”
You laugh at his comment knowing that he hates grocery shopping and always “forgets” to do it. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
He lets go of you and sits up. He lets out another groan while he stretches then hops out of bed. He grabs his discarded underwear from last night puts them on. He then grabs his shirt and throws it over to you. A silent request and you listen. You throw the shirt on and hop out of bed.
You follow Dante down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dante opens the fridge and looks at the small contents of food he has. He asks, “Is eggs and toast good?”
“Yep, sounds good to me. I’ll make the toast while you can make the eggs.”
Dante nods and goes to prepare the eggs. You grab the bread that is on the counter next to the toaster funny enough. You take out four pieces and pop them into the toaster. While the bread toasts you zone out thinking about this all again.
Dante isn’t acting any different than he normally does. So does he regret this? Is this a one time thing in his opinion? You don’t know. There’s so many questions unasked that are obviously going unanswered. But you don’t know how to start the conversation.
You then feel two strong arms wrap around you and pull you into a warm embrace. Dante’s whole body engulfs you. He leans his chin on your shoulder, “I was calling out to you. Are you okay?”
You just nod your head but that doesn’t convince him. He squeezes you tighter, “Are you thinking about all of this?”
He feels you stiffen for a second, that’s how he knows he’s right. Dante lets out a deep breath and tilts your chin so you can look at him.
You look into his beautiful blue eyes. You can see the message he’s trying to put across. It makes you ease up a bit because if he thought negatively of this situation, he wouldn’t give you such a tender look.
“How about we just go with the flow?” He suggests. “We both know I have a messy life and can’t exactly do relationships so let’s keep it casual. We do what we want when we want to. We can obviously set more rules later but what do you think?”
You think about his offer, so he wants to do a friend’s with benefits situation. The idea isn’t all that appealing because you’re more into being in relationships, but this is Dante. The man you’ve been into since he helped you. You selfishly want him in whatever way you can have him. If this is the only way then you’ll do it. Even if it means sacrificing your emotions.
You look at him and give him a light smile, “I’m in, let’s do it.”
Dante smirks and lowers his hand to your butt and gives it a squeeze, “Atta girl.”
Since that day for months you and Dante have been “secretly” hooking up. It was a secret at first until Trish walked into Devil May Cry and see Dante pounding into you on his desk. Trish then told Lady and those two jumped you one night after work demanding answers.
You sigh and lead them up to your apartment where you sit down and tell them the situation. They are not happy with you or him.
“You like him so why put yourself through that? Get a real man that will actually take you out and be your boyfriend,” Trish and Lady lecture you.
“But- I just… this is the only way I can have him. I’ve liked him for so long and I don’t want anyone else. If this is how I can have him then I’ll take it. Even if it means it’ll slowly break my heart,” you gently whisper not being able to look at them.
Trish walks over and kneels in front of you placing a hand on your shoulder. “I get it that you like him so much but he’s only hurting you.”
You snap your head up to look at her, you don’t like how she’s talking down on him. “No he’s not! He takes me out on dates all the time. We don’t always sleep together. We still hang out normally and do everything we use to just with the addition of sleeping together. He’s really protective and sweet. He’s even gotten me some gifts. So don’t talk down on him like he’s some random bar guy. I love him and I don’t want to hear you belittle him.”
Your eyes widen at your own confession and you slap your hands over your mouth. Trish and Lady both stare at you owlishly.
Lady clears her throat, “You love him?” You nod your head. “And he takes care of you?” She asks to confirm.
“Yes he does.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose, “Then why isn’t it official?”
“It’s complicated. Don’t question it, let me deal with all of this.”
That talk was a couple weeks ago and now the two girls watch you seethe in your seat. They see the white haired man talking to all the ladies and making no effort to push them away. You all are too far to hear what they are saying. It’s probably a good thing for your emotional well being.
Trish turns her head to see you knocking back another shot. She’s lost count of how many you’ve done and that’s not good. Normally you barely drink and now you’re pushing it.
“Hey,” she calls out to you. “Take a break yeah?”
You turn to glare at her, “I’m perfectly fine!”
Lady rolls her eyes and just continues to watch this all unfold. Trish has the patience of a saint.
“Why don’t you go dance for a bit? Blow off some steam.”
You beam at her and lighten up. “Oh yeah! I’ll be back later!!” You then run off to the middle of the dance floor.
“Why the hell would you send her drunk and emotional self onto the dance floor?” Lady questions.
Trish slips slowly on her drink, “Because Dante is going to clean his mess up.”
As if she could predict the future Dante comes marching over, “Hey where the hell is she?”
“Who?” Trish asks.
Dante says your name aggressively. Trish then looks over Dante’s shoulder to find you. She finds you in the middle of a group of guys trying to feel you up while dancing. She smirks to herself thinking this situation is perfect.
“Oh she’s just on the dance floor with a bunch of guys over there.” She points to where you are.
Dante snapped his neck so fast. If he was just human he would have definitely broke his neck. He looks to see a crowd of guys all over you trying to lay their hands on you.
His blood boils watching the scene. Before he realized he is marching over to where you are. He’s pushing past people mumbling “excuse me’s” and “sorry’s”.
You don’t even fully realize what’s going on. You’re just trying to dance to one of your favorite songs then suddenly a group of men are around you. They all are trying to get close but you keep dodging them until they have you in the middle of the circle.
You try to keep your head down and keep dancing but that isn’t helping. They are trying to grind on you or try and wrap themselves around you. You hate this. You wanted to dance to get Dante’s escapades out of your head. But now you’re in a stupid situation.
You see a hand reaching out to you in your peripheral vision, you squeezed your eyes shut hoping to delay the event. But the touch never comes. You open your eyes to see Dante holding the man’s wrist. “You better leave her alone if you know what’s good for all of you.”
Then men feel this murderous aura pouring off of Dante. They all quickly apologize and scatter off. You’re happy that Dante helped but you’re still mad at him. You turn away from him but he places his hands on your waist and turn you to face him. He then takes your arms and wraps them around his neck before placing his hands back on your waist.
“What, no praise for your knight in shining leather?” He jokes.
You roll your eyes and ignore him. But that doesn’t stop him from pulling you closer and leading you two in a slow dance.
You keep your eyes off of him while you dance and don’t really seem focused in the moment. He can tell you’re drunk but there’s something else bugging you.
He calls your name, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing Dante,” you snap.
“Whoa there’s definitely something wrong. Come on you have my full attention so tell me what’s wrong.”
This makes your blood boil. You push him away from you and jab your finger into his chest, “You really have some fucking audacity Dante.”
You then spin around and rush out of the bar. Dante stands there in shock and confused by your sudden shift in emotions. You’ve never yelled and snapped at him before. He’s seen you drunk but you’re more of sleepy drunk. This is really coming out of nowhere in his eyes. He knows he can let your drunk self be by yourself at night so he goes after you.
He pushes open the door of the and steps outside. He feels the rain coming down and he curses to himself. He looks left and right then sees you and takes off after you.
You rushed out of the bar to be greeted by a downpour. Great! Just what you needed after this terrible night. You cross your arms over your chest to try and keep as much warmth as you can.
You sniffle which makes you realize that you are crying. You mutter out “fuck” and wipe your tears. Maybe you shouldn’t have done this agreement. You knew something like this would happen but you just couldn’t say no to such a tempting offer.
You feel someone grab your wrist while saying your name. You know exactly who it is. You try to rip your wrist out of his grip but he’s not budging. You stop the futile fight, “Dante, let go,” You beg.
“No, not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
You turn your head to face him and he gapes at your reaction. He sees your red eyes with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you fully cry before. He doesn’t even realize he loosened his grip until you pull your hand away and bolt again.
He quickly takes after you again and this time he runs in front of you to stop you. He’s breathing heavily not because of the running but because of his nerves. “Okay tell me what’s wrong.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“No. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you!” He yells finally tired of your constant dismissal.
You clench your fists and stare right at him, “You wanna know the problem?” Dante quickly nods. “It’s you Dante! You’re the fucking problem!”
Dante feels like he’s been punched in the gut. What do you mean he’s the problem? “What- how… what do you mean I’m the problem?”
You laugh at his answer, “Of course you wouldn’t know!”
“Oh enlighten me then,” he says sarcastically.
“Just go back to your other girls and leave me alone! You did a great job of doing it already, I bet it wouldn’t be hard.”
“Oh so you were jealous? That’s why you’re upset? I was planning on going home with you tonight and fucking you until the sun rose so don’t worry.” He deadpans.
Your jaw drops, the audacity he fucking has. You can’t even right now. You try to walk past him but he sticks his arm out preventing you from getting around.
“DANTE GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!” You scream.
Dante is even more confused, he thought he fixed this. “Why are you still mad?”
You push past his arm and continue on ahead. “Stop avoiding me!” He yells out to you.
You spin on your heel and stare at him. “You wanna know why I’m so mad?” Dante just nods.
“It’s because I love you Dante! I loved your crazy self ever since you helped me move in.”
You see Dante freeze up completely this time. He opens his mouth then immediately closes it a couple of time then finally mutters, “I didn’t know-“
“Of course you didn’t know because I couldn’t show it or tell you! I was so nervous that morning you were going to tell me that it meant nothing to you and that we should never talk about it. But then you offered the goddamn friends with benefits option and I just couldn’t turn it down.” You throw your hands up in frustration, “I knew doing it would hurt me but I didn’t care. I wanted you. I know it’s selfish but I couldn’t say no. Having you this way was better than not having you in some way. So I decided to do this even though I knew it’d kill me slowly.”
You let the tears flow now and you hiccup, “We gotten so close these past months and have basically acted like a couple. It made me think we really were one. But tonight made me realize we didn’t have a label and I’m not yours and you’re not mine. You can have anyone you want. I got ahead of myself and now we are fighting over my selfishness. We made rules and I broke them. Just do me a favor and go back to having your eyes wander all over those girls.”
You don’t bother to look at Dante. Your heart won’t be able to take it. You decide just to turn around and leave this in the past. You can’t come back from this, especially not after your confession. You start getting further and further from the man you love.
Dante has stood there frozen since your first confession. After every new confession it felt like he was getting stabbed over and over again. He couldn’t bear it. But you were obviously in more pain than him. Yet he is the one that caused it. How could he have been so stupid? He didn’t mean for all of this to happen.
He was in the same boat as you. He is in love with you. That’s why he made you the offer. He thought he would get to have you without forcing you to give up a lot of things to be with someone in his profession. But he ended up taking more from you. The exact opposite he wanted.
He watches you get further and further away. Dante can’t watch you get any further because he can’t lose you for good. He can’t turn his back on you two.
He yells your name but you don’t stop. That doesn’t stop him, he’ll chase after you no matter where you lead him.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath then yells, “WHY WOULD I HAVE WANDERING EYES WHEN MY WHOLE WORLD IS IN FRONT OF ME!?” Now he watches you freeze and turn around. You two are still at least a hundred feet apart still. He slowly makes his way over to you.
“I’m selfish I know. I caused you more pain than you deserved and I hate myself for it. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. All I ever wanted to do was keep you protected and happy. I’d do anything to make that happen. Those girls that were with me tonight did flirt with me at first but I shut them down. I explained how I am so in love with the woman I brought tonight but I don’t have the balls to tell her. So they tried to help me make a plan to confess.”
He runs a hand through his hair, “How funny is that? I can’t fight demons all day long but I can’t tell the woman I love that I love her. I made the arrangement because I thought like you, I thought I’d lose you. And god if I lost you, I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t even bear the thought of you not spending the night anymore.”
He is now only a few steps away from you but stops to give you some space. Dante lightly calls your name, “I know I fucked up but please let me fix it.”
You slowly nod your head indicating him to keep going. He doesn’t waste his chance, “I love you. I am so in love with you and have been since I saw you. Please be with me. No more stupid friends with benefits. Just us in a relationship, where I am yours and you are mine.”
You stare deeply into Dante’s eyes and speak up, “Dante you better not be lying just to try and fix everything. I don’t want you to say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it, I truly love you. I swear to you,” he responds without hesitation.
“Okay then yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
Dante smiles ear to ear and you can’t help yourself from mimicking his reaction. He doesn’t waste another second before pulling you into a bruising kiss.
His big hands brings back so much warmth you have lost in the rain. His tongue runs along the your lips begging for an entrance. You allow him access and he pushes his tongue to meet yours.
He easily dominates your tongue while having your teeth clash from the intense messy kiss. Dante then lightly bites your bottom lip which makes you moan. Dante pulls you closer after your reaction.
The kiss tastes like alcohol and rain. It feels so right and warm. You never will get tired of the intensity of which Dante kisses at.
After Dante feels your movements slow down a bit he breaks the kiss and leans back to look at you. You’re not crying anymore but you’re completely soaked from the rain.
You break the silence first, “Can we head back now? I’m really tired.” You request.
Dante laughs, “Yeah we can head back.” He turns his back to you then crouches down. He turns his head to look over his shoulder, “Hop on, I’ll carry you back.”
You hop onto Dante’s back and hold onto him tightly. You lay your head on his back and whisper loud enough for him to hear, “I love you Dante.”
“I love you too.” He feels your grip loosen a bit indicating you feel asleep. He smiles to himself then whispers, “Sleep well.”
EN kaeya animation again bc.. him……
Hello✋🏾! If I could request a Peter b parker x wife!reader where they have twins (including mayday) during the events of the movie?
No.1 Dad!
“Baby, Please. It’s a canon thing!”
“They’re toddlers!”
PeterBParker x Wife!Reader + little ones :]
light angst and a chase scene. ending is mostly comforting daddy parker
(it’s not sad i jus ❤️ this gif)
(Benjy is a canon named Kid of Peter B Parker’s in the Comics!)
“Peter Benjamin Parker.”
“Oh shit.”
The father of two grimaced at the room full of spidey people. The voice of his wife sounding through the phone and into the echoing room.
“Tell me, why the fuck-“ Peter dragged a worried hand down his face. Miles snickering next to Hobie in the background. “—I woke up, to not only my *husband missing from my bed.” He sucked in a breath, glancing over at Miguel. Stood unimpressed with two spider-children climbing all over him and his platform. “But my two toddlers *lost from their damn cribs.” “Baby, I can explain.” He focused back on the phone, crowding over it like it would help conceal the conversation at all.
“You are in so much shit when you get home, young man.”
“I’m older than you by four years!”
“Watch your tone with me, Mister.”
He groaned, huffing and pouting into the phone while you continued to scold him before Miguel interrupted.
“Good morning, [name]. Hope you slept well.” His monotoned voice drawled out while picking the children off his clothes like bugs, and putting them back on Peter.
“Leave my wife alone.”
“Oh my god, please go somewhere private for this conversation.” Miguel rubbed between his eyes, his favourite thing to do apparently.
Your voice spoke back over him. “I don’t need privacy, I need my damn— Oh! Found it.”
“Baby, what are you—“ The connection cut off midway through his sentence, causing him to huff before realising; “Hey! That got me out of it!”
He straightened his posture, collecting his kids, Mayday and Benjy. And stuffing them into their baby carriers, carefully threading their limbs through each limb-window, as he called it.
A sparkle of warm tones caught his eye, circling from nothing into a fully developed portal.
“Oh, I should’ve known.”
“I seem to be making you say ‘Oh’ a lot.”
“You should’a heard you last night.”
“Peter!” He laughed as he watched you make your way over to him, giving Miguel a courteous nod and Miles a questioning glance. You looked so beautiful. An angel to him, the love of his life. He was so lucky to have you. And the little family you had created for yourselves. All the baby-stealing and stupid pictures aside, you were beyond enamoured with him as well.
“You’re lucky I still have this old thing, Parker. Or you wouldn’t have wanted to come home.
Despite the obvious threat, the only thing he could focus on was “come home”. A sentiment that was single to just your home, or just his home. But it was home. For a family, his family.
The admiration was broken when you pinched his nose. “Ow!”
“Shouldn’t have taken my kids.”
“Our kids!”
“Yeah whatever.”
You turned to Miguel, scanning the room and being very unsurprised at the amount of spider people here. If it was something important, Miguel loved a show. “What’s going on?”
“I’m… explaining something.”
“Uhuh.” you blinked at him slowly, unbelieving.
“Stop talking to my wife.” peter cut in.
“The fate of the multiverse is at stake, [name].-“ He threw his hands up, then gestures aggressively towards the kid next to Hobie.
“It’s his father, or an entire universe!”
“She’s not into you weirdo, back off.”
“Uhuh. And how old is the kid?”
He had the gall to look ashamed. Mayday babbled behind you. Giggling excitedly once she and Benjy had lost interest in whatever they were messing with on Peters suit. “Oh, come here baby.”
“How come I didn’t get that?”
Peter pouted over at you, rocking Benji gently, who was still half asleep.
You turned back around with your kid around your hip, addressing the kid near the centre of the room. “Hey uh—.”
“Miles!” He perked up, shyly waving at you.
“Oh, Miles! Peter talks so much about you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“He even named our dog after you!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“It’s so lovely to finally meet you.” You smiled at Miles whilst he smiled back, happy to know Peter thought of him as much as he did Peter.
“You too, Mrs.Parker!”
“Don’t listen to this lady, she’s crazy and a psychopath!”
Peter stepped into place beside you, shaking his one un-baby-occupied hand in the air wildly.
“She’s off her meds!”
“Peter.”
He grumbled and stuck his tongue out. Blowing a raspberry, which Mayday happily replicated. You put the tip of your finger on Maydays tongue, pushing it back into her mouth. “Don’t do that, germs.”
turning away from peter, you kissed her cheek in apology, whispering “It’s not you, it’s him.” In her tiny ear.
You propped your free hand on your hip, looking up at Miguel on his platform.
He looked away. Hand settling below his chin as he closed his eyes and sighed.
“There’s that contemplative expression again.”
“Why is he always contemplating, nothing’s that serious.”
“I dunno.” Peter shrugged. He crept up close to you, putting his arm around you waist and leaning down to smell your perfume.
“I like that one.”
You smiled, tilting your head back to look at him, “I know,”.
Miguel continued on with his explanation, showing miles the different Canon events. Showing him Peters, Gwen’s, yours. When Miles seems to suddenly realise something.
“The Spot does it.” His hands shake alongside his voice, Peter glances over to you in worry, but ultimately focuses back on Miles. “He kills ‘im.” The boys shoulders drop in defeat.
“When does it happen.”
Miguel looks away, shaking his head and wincing.
Miles turns to the small group surrounding him, helpless.
“When does it happen?!”
“In two days,” Miles whips back towards him. “When he’s sworn in.”
“That’s- what the model says.”
“I’ sorry Miles-“
“Send me home.”
“I can’t do that, not now.”
Gwen winces and squeezes her eyes shut. Body stuff and unmoving.
“What am I supposed to do then? Let him die?!”
Miguel pauses. And doesn’t relent.
Miles’s face contorts for a second before he turns, gesturing vaguely at Gwen.
“What about your dad? He’s a captain, right?”
She just sighs, “Yeah.”
“Wh- And that’s it! You guys aren’t even gonna do anything about it?!”
Gwen looks down, ashamed.
Mayday grabs hold of your finger. Noting the serious tones of the situation, she stays quiet. He scoffs and turns to Peter.
“Okay what about Uncle Ben? That’d been okay? If you knew and you just—,” he stuttered, “Let it play out?!”
Peter stepped forward, putting a reassuring hand on his students shoulder. “If not for uncle ben, most of us wouldn’t be here Miles.”
He pauses to look at the webbed window of his Ben.
“The good we did it-,” he breathes, “It wouldn’t have been done.”
You harden your gaze over your husband. He doesn’t look at you.
Miles nods, “So we’re just’ supposed to let people die because some algorithm—!” he hits Peters hand of his shoulder and starts towards Miguel again. “Woah, woah.” Lyla interjected. “—Says that that’s supposed to happen?!”
He swings his arms in annoyance, in *fear.
This is a *kid.
“You realise how messed up that sounds, right?”
With a better moral code than most in this room.
“You have a choice between saving one person—“ The slow approach of other spider people filled out the fog coating the room. “—And saving an entire world, every world!” Miguel points at him, hand on hip.
“I can do both!” He tries,
“Spiderman always-,”
“Not always.”
Miles looks to Peter, seeking back up. Peters face twists something sorry, and Miles’s flashes of hurt.
Benji starts to wake up, cooing softly at his dad.
Miguel’s hand gently turns the boy back around, this isn’t looking good.
You glance at Hobie, seeing the apprehension in his posture as he meets your gaze.
He glanced down at Mayday in question, you reassure him with a nod. If it comes to it, you’ll put her in peters baby carrier for safety. He nods back.
“Miles, we all want to lead the life we wish we had.” When Miles shrugs him off he raises his hands.
“Believe me, I’ve tried.”His hands slowly lowered. Miles’ breathing got heavier.
“And the harder I tried, the more damage I did.”
“You can’t have it all, kid.”
Miles looked around in panic, noticing the faces creeping up on him. He makes eye contact with you, and you try and signal your support.
If you run, I’ll run too.
“Being Spiderman is a sacrifice. That’s the job, that’s what you signed up for.”
A robotic voice caught your attention as a large suit approached the outer circle.
“Miles.” The faceplate opened.
“Penny?”
He put up his defences once more.
“What is this?” He yelled, the force of his words drawing an immediate attention. “Is this an intervention or something?”
“We know it’s hard, but it’s the truth, Miles.”
You glare at the faces around you, Adjusting Mayday on your hip and keeping an eye out for your two boys.
Miles and Benji.
Peter will be dealt with later.
Miles stumbles back, righting his foot and turning to Peter.
“Is that why you’re here? To—“
he clenched his fist, “To let me down easy?”
You watch your lover closely, the look on his face telling you all you need to know, and apparently same goes for Miles.
“It worked last time, why not run it back huh?” his voice was raising, Benji getting uncomfortable at the tone.
“Woah- hey, hold on. Hold on!” He raised his hand in a placating matter, trying to tune Miles down.
“You were right, Gwen.”
You glanced up at her, his venomed whisper doing its intended purpose, hurt.
“You should have never come to see me.”
Peter slowly approached Miles, bending down to his height like a person to a stray dog.
“Kid, look at me-“ “Stop callin’ me that.”
“There you go.” You sent Hobie a huff of appraise.
“Hobie, you’re not helping.”
“Good.”
Miles gratefully nodded at him.
“Miles, please understand-“ Peter tried.
“Peter.” Your stern voice interrupted him, and he shut down his attempt.
“You can’t ask me not to save my father.”
“I’m not asking.”
You glared at Miguel, only noticing the barrier a little too late. It opened under Miles, trapping him within when the inner circle started to protest.
“Miguel just give him a second! Please!”
“Dont! Stop it.”
“You let him leave, he’ll only do more damage.”
Gwen intervened, “Enough!”
You rushed towards the barrier with Mayday, her reaching for the barrier in confusion. You can’t help him out of this, you don’t know how.
“Miguel, let him out! He’s a kid.” You raised your voice. Weaponising your authority.
“Miguel this is too far.”
“[Name], it’ll only hold him few days.” He turned around to walk away.
Miles was panicking, banging on the barriers walls and spinning to try and find a weak point. His eyes caught onto Hobie. Doing nothing but holding his palms out, and giving him an earnest look. “Sorry it had to end like this, kid.”
“I said—“ Miles placed his hands flat on the barrier, right above his head. Palms out, You backed up shielding Mayday and dragging Peter to turn around and using him as a body block for Benji.
“—Not-“ The barriers begun to crack, shatter like glass.
“—To call me that!” A wave of energy pushed everyone down as the barrier broke, exploding in a mess of bright colours.
You heard Hobie chuckle, and looked up at Miles in amazement. A second where he caught your eye, he darted. Running straight for the exit.
“Miles!” Miguel screeched.
You stuffed Mayday in her carrier in record time and blew them a kiss as you pounced from your position to catch up with Miles.
Unbeknownst to you, Your husband, along with every other spider person, would follow. Except Hobie.
“Just for the record, I quit.”
—
You had found Miles being interrogated by your lover, him holding up your two children like bribing toys.
“C’mon- just hold ‘em!”
“I don’t want to do that.”
Miles manoeuvred slyly through all the cranks and pipes, your Spidey following swiftly behind him. “Just one hold! It’s rejuvenating!”
“I’m plenty juvenated!” Miles retorted.
You were going to interrupt when you lagged behind a bit, getting stuck on a moving pipe.
When you finally freed yourself, you stumbled into a cute moment between the two.
“I wanted them to be like you!”
He stared at your husband, vulnerable and scared, the beginnings of a smile creeping onto his face.
Mayday and Benji bickered with each other in his hold.
Peters watch suddenly lit up.
“Okay, Peter I’ve got your location.”
Their faces dropped, betrayal raw on the young boys.
“No, no. You do not have my location!”
Him peeling open the crate to the industrial fans, and slipping in. You using your webs to sling in after him and pull the crate shut behind you. Catching Peters fleeting glance before what seemed twenty different spider people broke through the crate, smashing through fans.
You followed miles swiftly, through the busses and over cartops. Using your webs to keep up with him. He wasn’t bad, for someone so young.
“I’m a great mentor!”
You huffed at Peters distant offended tone. “Sure, baby.” You muttered.
You hooked around a building, watching as Miles cut himself off from Gwen. Her hand reaching out for him as he fell. Your spidey senses caught your attentions, tingling in the forefront of your mind. You zeroed in on Miles and watched as he aimed for the train. It hadn’t looked like anyone else had caught on yet. Still scrambling to get to him, instead of trying to cut him off.
—
Miguel had the kid by the throat. Slamming him against the train doors and dragging his body up with him. You watched in fear as he spoke to the boy.
“You’re a mistake!”
You screamed at him from your position below, begging for him to just let the kid go. Miles caught you gaze. You fought against the wind, trying hard to get to him, and keeping an eye on Peter and your babies.
“If you hadn’t been bit-!” Miguel slammed his back again. You winced. “Your Peter Parker would have lived!”
Miles struggled against him, trying to push off the claws attacking him. “Instead he died- Saving you.”
“He would have stopped the collider before it went off. Spot wouldn’t exist-“ “Peter!” “-And none of this, would have happened.”
The three of you climbed to get to them. You grabbed Benji off peter, Cradling him in your arms as the winds were getting too rough.
Miguel slammed him back again, crowding over the small boy and growling his words.
“And all this time— I have been the only one holding all this together.”
“Miguel go easy on him!” Peter called down from his spot behind you, he sounded devastated, your heart broke for him. You knew how much he loved Miles, thinking of him almost like his first son. Your husband would bring him up so often, wondering what he was doing when he could see through the Spidey-Windows Miguel would (angrily) provide.
He always stressed when Miles had to figure out things himself, saying things like “Just give me a day with him, we’ll figure it out!” “He’s a kid Miguel. Wouldn’t you have wanted a mentor back then?” “I’m a great mentor.” “You just don’t see my brilliance.”
Benji babbled in your arms and you cooed back at him, spider beanie pulled snug over his face. Huh, he was pretty rejuvenating.
Miguel leaned closer, growling words of disgust to the kid.
“Let me go!” Miles struggled against him. A choked sound came from Peter, and when you looked back at him you swore you could see his eyes shine with unshed tears.
“Miguel that’s enough!” Gwen shouted.
“This isn’t what we talked about!”
Miles stopped struggling.
“You talked about this?” He looked down at Peter, heart breaking.
“You knew?”
Peter looked down, ashamed. Clinging onto the train but no longer climbing. Mayday held tightly to his chest with the other hand, he caught your eye.
“Peter what did you do..” Your breath escaped you and the words came out a whisper, flown away by the winds around you.
“You all knew?”
Your head shot up, starting to disagree before Gwen spoke.
“I.. I didn’t know..” She looked away, unable to face him.
“How to tell you.”
“That’s why you never came to see me.”
“Miles it’s for your own good!”
He pushed forwards.
“Who decides that?”
Miguel pushed back.
“I’m not a kid Gwen.”
Miguel grunted, slamming him again, the dent in the train deepening every time. “That’s exactly what you are! You’re just a kid!”
“Who has no idea what he’s doing!” Miles grabbed onto his shoulders, trying to squirm further from the beast on him.
His fingers sparked.
Miguel shoved his forearm against Miles’ neck, pushing his face against broken metal.
“Yeah well, I did get hundreds of Spider people away from your own club house.”
The roaring of spider people climbing the train travelled straight to Miguel’s ears.
“I guess he did plan this out!”
You smiled up at him. Seeing him smug back.
“And, I’m about to do this.”
He latched his sparking fingers onto Miguel’s shoulders. Clenching down and watching the starts of his electricity flow through the man’s arms.
The elder was the on struggling now, confused grunts paired with an effort to escape the boys hold.
“Everyone keeps tellin’ me how my story is s’posed to go.
Nah, Imma do my own thing.”
He pushed his whole hands against blue spiders chest.
“Sorry, but i’m going home.”
He pushed Miguel off of him right as he ignited the current buzzing underneath their veins. And watched as the Brunettes body ragdolled off of him and shot off the train and into the open sky.
The fanged man dragged his hand through waves of spider people, struggling to catch himself against smooth metal.
You looked back up at Miles, as he stood, connected by a single web to the speeding train.
“Goodbye, Gwen.”
He cut the thread and fell.
Gwen yelled for him, a call of his name. But peter? Peter just watched with his heart in his throat. His own betrayal heavy on his heart.
—
You were finally at home again. The stress of the day weighing high on the both of you. Even Mayday and Benji seemed to have noticed the tension.
Getting tired over all the moving and all the fighting, it was barely 7:30 before they were dead asleep.
“You think we’re bad parents?”
You were stood leaning over he crib, arms rested on its gates. Peter crowded over you, covering you in his smell and feeling. The weight on his body pressing against your back was akin to a weighted blanket, grounding you as you watched your sweet children breathe.
“Nah, Everyone has their first chase.”
“Well,..”
“Ehhh, want to see the cute photo I got of Benj and May?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
—
Your husband had been off the whole rest of the night. When you two had sat down together to watch the first mind numbing thing you could find, he couldn’t stop moving. Jittering with nerves.
You were waiting patiently for him to work the courage to say what he needed. Not ever preparing for something like this.
“Think Miles hates me?” It was said slyly. Like he was playing it off to be nothing, but the tension in his shoulder told you otherwise. “I think he’ll be hurt. And upset, but I don’t think he hates you.” He picked at his nails as you spoke, you curled your hands over the expanse of his chest and fit your ledge over his waist, he looked up at you through wet lashes.
“Are you sure cause-“ He cut himself off with a clear of his throat, not wanting to sob over something so *stupid in his head.
“Oh, baby. You’re so sweet, but he could never hate you.”
Peters hands stopped fiddling with themselves, smoothening down the curve of your ass and the small of your back.
“Okay,”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
He sounded relieved, if not a little suspicious.
He dug his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaled deeply.
“Creep.”
He nipped at your skin lightly in retaliation.
“Miguel talks to you too much.”
“Every sentence we shared was negative.”
“He’s like that.”
You scoffed at him playfully and he smiled into your neck, turning his cheek to your skin and watching you. “I’ll make sure next time we talk, it’ll be in sign.”
“No, I don’t speak ASL, what if he says something about me?”
“He says something about you out loud, baby.”
“Yeah but I can’t hear it if he’s signing.”
—
Even later in the night, when you heard the shower running and soft sobs coming from the bathroom. You did nothing but undress and climb in with him. Rubbing your hands soothingly down his back, spreading soap along his chest and back and massaging it in deep for him.
You let him hold himself up against you, and pretended not to notice the difference between the shower water and his tears. You dragged him down to your height, a hand tucked into his soft hair before your lips met his. He would settle his hands on your hips, push you ever closer to him. And take the comfort you gave him in stride.
Eventually you would pay mine to your water bill, and would dry each other off carefully, get dressed together and settle in your shared bed. It was 1 AM now, but you couldn’t care less, being in the arms of your lover had outweighed any negatives lack of sleep could bestow. He would make it up to Miles. Solve the problems of the universe (multiverse), and have you two meet for real. Introducing Miles to his wife, and his son to his twins.
—
I WENT OFF THE RAILSSSS
probs making a part two later, for more peter daddy snippets and cute kids plus wifey reader
Birthday head w zuzu🗣️
Js think'n ab him waking up before you during the morning yk whether it be force of habit or because well he's a teacher, he would pepper you in kisses whispering sweet nothings and many strings of happy birthdays!
Js like kissin all over your cheeks n your puffy lips, then he moves down to your neck keeping them light and quick he suckles on the flesh gently as not to wake you, leaving a slight bruise. You hum underneath him which brings a smile to his lips.
Whilst hovering over you he gets a good look at your limp and unconscious figure, the way you're splayed out beneath him like this. You're just so perfect and he has a whole day of pampering and peppering just for you.
m’ thinking maybe he just gets a thought like maybe he could do a little something for you despite you being asleep, his first thought was to make you breakfast, which he did as an amazing husband. but then he had a thought to do..more.
Izuku slowly trails down underneath the covers to where your lower half was and crawled in between your legs, he was careful not to be too moving and too rough with your body whilst being in this vulnerable estate. He gently kissed atop of your thighs moving inward, his lips peppered slow gentle kisses on the inside of your thighs.
His breath hitched as he came face close to your clothed cunt, licking a long stripe up the covered slit. His tongue did that for some time before you were nice and wet, he moved the fabric to the side and instantly delved his tongue inside of your lips. He licked and sucked up everything you gave him, slurping and making a mess all over his face.
The second you started squirming and little mewls had left out he knew he was doing a great job, he worried that maybe because you were asleep you wouldn't have as much pleasure but boy was he wrong. You were moaning and your back was arching, your hips forcing themselves into izukus face.
He buries his face inside of you and gently rubbed your clit with his thumb occasionally coming up to give it little kitten licks. Zuku didn't care about breathing or anything like that, he just wanted to give you a mind shattering orgasm.
He was a moaning mess while eating you out, whimpering and whining at the mere taste of you. He was drunk off of you, your scent your flavour all of it. His tongue just wouldn't let up on its squirming, the pink muscle swimming inside of you and taking all of your essence.
Izuku was happy having his face buried inside of your cunt, it made him happier once you grabbed him by his hair and shoved his face deeper. He happily obliged and started swirling his tongue around your clit before giving back down to drive his tongue right back inside.
Once you came all over his mouth his face was sticky in your arousal and juices which he eagerly tried to lick up the best he could! He heard your ragged breaths assuming you were still awake, he placed gentle kisses in the inside of your thighs before giving your cunt a sloppy tongue filled kiss.
The sudden electrification of the new pleasure he just gave you made you jolt up with a whine, you moved the cover to see him still in between your legs, his eyes shot open wide as he moves back from your cunt with a lovedrunk and oussydrunk smile, all wobbly and glistening with your slick.
“g’morning honey.. happy birthday~”
It's my birthday today n uhm yeah! I wanted to like. Make something for myself but like... NOT make it ab me at the same time lol. Who wants to read something that isn't necessarily x reader yk?
Happy my birthday to you<33
Rigor Mortis (part 3)
College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader
(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,
Part 2, Part 4
summary: A bad day turns even worse. Miguel surprises you.
warnings: angst angst angst, mentions of grief, very vague mention of domestic violence and abuse.
recommended reading: the painting Ophelia by John Everett Millais, and the song Ophelia by the lumineers.
a/n: i lowkey suck at communicating my "big" ideas so i really really hope this makes sense!
Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3
Join my taglists here
wc: 3.8k
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
they were here, she says,
You’ve had your share of bad days.
Oh God , enough to fill an A4 binder with. For example, knocking out that tooth when you were twelve. A butterfly effect of fuck ups that led to a scuffle at school: blood in your mouth, a tooth on the ground, and a looong suspension. You received quite the earful at home, that day.
And then there was telling your parents you had dropped out of college. Telling them you were moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend. Breaking up with said boyfriend in your favourite diner; thus sullying Pam’s waffles and pancakes with the bitter taste of… oh-fuck-I-don’t-know-how-I’ll-afford-an-apartment-now. Oh, and heartbreak – although that wasn’t as immediate.
Scratch that, the day of the breakup had been fairly mundane. Pleasant, even. Jamie had an off day, and you only had a few lectures. He didn’t tell you, of course, so meeting him in the apartment was a surprise. You’re home earlier than usual, and you can’t quite bear to wake him up; slumped on the sofa like an old cat. He’s tired, lectures and clerkships running him ragged for the past few years. Only a year out until residency, with bags under his eyes as proof, and you see him less and less. All things considered, you’re glad to spend the rest of the day with him.
You’d spent too long after the break up analysing the days leading up to it: for a sign, something in his behaviour that would’ve warned you. And so, you remember it quite vividly: kicking your shoes off, putting your bag down, and sinking into the sofa next to him. You curl into him, looking up at his face: steady, tempered breathing. Something at your chest, solid and heavy. He looks peaceful, happy; and you haven't seen that side of him in quite a while.
When you shift against him, you knock against his shoulder. Jamie stirs, groggy, and eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing he sees as he wakes is you; romantic, in theory. His expression is etched into your subconscious; stark and stiff like a marble statue, or a tombstone. A flash of disappointment, lip drawn in what seemed like disgust – but only for a moment.
" Morning , baby." You squeeze his side, and take his hand into yours. That look ; it's gone almost as quickly as it came.
"Thought…" He frowns, fighting dregs of sleep. "I thought you would be back later."
"Nope." You give him a smile and he returns with one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He puts a hand on your cheek.
"Morning," Probably tired, he sighs deeply. You move on with the day. And he breaks up with you, not even 6 hours later.
You had had 4 years of that: good days, bad days, but most of them had been… mundane. Boring. Not quite the heat and intensity of true love, as the movies had gaslighted you into believing in.
You like the old black and white ones the best. Old fashioned, old-timey folk; declarations of love in tinny transatlantic accents. Suddenly, you’re on the floor of your childhood bedroom; eyes wide at the Sound of Music. Maria and Von Trapp hand in hand: her dress billowing, the flash of white glove on the small of her back. Love, love, love; and your lack of it.
You feel its loss all the same.
Despite all your efforts – including a dash to the station that could rival an Olympic sprinter – you were late to your first lecture. Sweaty, out of breath, and ambushed with a pen and paper; thrust into your hands on arrival. You look around to see dozens of heads down, scribbling furiously. A surprise test – and you’re late.
Hand aching, you barely finish within the two hours, after bullshitting your way through at least half of the questions. By the looks of the people streaming out of the hall; faces rumpled and grimacing; you’re not the only one. However, it does little to comfort you. You’re sure you're the only one failing so spectacularly, with the semester already half over.
You'd smacked your leg on the coffee table on the way out and a book had slammed to the floor. An art book, the kind in a model home - and you know damn well Miguel's not an enthusiast. The image sticks for some reason, leg aching as you trudge to your next class. When he gives you that blank look; the memory of men gone past is haunting – dead-eyed, and blank, like eyes cut out of a painting. You wonder if a Van Gogh would feel the same with the brilliant blue of eyes slashed out.
Nevertheless, you feel like lead. Off
to your next class, and it's going over material passed out the day before; which you didn’t have the time to look over. The professor drones on; voice monotonous and gravelly. Struggling to keep up, you sink into your seat – tapping away at your laptop, whatever you can get down. You pick at your lip, unravelling; unfurling like the tip of a slashed rope.
That's what you’re waiting for, you think: sandbags clattering down from stage left, to bring the rest of this whole farce down.
A sinking feeling, that starts at your chest and makes its way to the tops of your fingers and toes, leaves you numb for the rest of the day. Dread, like a shadow, at your heels in the corridors, across the courtyard, all around campus. Another lecture, and you make it in time for labs, barely, but there’s no time to go over notes; what you managed to scrape together in preparation. And of course , your lab partner’s sick, because that’s just the kind of day you’re having. It’s hectic, doing the work of two people with only the scraps you’ve cobbled together.
The pressure mounts. Like liquid in that flask you weren’t meant to stopper; and you just might end up like its remnants on the counter. Glass everywhere but where it should be. For a good grade, it helps to be organised: everything in its place, always. Except it isn’t, and you’ve fucked it up, again . It means the results don’t match up in your lab book, and another hour staring at liquid decanting, monitoring temperatures. Staring at stark white walls, with achy legs.
You step out whilst machines run in your stead, and shed your lab coat. It’s hot and stuffy in there but out in the corridor, you can finally breathe. Forehead on the cool wall, it all stops for a moment. The persistent buzz of your phone, sat in the pocket of your trousers, creeps into the quiet.
Absent-mindedly, you turn it on with a click. The buzzing stops. You’ve just missed a call from Miguel. It’s odd, he doesn’t usually call, but it’s the little box underneath the notification that makes you pause. A message, from a number you thought you’d blocked – that you should’ve blocked.
From:Jamie <3
Hey
From:Jamie <3
We should meet. I’ve still got some of your things in the apartment.
Your blood runs cold. Dread, like a shadow; its hand wrapped your neck. You can’t breathe, stuck under the weight of something at your chest. You can’t breathe, the walls close in. We should meet , he says. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world; just friends catching up over a coffee. Like you didn’t watch him carve out a chunk of your heart with a rusty spoon.
A panic attack, and you’re awkwardly hunched over by the wall, phone in hand. Someone will find you here, lying on the vinyl floor in Block B, spread eagle between lab 6 and 7. Dramatic timing, but if it kills you; you’ll find a way to haunt your ex's ass for the foreseeable future. And Miguel’s too, because if you’re having a bad day; then somewhere out there, he’s having a good one.
~~~
The apartment is still when Miguel gets back – unusually so. You’re not on the sofa, watching a mindless soap opera, or howling some song in the shower. And he’s had to deal with that most days for the past few weeks, a break in the peace and quiet he’s so carefully cultivated. Rigorous routine, they keep him together. He needed it; the way myth needs a martyr, the way flowers on a small grave needs a body. A tick-tick-tick in his head, that drives him a little less crazy after a morning run, or a good meal when he comes home. A countdown, he thinks, a mechanical clock whirring and puttering with a shake of its gears. He feels them stutter and start, slowing down, but not quite stopping. An ache so deep, he feels its creak with every step.
Absent-mindedly, he looks around the empty apartment, pulling at his ears.
When he was younger, Gabi would pull at his ears, to get him out of a book. Reading, always reading, whenever he could. At the dinner table, when his mamá would rap his knuckles with a wooden spoon and chuckle lightly at his little grimace. No en la mesa, Miguelito. Not at the table, Miggy. Léeme más tarde – read it to me later.
It was when he got his braces, and picked up a slight lisp. He stopped talking for a while, not completely; but a lot less, not as interactive in lessons. And it was always little Miguel, at the front of the class with his hand up to answer. It didn’t help that Gabi poked fun at him, often sneaking up to him to hiss in his ear: palms pressed together with a slithering motion, and then a strike to his ribs like una víbora - a viper , struggling to say his S’s. They’d fight because of it after, tousling on the floor of their bedroom in a mass of limbs, like pythons squeezing prey. Or at least, until their mamá rushed to separate them.
She didn’t like it when her boys fought; so they’d been forced to make up every time. He still has the scars to prove it.
Car magazines at first, and then the newspaper, whatever book he had picked up at the library that week. Even with his lisp, his mother made sure he read to her, and sometimes to Gabi as well, at least once a week. Looking back, she was never perfect; the things he knows now about his dear mamá, and her visage tumbles like Ozymandias in the sand. Her mother, married to a piece-of-shit mechanic; and his mother, elbow deep in the oil spill. That’s the funny thing about love, he thinks. Love, and the lack of it; dripping through the cracks, passed on through generations. Maybe mamá felt the gears shuddering in her chest. He hopes Gabi was saved from that burden.
A small voice at the back of his mind tells him: it’s not enough. Doesn’t explain the little boy pulling at his ears, in Miguel’s jacket and dress shoes.
A glimpse in the reflection of a shiny pan on the side table, and he looks like shit. Eyebags, a permanent scowl, shadowy lines that prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s ironic, crows feet without the penchant for laughing. He thinks you’d find it funny. The pink and purple of a setting sun spills in through windows and makes him sigh. It’s late, and you’re still not home.
God, you're strange; sticking your nose where you shouldn't. Disrupting the calm of his apartment. A sanctuary, and you've got your grubby paws all over it. Your shit is all over the place; pun-based mugs in the cabinet, chewed pen lids with no pens in sight, a blanket on the couch. The same blanket, a ratty old thing, that he usually meets you wrapped in when he gets back. A creature of habit, he folds it up; trying to ignore the whispers of your perfume, sweet and heady on the fabric.
He gets dressed, starting with dinner; knife on a chopping board cutting onions and peppers into cubes. It's therapeutic, the steady thud ringing out into the kitchen. Quiet, for a fleeting moment. But the worry, it sticks ; despite his better judgement. Before he changes his mind, he clicks open his phone to call you. It rings out – you don’t pick up.
The urge to call again is surprisingly troublesome, so he shoves it down with a piece of tortilla. It sits in his chest, regardless.
~~~
You trudge into the apartment. Squelch seems more accurate, sopping wet as you step out of waterlogged trainers. It was an inopportune time to wear jeans and forget a jacket – and you fight the urge to wring out onto the wooden planks. Miguel would kill you; the place was already falling apart, and water-warped floorboards might just be the last straw.
It’s thundering outside; a torrential downpour you’d just been dragged through. Dragged, half-running through streets-turned-streams, with nothing but a tank top and hoodie on your back. And you must look a sight , eyes bleary and slick with rainwater. The bag heavy on your back goes first, slipped off your shoulder and on the floor next to the coffee table with a thunk . You’re unzipping the flimsy canvas, inspecting its contents. A soaked through textbook, clumps of loose paper. You’re ready to cry when you see what's happened to the pages of your lab book; bleeding ink that’s only half-legible. But it’s the state of your laptop that makes your chest really heave and knees weak.
It’s slick with rainwater, and the sandwich you’d forgotten to eat, smeared across its fans. Caked on, more accurately; an odd sludge that you try your best to wipe away. You put it on the coffee table and your hand shakes as you press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead.
You sink onto the floor, head in your hands between the coffee table and the couch. Everything was on there: photos from senior prom, end of semester projects – your whole life. You have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a scream.
Miguel peers from the kitchen, watching your silent breakdown. Quiet, and so still, with only the slight shake of shoulders to tell him that something is wrong. He glances at your half-opened laptop. He’d eaten already, clearing up what remains of his dinner and this is the sight he’s greeted with: the lady of the lake, lain between the reeds.
He shakes the image out of his head, and walks over. You feel a tentative prod, and look up.
“...I called you,” He says lightly, scratching at his neck.
You blink up at him. He thinks you look like a painting, watery and forlorn, framed in the yellow light of the soft bulbs.
“I was busy,” It’s not said with malice, nor as lilting as your usual sarcasm. Plain, simple. Busy. Your head slumps back into the little hollow you’ve made with your arms.
And so he sits, shoulders brushing against yours. He’s frustratingly patient, presence warm and comfortable despite… well, despite everything.
You can’t help it. Popping back up, you state, “You never call, though.”
“You’re never this late home.” Home. The word is heavy, knocks you onto your heels.
“So?” You shrug. “Could’ve been out with friends, or at a club–”
Laughter slips out like apples loose in a bag, spills onto the floor. Crisp, sweet; but you glare at him all the same.
“You don’t have friends.” He says it with the remnants of a smile, teasing. A challenge, and you’re more than happy to accept.
“ Not true , fuckface.” It is. You'd lost track of most of your friends after moving – and all the ones you made here? Your friends were Jamie's friends, and they chose him in the divorce. " You don't have any friends."
"I do ."
"You don't." It's your turn to scoff. "It's a Friday night and you're in here, washing up and planning to go to bed at a reasonable time."
"I'm an adult, doesn't mean I don't have–"
"The ones you fuck don't count." And then you pinch the bridge of your nose. "God forbid, if that's how you treat your friends…"
He laughs, properly, and you feel it in your chest too: the kind of laughter that bubbles like little breaths rising to the top of a lake.
“M’serious.” He says it in between gasping breaths and you try to steady your own giggles. "And, I have a friend who could take a look at your laptop, if you wanted."
His eyes flick over to the crime scene besides you. It's sweet, but.. "It's gone, Miguel, I know. You don't need to… try and make me feel better."
" Chula ," He flicks the deep lines forming at your brow. You look up and he says, softly, "I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to get you off of the floor so I can mop up that puddle."
With the way he says it, with that little smile, you don't believe him.
Now he's got your attention, he says, "You could've skipped that 9:00am. Or just been late. Don't think it would've mattered."
"Maybe." You shake your head. "M'not the best student. I'm blindingly… average. Just wanted it to be different, this year."
Your voice crackles, leaves something in the air he can't quite name. Quiet, again, except this time it's thicker. Smoke, ash, rolling clouds of melancholy in the little front room. For once, he doesn't know what to say.
You've got your head back on the sofa now, with a deep sigh. You look at the ceiling, and he's looking at you. It's the first time he's able to really study your features, trace the outline of your lips and sloping cheekbone. Your lashes, damp with little droplets of water, look crystalline in the light. Sparkling. Like the paintings depicted in the hefty book sat on his coffee table. He's read that one, twice , cover-to-cover in a fit of… insanity, maybe. He's not a man of frills and fancy, didn't really get it; nor why Gabi had given him the book in the first place. It felt like a filler piece, something to put on the little table and forget about, or to prop up a wooden leg. But that's not how his brother works, frustratingly convoluted. It's stupid, Miguel thought. Everything had to mean something , or what was it good for?
But looking at you, here, like this ; it clicks. Reaching over for the book, he leans it against the flat of his thigh. And you see it in the corner of your eye, watching as he flicks through the pages. Filled with art, it's the kind of thing on a table in a model apartment: a space-filler in a false home. When you first came here, the starkness and severity of the space had stuck. To you, the book had only reinforced it. Who was Miguel? A serial killer for all you know, stocking fluff pieces and coffee table books; only pretending to be human.
Finally, he stops, finger over a specific place. A double page spread, of surprisingly good quality.
He clicks his tongue. " This one. "
You follow his finger. A woman in a lake doesn't do it justice. It's beautiful, but it doesn't mean anything to you.
" Ophelia, John Everett Mills, 1852 ." He reads out the little label at the bottom of the image. "Like from Hamlet."
You shrug. "I don't…?"
"Well, she's in love with Hamlet, and then her father's murdered, Hamlet fucks off; and she's left heartbroken, goes mad because of it , arguably–"
"I've taken tenth grade English, Miguel. I don't get what that has to do with anything."
"She drowns herself. Also arguably, to be fair," He chews his lip, thinking. "Slipped off the bark of a willow tree, into a brook. Incapable of her own distress, or something. Drowns. Do you know how horrible drowning feels? How violent? And yet–"
He taps the page, and you come a little closer. Beautiful. She's beautiful.
"I'll admit it, I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare. Gabi – my brother – is way better at this stuff than me. Drama and intrigue and–" He gestures vaguely. "– love . That's why he likes it, apparently. And I… I know someone who really liked this page; I think it was the colours, or the flowers…? She said it looked like a photo, and that the woman looked so pretty in the water."
He pauses, dead-eyed. He's rambling, only taking a breath to compose himself." I… didn't have the heart to tell her that Ophelia, in this painting, is dead. Dead as a fucking doornail. Dragged through still water, sentenced to death by her passivity and grief – but you wouldn't know it."
Unconsciously, you trace the outline of her hair with your finger; swirling locs that blend into muddy reflections. She's on her back and fully dressed; a beaded skirt billowing out into the water. On her back and looking up, like you were on the sofa just a moment ago. Oh. Oh . You blink at the image. Flowers, peppered around to frame Ophelia in her watery grave. It doesn't look like a grave from where you're sitting, but there's a body in the water all the same.
There's a lump in your throat. Grief; the loss of 4 years of your life in a middling relationship, the aftermath of dead eyes and brilliant blue slashed from a canvas frame. Grief, rising to the surface like a bloated carcass. You thought you'd bound its ankles to cinder blocks and tossed it in a river long ago.
"I'm probably overstepping. For that, I'm sorry, and I mean it. But I think there's something else. I..I hear you rattling around at night; and sometimes, when I look at you..."
Your eyes are glassy, tears threatening to spill over. You’re hearing him but you don’t quite understand. Does he know? God, does he know?
"...it reminds me of this painting. You remind me of Ophelia .”
He sighs, turning to you.
“I know how it feels. And I think this shit is going to kill you, if you're not careful."
~~~
He doesn't talk about it. He runs off to start the shower, bundles you into towels and leaves you reeling. God, it's like you've been shot – barely a 10 minute conversation and he's cracked open your ribs to root around in what's left of you. He sees you; wades through the undergrowth and cuts through the bulllshit - he sees you.
You couldn't even answer. That's what stings the most.
You’ve settled on the sofa, cross-legged and still fresh from the shower. There’s a documentary on the TV; mindless background to Miguel clattering in the kitchen. He’s putting together some leftovers, even though you insisted that you weren’t hungry, that you’ve already eaten. Well , he had pointed to the gunk caked onto your laptop, wasn’t that the problem in the first place?
He’s good at it; wraps you up in the blanket you always keep draped on the cushions, and hands you a full plate. Wordlessly, because you suppose he’s said everything he needed to. Dutifully, he takes care of you, without a word; the strain of cutting you open on the coffee table clearly too much to bear.
You thank him, and he settles on the armchair opposite, mug of coffee in hand. The gloom of the TV bathes him in light, cuts his cheekbones and jaw just so. One of your mugs in his lap, and he's in a thick knitted sweater. His hair kisses the tops of his lashes, but he brushes it away. You swallow thickly, and when he turns, you look away.
“...You okay?” He asks, confused.
You nod, unable to speak. He gives you a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled up like crepe paper. You return it with one of your own.
He sees you. Finally, you see him too.
_
_
_
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A/N: honestly didnt think I would come up with another astv fic so quick after the first one lmao but I got inspired for this scenario based on the overall consensus struggle artists are having drawing Miguel (me included asdfhjk). I was stuck between doing a drabble or a list of headcanons and doing some other characters as well. But I decided to keep it simple for now, but if you guys would like to see headcanons of the other characters reacting to you drawing them, feel free to let me know and tell me about any other ideas you guys may have!
Trigger Warning: none
Word Count: 795
Miguel O'Hara x Reader - Drawing Practice
Being a part of the Spider Society definitely had it’s perks and setbacks.
Yeah, it can be stressful, exhausting, and anxiety inducing. Honestly, that just came with being a Spider-person in general.
On the plus side, it was nice to be a part of something so extraordinary. Just when you started to feel lonely, you were soon thrusted into this whole other universe of other walks of life that were like you.
Which easily kept you inspired for your art. You had a plethora of finished sketchbooks, scrapbooks of your drawings you did on notepads, napkins, and other materials.
When you weren’t on missions in your own universe or serving as backup for an anomaly mishap, you were likely swinging around the headquarters looking for your next subject. (Not to mention there was no angle quite like the one you could get hanging upside down…)
During one of the more calmer days, you were sifting through your latest sketchbook. It was almost full. Mostly consisting of whatever caught your eyes, some new environments from different universes, and all sorts of different Spider personas.
Well, most of them anyway. There was still probably many more you have yet to see…or one in particular you see almost every day.
Spiderman 2099 a.k.a. Miguel O’Hara a.k.a. The guy that founded and ran this whole thing. He’s also Mr. Tall, Dark, and Intimidating…and handsome…but mostly intimidating.
You rarely spoke to him outside of certain missions where he requested you for back-up or for any sort of follow-up meeting.
You definitely can't forget his face though…perhaps you could draw from memory? Maybe start from his mask and go from there? It can't be too hard. It's not like he's ever gonna see it anyway, and besides how are you going to draw everyone else but him?
You got comfortable at a nearby corner seat in the food court area. You took a deep breath and started sketching.
The more you sketched the more all the hustle and bustle started to fade away. It was you and the sketchpad. You could almost hear the pencil scrape the paper and the thumps whenever you had to erase something with your eraser.
Some significant time had gone by, and a certain leader was looking for you. Yet you didn't have the slightest clue.
Miguel cleared his throat to get your attention properly and you almost jumped to the ceiling.
"Oh, uh…hi, Miguel…w-what's up?" You really wanted to ask how long he was there. And damn your hyperfocus for interfering with your spidey senses.
You clutched the pad to your chest, trying to keep him from seeing what you were doing. You hoped he never even noticed.
"I wanted to ask you about this new mission. If you wouldn't mind following me so we can discuss it in private?"
"Uhh. Yeah. Okay, sure." You got up from your seat, still clutching your sketchbook like a lifeline in treacherous waters.
As you followed behind him, you couldn't help but feel conflicted.
On one hand you didn't want him to see and on the other you kinda wanted to know what he thought about them. Would he appreciate them? Would he think it was weird? It's not like it was just him, you drew all the Spiders…
"I like your drawings, by the way." He commented over his shoulder as you got closer to his desk.
"Oh. Uh..uh thanks…"
"Gotta admit, I've never had anyone draw me before…" Miguel mentioned.
"That was my first attempt, you're the only Spider I haven't drawn yet."
"Felt obligated to add me in with the others?"
Before you could stop yourself, you said. "More like saving the best for last…"
You both stopped simultaneously in your trek. Both of you were shocked at the sentiment.
Miguel was far from perfect, despite how hard he tried to be perfect and in control. Despite his flaws and his cold aura. You admired his determination and dedication (even if it bit him more often than helped him.)
He turned to face you, as if expecting you to take it back or say it was a joke.
"Really?"
You nodded.
You couldn't help the soft swell in your chest when you saw the faintest hint of a smile grow to the side of his lips.
You tried to train your eyes and brain to take a mental photo for later.
You two started walking again in comfortable silence, until Miguel's voice perked up.
"Although. I don't think I have that many wrinkles." He quipped.
You quirked your eyebrow, questioningly. "With your stress?"
Miguel nodded in a huff. "Fair enough. You should probably add more."
You tried to refrain from giggling as he tried to refrain from smiling any wider.
been thinking about dante with an artist!reader who secretly draws him (he finds out anyways). like he knows they can draw but suddenly stumbles upon a whole different sketch book and sees beautiful drawings/doodles of him in either his human form or devil trigger even. I can imagine he’d be a lil’ emotional bc “never thought someone could see me this way” and then confronts the reader about it (its all cute and stuff*barffss*)
Dante had never once knew a day where you were without your sketchbooks, pens, pencils, a handful of colouring pencils and a incredible talent to bring whatever you drew to life. It didn't matter what it was that you were drawing becuase it always came out looking better then the actual thing; art was a massive part of your life with some of your favourite works were pinned to your walls, showcasing your range as well as your clutered desk filled with half finished sketches and images that you were using as references were strewn about the desk too.
So when you had asked him to grab something from your room, a sketchbook? pencils? that weird manakin that you use when drawing people? He couldn't remeber exactly what you wanted as it went in one ear and out the other. So he thought if he grabbed whatever his eyes landed on and pray that it was the one that you needed, however what his eyes first saw was your open sketchbook on your desk, and on the two page spread was sketches and drawings of him and his devil trigger form.
Dante's breath hitched in his throat as he felt himself move on it's own towards the open sketchbook on your desk to get a better look of the sketches, only to be left without without any air within his lungs as he saw how you saw him; dangerous but in the beautiful way possible with how you made the red within his coat stand out, or how you made gold mingle with the red of his devil trigger pratically glow in a heavenly light as his horns looked more like a halo then actual devil horns.
You even made his wings looked beautiful on their own with how you made them look as though they had collected all the colours in existence and selfishly hoarded them within his demonic looking wings!
You made him look ehtreal, like he wasn't a demon but instead an angel with a unique look that made him look demonic, and it was enough to have dante a little caught up in his feelings as he didn't exactly held a fondess towards his demonic heritage as it was only something that granted him more benifits for demon hunting and nothing more. Yet here you were making him wanting to appreciate this aspect of himslef when he goes through all of your sketches, only to find more of his devil trigger and himself whether it'd be him fast as sleep or eating pizza and strawberry sundaes; You made him look like a work of art only ever seen within a museum along with the other admired masterpieces.
Something he didn't think anyone would ever see him -especially his devil trigger form- in that particular light and you only proved him wrong by drawing him the way you saw him on the daily, and enough to draw him in bulk within the precious pages of you've sketchbook, something you've told him stuck with him about how you didn't draw anything you didn't view as beautiful or was worth showing it's hidden beauty.
So seeing him within your sketchbook only made Dante feel more honoured to be viewed as beautiful by you, to be the muse that you spent countless and tireless hours working on to perfection late into the night, to be something you wanted to display the truest beauty of by drawing him from the heart of an artist and the end result was something Dante couldn't have fathomed at all.
Further forgetting what he had came into your room orignally for, Dante rushed out the door and went down the stairs in a flash as thougg he was running out of time, capturing you within his arms as he burries his head within your neck and catching you by surpise. 'Jesus Dante, what's gotten into you.' you laughed as you heard him purr soflty in your ear, making you smile and begin to run your fingers through his hair gingerly. 'what's going on within that head of yours?' you add barely above a whisper as his arms tightened on your waist.
'I saw you're drawings of me.' was all he said, still in someway in disbelief that you could make someone like him look like something worth drawing, worth any aspect of portayal as anything other then some half demon that people stay clear of.
You stop caressing his hair upon hearing him say this, which only made him groan as he nudged his head further into your neck needily, huffing and pouting like an overgrown puppy dog that desperetly craves affection constantly. 'You did?' Dante hums. 'what did you think of them?' you asked, nervous now of what his thoughts and opinions on them were.
'i've never had someone draw me, or see me like you do.' Dante says. 'You know i've never liked my devil trigger, nor the fact that i'm half demon, but yet seeing your drawings of me have made me want to be kinder to myself and not be so harsh to a part od me that you view as beautiful.' He adds, kissing the side of your neck as you caresed his hair once more, making him purr once more as his eyes closed in content upon feeling safe.
'Silly Dante.' you cooed, kissing the side of his head, 'of course i see you as beautiful, always have and it doesn't matter what form you take because you'll always be my beautiful muse, devil trigger or my sweet toothed man,' you finished, wanting nothing the to make Dante see that he was all the man you ever seen him as no matter what, it was the least you could do in hopes of showing Dante that he was worth the time and effort you put into your drawings of him; You do it a hundred times over again if it meant getting squashed tightly against his chest as he purrs into your neck like an conent cat.
Dante pulls away to look you in the eye, mimicing your soft smile as he rests his forhead against yours, high off of your words as he wished he had met you earlier in his life but regareless he'd treasure you with his whole heart for as long as he can. 'Your too good to me sweetheart, far too good for me but i'm too selfish to let you go now, far too greedy to let anyone else be seen the way you see me.' he says, nudging his nose to yours.
'Then be selfish all you like becuase i'm not going anywhere, im content here in your arms as life with you is an adventure i wake up each morning eager to greet with open arms.' You tell him, pecking his lips soflty as another purr ripped from his throat. 'but please for the love of god don't leave pizza boxes laying about again or i'm cutting you off from having strawberry sundaes for a month.' you added with a pointed look as Dante pales, knowing this was bound to come to light no matter how much he kisses and cuddles you to death.
'Dully noted sweetheart, dully noted.' Dante said, hoping you wouldn't actually cut him off from his strawberry sundaes.
Bakugou Katsuki is completely wrapped around his girlfriend’s finger.
Sure, he tries to act all cool and indifferent in front of his friends, pulling off that tough, angry, and mean guy routine. But deep down, this man would melt in a second for his girlfriend. He’d fall to his knees just to see her smile.
Today, Bakugou Katsuki is out with his friend Kirishima, shopping for Kirishima’s girlfriend’s birthday party. Why did Katsuki agree to come? Because you were away traveling, and he was utterly bored and lonely without you by his side.
"Hey, have we met before?"
The question didn’t even register in his mind. In fact, Katsuki didn’t hear it at all. His mind assumed the question was meant for someone else nearby. He was genuinely surprised when, out of nowhere, a woman stepped in front of him with a soft, shy smile.
"I'm sorry, I just wanted to say hi while I had the chance."
Katsuki quickly looked to the side, hoping to spot his friend, but to his dismay, he realized he was completely alone in this awkward moment.
"Uh, right," he muttered, cringing inwardly. What the hell? Why am I even talking to her right now?
The woman giggled, her fingers reaching out to place a hand on his chest while she leaned in a little too close, invading his personal space.
Instinctively, Katsuki stepped back, his heart immediately sinking. Oh hell nah.
"Okay, back up." He shot her a sharp glance and turned to walk away. But just as he did, he heard a voice from behind him.
"Oh, come on. She ain’t that pretty for you to turn me, this, down, is she?"
“She is that pretty, you—” Katsuki grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. He didn’t dare say it out loud—after all, his mom could be lurking nearby—but he couldn’t help but mutter the insult as he walked away, his heart set on getting back to the one person who mattered.
Three days later, you returned home. The second Katsuki saw you walking toward him at the airport, his whole demeanor softened. The tightness in his shoulders melted away, and a smile so wide spread across his face that it made his heart flutter. Without a second thought, he opened his arms wide, waiting for you to run into them.
"Hi, mama," he whispered, his voice thick with longing.
You rushed into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms clinging to his shoulders as if you never wanted to let go. You giggled when you felt Katsuki bury his face in your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.
"You okay, Kats?" You pulled back slightly to look at his face, your heart fluttering at the lovesick gaze in his eyes. He nodded silently, his usual grumpy nature nowhere to be found. Instead, he gently lowered you back to the ground, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, as if to reassure you that everything was right with the world again.
Kirishima stood a few feet away, laughing quietly at the sight of his best friend. The contrast between the Katsuki who’d been grumpy and distant while you were gone and the Katsuki who now held you in his arms—radiating nothing but joy—was impossible to miss. He smiled softly, realizing that there was no one else who could make Katsuki shine like that.
Everyone knew that Bakugou Katsuki was absolutely smitten—utterly, hopelessly in love with you.
𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮…𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎'𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤!𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
“Miguel! Ah!” You squealed, feeling the cold ocean water on your skin. “You got my hair wet! I'm gonna fucking kill you!l You giggled, splashing more water at him.
Miguel laid awake as the sun began to dawn over Nueva York. His eyes were red, watery, and sore, but he insisted on staying up, just to watch his home videos a bit longer.
His lips winced into a smile before jumping at the sound of his alarm. His growing smirk faded almost as soon as it came.
Miguel swiftly waved his hand, making all of his video tabs disappear in thin air, then sitting up.
“Morning Miguel!” A chipper voice greeted him.
He looked over, pretending to be annoyed at his AI companion.
“Oh…” You grimaced at his appearance. “You really need to get that insomnia checked out.” You commented
Insomnia was a lie Miguel made up so no one would ask questions as to what he was doing that made him so grouchy during the day. He also didn't want to break your code by confessing he was watching memories of the two of you together…well not you, but you, his wife.
“Today is gonna be a sunny day. Eighty two degrees with a windchill of eighty.” You spun and appeared in shorts and a tank top. “Don't forget your sunscreen O’Hara.”
“Don't need it.” He groaned getting out of bed.
“That's a myth! Us people of color still need our sunscreen Migs.”
His head snapped up from brushing his teeth. He quickly spit out his toothpaste and looked towards your floating algorithm. “What did you just call me?”
“Migs.”
Miguel stared with an indifferent face for a few moments. The way his nickname rolled off your tongue….It was almost as if-
“Don't call me that again okay?”
“Fine?” You stomped mid-air.
Miguel suited up and you began the morning sequence. Playing some soft music, starting the coffee machine, and lifting all the blinds in his apartment, switching on the TV, and opening up his closet.
Miguel walked over to the kitchen and made him a bagel, something quick and easy. He held the bagel in his mouth as he suited up in his spidey-suit for the day.
After a coffee break, his alarm started beeping. Once
“Great.” He muttered. “Y/n what's the problem?”
You appeared in front of him. “Anomaly detected on Earth-65.”
“Take me there.”
---
The building was destroyed…to say the least but Miguel and Jessica saved the day. They ended up inviting the spider of that earth to join the spider society, of course after a bit of convincing from you and Jessica.
Miguel walked into his headquarters and powered on his large device, where multiple screens popped up. Camera feeds in each universe, at least the ones that were hit spots for anomalie. He swiped through, checking to see if anything was out of order.
“You know it's unhealthy to stare at screens for long amounts of time…and that close.” You popped up.
Miguel looked at you annoyed. “Who summoned you?”
“Summon is a very…strong word. I can tell you're looking for something so i'm here to help.”
He scowled at you before sighing. “The Spot villain. I need to know more about him.”
“The Spot is-”
“No, No.” Miguel stopped you. “Do the explany thingy.”
You smiled softly and nodded. Soon, the room turned into a fake void, and you grew to full size. You spun and turned into a man with long hair and a beard.
“Don't-. Turn back.” Miguel demanded.
“Ugh you're no fun!” You turned back into your normal self and shrunk back to pixie size. Resting on his shouldersu, you waved your hand.
“Doctor Jonathan Ohnn worked for Alchemax on Earth-616.” You displayed the human, pre villain of course. “He worked closely with Doc Ock, but unfortunately became a laughing stock after…being hit with a bagel.”
“A bagel?” Miguel asked.
“And everything bagel with cream cheese.”
“No peppers?” Miguel said amused, referencing his own bagel go-to.”
“No peppers!” You exclaimed back. “Anyways, he HATES that kid Miles Morales, the one you were talking about.”
Miguel's face fell flat seeing the events replay in front of him. His eyes narrowed at the clumsy young boy, and he shook his head.
“Would you like for me to continue?”
“No.” Miguel turned back to his screen. “That's enough for tonight.”
You turned the room back to normal and pulled up a few screens of Miles Morales spidey-profile.
“Would you like me to elaborate on-”
The change in Miguel's face intensified seeing Miles again. “No! Cut it off!” He yelled.
You quickly did as told and crossed your arms.
“Migs, what is with you and that kid?”
Miguel took a few deep breaths in before turning to face you. “What did I say about that nickname?”
“Miguel- Okay listen. I know you're the boss and all but the mere mention of that kid sets you off. Why?”
Miguel didn't want to tell you that he envied Morales. Watching him from a distance and seeing him go home to his parents, his family. While he was stuck in a world without you-
“Shut down for tonight.” Miguel places his hand over his eyes.
“Miguel-”
“Lock the computer and shut down.”
You nodded and disappeared.
---
The internet is an endless void of searches, media, content, and texts. When Miguel allowed you in the computer during his free time you opted to watch youtube videos on stupid things like cats getting scared by cucumbers
When Miguel ordered you to lock the computer, it was like being a security guard for a museum. You only had access to personal files, which was far too complex for you to want to see anyway. So basically you chilled on the home screen until Miguel summoned you again.
You waited on the dark home screen, one of which was a spiderman logo. Groaning, you cursed yourself for angering your boss. Miguel was so emotional, and it drove you crazy at times.
Standing on the deskbar, you stomped, accidentally opening the already open tab of his files. And what came up shocked you.
Hundreds of videos and pictures of….you?
“What the hell?” You walked closer to a video of your face that was close in a camera. You put your hand on the play button and watched
“This is Y/n and…man.” Y/n turned the camera. “Miguel got us a room at the Ritz-Carlton for our honeymoon.”
You watched confused as you….but not you, showed the luxury hotel room.
“Here's a bottle of champagne and- oh! These fancy robes.” Y/n pushed the camera out to show that she was in a robe.
“Thank you so much baby.” Ricky smiled before turning the camera to Miguel, who was on the bed, in his robe reading….a book?
The video ended, and you quickly went scrolling through pictures. Going down a rabbit hole, you found pictures of your wedding, the trips you took, the two of you playing around in the spider suit…and some spicy moments between you two.
It all came to a halt when you came across an obituary. Your face was plastered on it, with a birth and death date.
---
The next morning you were more quiet, starting the morning sequence and watching Miguel prepare for the day.
“Miguel.”
“Hm?” He said looking down over the skyline of Nueva York from his window.
“We need to talk.”
You watched his body stiffen at your tone. He turned around and tilted his head. “About?”
You looked at your hands and shivered. “Who am I?”
“You're an AI, named Y/n.” He answered with a snarky tone.
“Who was I?”
He fell silent for a few moments. “A program.”
“That's not what I meant Miguel.” You waved your hand and multiple screens of your findings popped up. Miguel's eyes widened and his breathing stopped once he saw you everywhere at once.
“Y-you're….I-”
“I'm not just an AI am I?”
Miguel shook his head. You looked at him in disbelief as he pulled a screen in front of him, playing a video.
“You were my wife.” He stated at the video with loving eyes, “My beautiful, sweet wife…” He trailed off.
You looked at him with a sorry expression.
“On Earth-2099 you got sucked into a wormhole…one of my failed experiments.” He looked at his hands as if they were covered in blood. “I jumped through every dimension trying to find you and never did. Then I found a new dimension where you were just normal old Y/n.”
He looked over to you. “We were happy…for 6 months. Got married and everything.” He sighed deeply. “But I didn't know that if I attempted to call another dimension my home it would be destroyed I-...I fucked up a canon event…I think. You- You were never meant to marry me, not in that dimension.”
A body camera popped up in front of you two and it showed the demolition of your dimension, running while holding your hand. Y/n ran as fast as she could, but the next time Miguel turned around she was gone. He didn't even feel her disappear.
Miguel sat on the edge of the bed sobbing, holding his face as he cried. You'd never seen this before. Eyes red, nose runny Miguel. You could hear the pain in his voice, and it made you regret bringing this up to him.
“If I- If I- If I made you like this…kept you like this.” He motioned around your body. “You can't leave me.” He choked out. Miguel tried reaching for you but his hand went right through, which made him lean his head down and sob. “I can see you! I can get through the torture of every day if I can just see your face.”
“Oh Miguel-”
“Don't! I don't wanna hear it!” He yells.
You looked at him somberly before smiling softly.
“If it helps. I am programmed to absorb information and adapt. If you give me access to your files, I can accurately depict Y/n.”
Miguel stopped his crying and looked up at you. “You can do that? From just photos and pictures?
“Yes, social media and personal documents as well.”
“And you'll be the same? Just like her?”
“Like she never left.” You reassured.
Miguel quickly wiped his eyes and ran over to his laptop, opening it.
“Do it. Do it now.”
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