you frown; you've been frowning for the last five minutes.
"shut up," you grumble, seated in a corner with your wrists and ankles bound by rock restraints. "she shouldn't be allowed to do this. i mouth off one time and she decides that i no longer deserve free movement."
sokka snorts. "knowing you, your mouthing off was probably incredibly sassy and heaped with massive amounts of attitude," he replies, amused. "and we all know toph hates attitude."
"no kidding." you deadpan before looking at sokka hopefully. "if you help me out of these binds then i'll treat you to all the meat you want and—"
toph's voice suddenly cuts through your words from two rooms over, sharp and dipped in warning.
some people don’t deserve fanfics, much less for free.
also even if authors didn’t tag any specific warnings but they used the “creator chose not to use archive warnings” tag, then that is your warning.
“omg you should’ve —” no one forced your entitled ass to read anything. fanfic writers write for themselves and their own enjoyment. if you don’t like what you’re reading, quietly leave. ao3 is not an airport. no one cares about your departure so no need to announce it.
Sae's interest in you didn't end after that interview. A few days later you noticed the influx of followers, and your boss and coworkers were sending you countless articles about your interview with Sae. In the sports journalism world, you were a budding star.
It was late, you'd just made it into your apartment and you didn't know if it was the lack of sleep, or a sense of hubris granted by all the people gassing you up, but you decided to slide into Sae's dms.
A lot of famous figures and influencers have people who check who they're following religiously and Sae was no different.
It also didn't help that he only followed 10 so It was extremely obvious when he followed or unfollowed someone, not to mention the only people who he followed was his brother, his teams, Shidou, Adidas and a very popular soccer updates page that players and fans alike followed, and now you.
"The Sae Itoshi, Genius midfielder followed me? Hm..." You laughed after sending it, not expecting anything to come from it, but surprisingly he responded almost instantly.
"What can I say, I find you intriguing."
"Intriguing enough to give me another interview?"
And that's how you ended up in Sae's house, which was decorated quite beautifully and way nicer than you expected.
"Did you hire a designer?" You asked as you followed him into the living room, taking note of lack of typical bachelor pad features.
"What surprised I don't have a condom vending machine in my kitchen?" He smirked as he sat down next to you.
You wanted to pinch yourself. It was a stroke of luck that Nakamura, your boss, let you represent your company for the post match interview.
Even more so that you said something that caught Sae's attention and led you all the way here.
"Okay, since you're honestly doing me a favor I'll let you pick, would you like to do a recorded one, or one where I transcribe everything." He pretended to think then leaned back on the couch.
"You can record it, I know It'll boost your popularity some more."
You nodded, gaining traction was good, but it also came with a flood of Sae fangirls and boys who seemed personally offended by the fact that he acknowledged my existence.
The funny thing was that none of them actually knew him.
And right now, none of them were sitting in his living room.
You adjusted yourself on the couch and started the recording on your phone, placing it carefully on the coffee table between the two of you.
"Ready?" You asked.
Sae glanced at the device before looking back at you, "whenever you are."
The interview started the way they always did. Questions about the season, his performances, his goals moving forward. The standard topics every journalist covered.
What surprised you wasn't the content of his answers, but how willing he was to give them.
Most reporters were lucky to get a sentence out of him. You'd watched enough press conferences to know that. Sae usually looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
But here, in the quiet of his house, he seemed relaxed.
He answered thoughtfully, occasionally leaning back against the couch as he spoke. Sometimes he'd challenge the wording of your questions, eliciting some playful banter. Other times he'd ask what I thought before giving his own answer.
At some point, the interview stopped feeling like work.
The recording was still running, but neither of us seemed particularly focused on it anymore.
"Do you ever get tired of all the attention?" You asked eventually.
His eyes lifted from where he'd been absentmindedly turning a water bottle in his hands.
"The media attention?"
"Any attention."
He considered it for a moment.
"I like yours."
There was something unexpectedly honest about the way he said it.
The Sae everyone knew was composed, intimidating, impossible to read. The player who dominated headlines and made impossible passes look effortless.
The person sitting across from you felt different. Still confident. Still frustratingly self-assured, but human.
"You mean there's more to Sae Itoshi than being annoyingly talented?" You giggled.
His mouth twitched, "Hard to believe, I know."
"Very."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
The sound surprised you enough that you almost forgot your next question.
𝜗𝒞
The interview eventually drifted to a natural end nearly an hour later.
You reached forward and stopped the recording.
"Well," You said, stretching slightly. "That'll definitely make my editor happy."
"Only your editor?"
You looked up.
His gaze was already on you.
"Maybe me too."
Something softened in his expression.
The room settled into a comfortable silence.
It should've felt awkward.
Instead, it felt strangely familiar.
Like sitting across from each other and talking for hours was becoming normal. The realization made your stomach do something embarrassing.
Because when had that happened?
When had Sae stopped being just another athlete you interviewed?
And when had you stopped looking forward to your conversations purely for professional reasons?
"Can I ask you something?" he said suddenly.
You raised an eyebrow.
"Depends."
"Give me your number," He unlocked his phone and held it out toward me. "I don't check Instagram that often."
When you handed it back, Sae immediately saved it and sent a text.
A second later your phone buzzed.
xxx-xxx-xxxx
You looked down, then back up at him.
"I like efficiency."
"Of course you do."
The smile on his face lingered for a second longer than usual.
He walked you toward the door, and for some reason neither of you seemed in a hurry.
The conversation continued in fragments as you crossed the place.
Small comments.
Easy observations.
The kind of things people talked about when they weren't ready for the interaction to end.
When you reached the door you figured that was it.
Interview over.
Another successful evening.
Except it didn't feel like the end of an interview anymore, it felt like leaving a friend.
The thought startled you.
Then Sae spoke.
"You have anything planned for the rest of the day?" Did he not want you to leave?
"No, I was just going to edit this a bit."
"Then stay here with me... just for a little bit."
𝜗𝒞
A little bit, right?
Well who knew a little bit would turn into him thrusting into you.
"Fuck, if I knew you were this tight I would've invited you over sooner." He grunted as he pushed your hair out of your face, "you're so beautiful, y'know that right?"
You scoffed, "you already got me in bed, there's no need to flatter me." This made him stop and lift up your chin so that you were holding eye contact with you.
"I never lie, and I don't sleep around."
That was true. In every interview Sae had he was blunt. He didn't make little white lies or decline to answer to keep a positive feeling in the room.
"Yeah... I know," you agree as he moves down to kiss you.
This was crazy. You were having sex with a star athlete who everyone else saw as cold and rude with an iron wall up.
Guess it went down for you.
Now, after a nice warm shower together you both were laying in his bed with sheets you knew costed more than your monthly rent.
"You did such a good job," he kissed your forehead. He was being uncharacteristically soft, or maybe he was always like this and the media just didn't know.
You leaned into his touch, "so is this how all of our interviews will end?"
Sae rolled his eyes and kissed you again, "well, I have to score on and off the field."
TYSM for 900 followers! I tried to add a little steaminess as a ty but I forgot I CANNOTTTT write smut to save my life...
I'm getting ready for the warzone rn, (i work at a restuarnt and it's father's day) wish me luck :(
If there was one part of soccer Sae didn't care for, it was the mindless interviews.
A post-match interview? Fine.
A sponsorship shoot? Tolerable.
One of those painfully awkward videos where they sat professional athletes in front of puppies and expected them to reveal their deepest secrets?
Absolutely not.
Most interviews followed the same formula.
'How does it feel to score?'
'What's your workout routine?'
'Who inspires you?'
Questions that have been asked a thousand times and would be asked another thousand after, so when Sae entered the media room after his match, he was already halfway checked out.
The journalists sat in neat rows, hands poised over notebooks and laptops, waiting for their turn. The first few questions went exactly as expected.
"How do you feel about today's victory?"
"It was expected."
"What do you think separated your team from the opposition?"
"We played better."
The room collectively deflated with every short answer.
Good.
Maybe they'd end this faster.
Then someone spoke from the third row.
"During the second half, you stopped making overlapping runs and started occupying deeper spaces."
Sae's eyes shifted.
You weren't even looking at your notes.
You were looking directly at him.
"The commentators said it was because the opposing midfield was pressing higher," you continued. "But from where I was sitting, it looked more like you were baiting their defensive line into stepping forward."
Several reporters blinked.
One quietly stopped typing.
Sae tilted his head.
For the first time all afternoon.
"...Go on."
The moderator looked surprised.
You didn't.
"When their center-backs stepped up, they left space behind them. Twenty-three minutes later, your through ball created the winning goal."
You glanced at your notebook.
"Was that adjustment planned before the match, or was it something you recognized in real time?"
The room fell silent.
Because that wasn't a fan question.
It wasn't a tabloid question.
It was a gameplay question.
And a good one.
Sae leaned back in his chair.
"It wasn't planned."
A few heads snapped toward him.
Long answers were apparently a rare event.
"Their right center-back kept abandoning his position whenever their midfielder lost possession."
You nodded immediately.
"The number four?"
"Yeah."
You scribbled something down, it wasn't anything of substance you just wanted to look a little more put together.
Sae found himself watching you longer than necessary.
"Did you notice it before halftime?" you asked.
"I noticed it after twelve minutes."
A slight pause, "You?"
"About seventeen."
One of the reporters nearly dropped his pen.
Sae stared then, unexpectedly, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Slow."
A few journalists looked genuinely horrified.
You simply shrugged.
"I wasn't on the field."
The moderator looked like he had accidentally wandered into a private conversation.
The rest of the interview continued similarly.
Every question you asked dug deeper.
It was like there was no one else in the room. No other interviewer dared to ask a question, likely because they were trying to write down everything he was telling you.
Not once did you ask about his dating life.
Not once did you ask who he was friends with.
Not once did you ask him to rank teammates or reveal embarrassing stories.
And for perhaps the first time in years, Sae found himself answering because he wanted to.
By the end of the interview, he'd spent nearly twenty minutes speaking almost exclusively to you.
Something that didn't go unnoticed.
As the session wrapped up, the moderator thanked everyone for attending.
Most reporters immediately packed their things.
You did too, no attempt to linger or a request for a photo, you just grabbed your bag and left.
۶ৎ
Sae watched you leave.
"...What's her name?"
The moderator nearly choked.
"The journalist?"
"Obviously."
The man blinked then told him. He felt so starstruck that Sae Itoshi was talking to him that he handed him a card with the name of your company and some of your contact information.
Sae committed it to memory before standing and walking away.
Across social media, clips from the interview exploded within hours.
'WHY WAS SAE ACTUALLY TALKING???'
'HE ANSWERED IN FULL SENTENCES.'
'Who is that reporter???'
'Not him smiling because she challenged him.'
'Did anyone else catch him asking for her name after the interview????'
'SAE ITOSHI YOU ARE NOT SLICK.'
Even the players noticed.
The next morning, Sae walked into training to find several teammates waiting.
With grins.
Dangerous grins.
"Good morning, Sae," Shidou sang.
Sae immediately turned around.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"Yes, I do."
"That journalist seemed nice."
Sae kept walking.
"She understood soccer."
The entire locker room erupted.
He'd never admit it, but they were right. He did remember you and he already told his manager and publicist that you were the only person he wanted to be interviewed by for the foreseeable future.
❤︎⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀he was your family’s rare, collared snow leopard hybrid—rowdy, off-limits, and never meant to be yours. but love ignores all bounds.
( snow leopard!maki x fem!r ) ─── ᛫ hybrid pet/ownership dynamics, breeding kink, slow burn, unprotected p in v, knotting, creampie, rut sex, lowk power imbalance, possessive behavior, collaring, emotional sex. 𓋰 word count. 2,480 ( masterlist )
( req ) More hybrid maki content plssssssss
( a/n ) your wish is my command nonie ~ >.< i enjoyed writing this sm ,, i hope u like it !
the world had always run on pedigrees and price tags. rare hybrid breeding was normal in the circles your family moved in. you had watched it happen for years—friends showing off sleek black panther hybrids draped across designer sofas like living art, cousins parading fennec foxes with oversized ears and clever hands that fetched drinks and secrets alike. and then there were the bunny hybrids. soft, specially-bred things with twitchy noses and eyes that had been trained to stay downcast. they were made for rich men to use, and everyone pretended it was normal.
your parents were no different. at sixteen, they brought home a snow leopard.
he was around your age—sixteen, maybe seventeen at most—and still growing into his frame. short silver-white hair framing his smiley dimpled face, the faint black rosettes along the strands catching the light like frost on glass. leopard ears sat high and alert on his head, twitching at every sound. a long, thick tail lashed behind him in restless arcs. the collar around his throat was new black leather with a silver plate that simply read maki.
“rowdy,” the handler had warned your father. “but he’ll learn his place with the right hand.”
maki’s gaze had found yours across the marble foyer and stayed there. not defiant. not submissive. just… seeing you. something in your chest had clicked into place that day, quiet and irreversible.
the first year was chaos and small mercies.
maki hated the trainers. he would slip from his collar during lessons and vanish into the high trees at the edge of the estate, only to reappear hours later with leaves in his hair and a sheepish, sharp-toothed grin. your mother called him a waste of money. your father called him an investment. you called him by name and left your bedroom window unlocked on nights when the moon was bright and his energy ran too high to sleep.
he never came inside without asking. not once. but he would sit on the balcony railing, tail curling around the ironwork, and talk to you in that low, rough voice that still cracked sometimes.
“you don’t smell like the others,” he told you once, nose wrinkling. “the rich ones. they smell like perfume and money. you smell like… warm things. books. baked goods.”
you laughed. he smiled wider, ears flicking forward like he wanted to catch the sound.
he was rowdy with everyone else—play-fighting the security hybrids until they tapped out, scaling the greenhouse roof just to see if he could, growling low when guests tried to pet him without permission. but with you he was careful. gentle in a way that felt deliberate. he would let you brush the tangles from his tail after he’d been running wild. he would rest his head in your lap on the library floor while you read aloud, purring so loudly you felt it vibrate your bones.when nightmares of the breeding facility woke him (he never said the word, but you learned the signs—ears flat, tail tucked, breathing too fast), you were the only one allowed to sit with him until the shaking stopped.
by the time you were both nineteen, the shape of things had changed.
maki had filled out—taller—sitting at 6’1, broad through the shoulders, the rosettes along his hair and the faint markings across his collarbones more defined. his voice had settled into something warm and a little gravelly. he still wore the collar, still answered to the family name on paper, but between the two of you the rules had quietly rewritten themselves.
you were the one who noticed first how his scent changed around you. how it deepened, turned warmer, muskier, when you came home from university visits or when you sat too close on the window seat. how his tail would brush the back of your calf and linger. how his eyes followed your mouth when you spoke.
he noticed too. the way you had started wearing his big hoodies when the house was too cold during the winters. the way your fingers lingered on the edge of his collar when you adjusted it for him. the way you looked at him like he was a person first and a hybrid second.
neither of you said anything. not for a long time.
the night everything cracked open, your parents were in tokyo for three weeks. the estate was quiet except for the low hum of the underfloor heating and the occasional distant call of the peacocks maki still liked to terrorize. you found him in the indoor atrium they had built for him—climate-controlled, with climbing structures and a shallow pool and soft white fur rugs that mimicked snow. he was shirtless, skin gleaming under the moonlight that poured through the glass ceiling. the faint rosette markings across his ribs shifted when he breathed. his tail lashed once, hard, before going still.
he knew you were there before you spoke.
“go back to your wing,” he said, voice already rough. “please.”
you stepped closer anyway. “no, you’ve been avoiding me for four days.”
“because i can smell you from across the house,” he snapped, then winced like the words hurt. one hand came up to grip the back of his own neck, claws pricking skin. “i think its starting. my rut. i thought i could handle it alone this time. i always have. but you—” his eyes flicked up, pale and burning. “you are here for it and its making it worse. or better. i don’t fucking know.”
you stopped a few feet away. close enough to see the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his ears were pinned flat against his hair.
“i’m not leaving you like this.”
maki let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. “you should. i’m not… safe right now. the things i want—” he cut himself off, jaw tight. “i’ve spent years being good. staying in my lane. you’re the daughter of the people who bought me. i’m the rare snow leopard they show off at parties. that’s the story. that’s all it can ever be.”
you took another step. “is that what you want it to be?”
his tail lashed again, the tip brushing your ankle. the contact made him shudder.
“no,” he whispered. “god, no. i want—” his voice cracked. “i want to tear that collar off and put my teeth in your shoulder so everyone knows you’re mine. i want to breed you until you can’t walk straight, until my scent is so deep in you that no one else would ever dare touch you. i want to wake up with you in my arms every morning instead of wondering if today’s the day your parents decide i’m more useful in a breeding program than in their house.” he laughed, bitter and broken. “i’m in love with you. have been since i was sixteen.”
the words hung in the warmed air between you.
you closed the distance.
maki went very still as your hands came up to frame his face. his skin was fever-hot. you could feel the fine tremor running through him.
“i love you too,” you said simply. “i have for a long time. and i’m not your owner, maki. not like that. never like that.”
his eyes searched yours for a long moment—looking for doubt, for fear, for any reason to pull away. he found none.
when he kissed you, it was careful at first. a question. you answered by sliding your fingers into his hair, careful of his ears, and tugging him closer. the sound he made—low, guttural, relieved—went straight through you.
the kiss deepened fast after that. years of restraint snapped like overstretched wire. maki’s hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, sliding under your shirt to span your ribs like he was memorizing the shape of you. his tongue traced the seam of your lips and you opened for him, tasting the faint wild edge of his scent. he kissed like he fought—intense, a little rough, but never careless. when you nipped at his lower lip he growled and pulled you flush against him.
you felt the hard line of his thick heavy cock through his loose pants, already straining. the base was already beginning to swell.
“maki—”
“i know,” he panted against your mouth. “i know it’s a lot. if you want to stop—”
“i don’t.” you kissed the corner of his jaw, then the sensitive spot just below his ear. he shuddered so hard his tail wrapped around your thigh on instinct. “i want you. all of you. the rowdy parts. the kind parts. the parts that want to breed me. i want it.”
he made a broken sound and lifted you like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you to the largest fur rug near the pool. he laid you down like you were something precious, then followed you down, caging you with his body but holding his weight on his forearms so he didn’t crush you.
clothes came off in a blur of desperate hands. when he finally got your shirt over your head he paused, just looking. his ears had perked forward again. his tail was twitching.
“you’re so beautiful,” he said, voice hoarse. “i used to dream about this. used to feel guilty about it. now i just—” he leaned down and dragged his tongue slowly up the center of your chest, between your breasts. the rough texture of it made you arch. “now i just want to make you feel good. want to make you mine in every way that counts.”
he took his time after that. mapping you with mouth and hands and the occasional careful drag of teeth. he learned quickly what made you gasp—how sensitive the underside of your breasts were, how you liked it when he sucked marks into the soft skin of your inner thighs, how your whole body jerked when he finally, finally licked a broad stripe up your cunt and purred at the taste.
“mmpf—fuck—maki—”
he ate you like a man starved and still somehow managed to be gentle about it. two fingers worked inside you while his tongue circled your clit, the vibrations of his purring adding another layer. when you came the first time he didn’t stop—just eased you through it, licking you clean, tail thumping against the rug in satisfaction.
by the time he crawled back up your body you were shaking and slick and so ready for him it hurt.
he paused above you, forehead pressed to yours. his cock was heavy and hot against your thigh, the knot at the base already thick and flushed.
“tell me again,” he whispered. “tell me you want this. that you want me. please.”
“i want you,” you said, reaching down to wrap your hand around him. he hissed, hips jerking. “i want you inside me. i want you to breed me.”
maki’s control frayed at the edges as your words sunk into his fur. he lined himself up and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch, watching your face the whole time. the stretch was intense—he was thick, and the beginning swell of his knot bumped against your soaked cunt, hips jerking slightly as it threatened to slip in even before he’d fucked you.
when he was fully seated he stayed there for a long moment, just breathing, letting you adjust to his length—tail curled possessively around your calf.
“mine,” he said, almost wondering. “you’re really mine.”
then he started to move.
the first few thrusts were slow, sweet. he kissed you through them, swallowed your moans, told you how good you felt, how perfect, how he’d dreamed of this exact moment for years. but his rut was still intense—despite his attempt to control the pure need and desire running through him. soon the rhythm turned harder, deeper. he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder and drove in at an angle that made stars burst behind your eyes. the knot swelled against your hole with every thrust, catching on your rim, stretching you wider each time.
“nngh…gonna fill you up,” he growled against your throat. “gonna breed this pretty pussy until it takes. until you’re leaking me for days. until everyone who smells you knows who you belong to.” his teeth grazed the junction of your neck and shoulder—not biting, not yet, but the threat of it made you clench around him. “fuck— you like that? like the thought of me putting cubs in you even though we can’t—?”
“yes—yes, maki, please—wan’ your cubs—ah”
he snarled and fucked you harder. the sound of skin on skin and the wet slide of your bodies filled the atrium. his tail tightened around your leg. one clawed hand gripped at furry rug beside your head while the other slid between you to rub tight circles over your clit.
you came again with a broken cry, walls fluttering around him. the squeeze was enough to push maki over the edge—he buried himself as deep as he could and locked, knot swelling to full size inside you as he came in thick, hot pulses. the sensation of being so full, so stretched, so claimed, dragged another smaller orgasm out of you.
for a long minute there was only breathing and the low, constant rumble of his purring. maki’s forehead was pressed to your shoulder. his tail had gone lax, draped over both of you like a blanket. every so often his hips gave a tiny involuntary roll, like his body couldn’t quite believe it was allowed to stay inside you.
eventually he lifted his head. his eyes were soft again—still dark with afterglow, but the wild edge had faded.
“you okay?” he asked quietly. “i didn’t hurt you?”
you reached up and traced the line of his jaw, then the edge of one ear. he leaned into the touch like a cat. “i’m perfect. you were perfect.”
he smiled—small, a little shy, the same smile he’d given you the day he arrived. rowdy yet kind.
he stayed locked inside you for a while longer, unwilling to pull out even when the knot began to go down. when he finally did, he cleaned you with careful licks and gentle fingers, then pulled you into his arms on the rug. his tail wrapped around your waist. your head found the spot on his chest where his heartbeat was slowest.
outside, snow had started to fall against the glass ceiling. inside, the atrium was warm and quiet and smelled like the two of you.
maki pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“i don’t know what happens now,” he murmured. “with your parents. with the world. but i know this—i’m not letting you go. not now. not ever. you’re stuck with your rowdy snow leopard.”
you tilted your head up and kissed the underside of his jaw.
summary: a character study on what it feels like to be loved by dante sparda: all sharp jokes, reckless devotion, terrible protectiveness, emotional avoidance, and the slow, sacred miracle of him choosing to stay
word count: 1,492
content: dante x gn!reader, romantic character study, hurt/comfort undertones, post-DMC5's sojourn to Hell, stream of consciousness, mentions of blood, canon-typical violence, injury, Hell, death, grief, emotional avoidance, self-sacrificial behaviour, fear of abandonment, implied trauma, Dante's low self-worth/self-endangering tendencies
a/n: he is so annoying. i love him. this man is a mess (affectionate) 😭
To be loved by Dante is to be loved by a locked door that opens with a stupid joke rather than a key. It is never clean, never rehearsed, never wrapped prettily in ribbon and offered with both hands; it arrives sideways, grinning, smelling distantly of gunpowder, motor oil, old leather, rain-soaked pavement, and that impossible sugar-bright nonsense he keeps pretending counts as dinner. He loves in deflection first; he loves by leaning in your doorway and saying something idiotic because sincerity sits in his mouth like hot coals. He loves by making you roll your eyes when the room is too heavy, by turning fear into something with a punchline long enough for you to breathe again.
Being loved by him feels, at first, like standing inside a storm shelter decorated by a teenage boy with no budget and catastrophic taste in decor. There are weapons on the walls, unpaid bills on the desk, dust under the neon, and some ancient grief sleeping badly beneath the floorboards. Yet, somehow, there is also warmth there.
Not domestic in the polished sense—nothing about Dante is polished except the guns he cares for better than he cares for himself—but there is a kind of unruly hearth in him, a crooked little fire burning in the ruined chapel of his heart. He will make you laugh when you are trying to stay angry, he will call you by some lazy pet name as though the syllables do not matter, as though he has not started using them because your real name has become too precious to speak aloud. His affection wears grease-stained gloves and tracks mud through the hallway; it steals the last slice, then saves you the best piece; it complains, sprawls, flirts, dodges, tosses a grin over its shoulder, then remembers everything you love.
The way you take your coffee, the sound your breathing makes when you’re about to cry, which knife sits easiest in your hand, which film you hate but never turn off, which window in your apartment sticks, which silence means leave me alone and which one means please, for the love of God, notice. His love is not neat enough to be a vow at first. It is a hundred little trespasses of care disguised as laziness, jokes, bad habits, and coincidence. He makes himself easy to underestimate because it lets him offer tenderness without confessing to the crime. But once you learn him, once you know how to read the soft animal under the red coat and ridiculous mouth, you realise that the laughter was never shallow—it was a candle he kept lit with his bare hands because somebody had to keep the darkness from swallowing the whole room.
And then there is the danger of it. Dante’s love feels safe, but never because he is safe. He is not; he is a blade with a heartbeat, a man built out of old wars, demonic inheritance, brother-loss, mother-loss, father-shadow, debt, hunger, stubbornness, and a talent for surviving things that should have turned anyone else into a cautionary stain.
To be loved by him is to understand that the world has teeth, but so does he, and his are sharper. He will not wrap you in glass, he knows too much about cages to confuse protection with possession. He loves people who choose, who stand, who get angry, who make demands of him even when he is trying to slip away with that infuriating smile still warm on his face. But if something is ever to reach for you with violence in its hands, the atmosphere changes, the joking man thins, and beneath him something older looks up. Something cruel—not to you, never to you—something terrible.
Dante’s protectiveness is not loud in the way lesser men make it; he does not need to posture, he does not need to bark ownership into a room, he simply becomes the line that nothing crosses. One moment he is all swagger and loose shoulders and boots thrown carelessly over the desk, some awful one-liner already halfway formed in his mouth. The next, the whole world has narrowed to the space that lives between you and danger and he is standing inside it with that calm, lazy, murderous patience of his, as though the universe has made an administrative error and he has arrived to correct the paperwork in blood.
To be loved by Dante means seeing how quickly his foolishness can burn away, it means learning that beneath every joke is calculation, beneath every shrug is attention, beneath every flirtation is a man who has spent his whole life arriving too late and has sworn, without ever saying it out loud, that he will not arrive late for you.
He will take the blow, he will make the bargain, he will lie about the pain, he will bleed on your floor and apologise for the mess before he will ever admit that it hurts, he will drag himself home with half of Hell still clinging to his coat because, apparently, death itself was not enough reason to miss you for good. His love can frighten you because it reveals how little he values his own body when someone else's life is at stake. He treats himself as expendable with such practised ease that loving him sometimes feels like trying to hold smoke in both hands and beg it to remember that it has a shape. Yet, when he turns that devotion towards you, when his eyes settle on you after battle and the grin falters because you are alive, because you are here, because he did not lose another person, there is something unbearable living within it. He looks at you as though every cathedral he has never prayed in has lit itself from the inside.
The deepest part of Dante’s love though? The deepest part is not the jokes, not even the protection. It is the staying, because staying is the thing that he does the worst and the thing he must learn to do with the most bruising honesty.
Dante’s love feels like being adored by someone who has mistaken leaving for mercy for so long that he has to relearn the shape of a doorstep. He will try to spare you from himself, he will tell himself that distance is kindness, that silence is protection, that if he walks away first then he can keep grief from learning your address. He has survived all these years, all these monsters, by travelling light even though his heart never has been. Everyone he loves becomes a ghost before they are gone because some terrified part of him is always rehearsing the loss in advance.
So to be loved by him is not to be given perfect certainty. It is to stand close enough to feel him flinch when love asks for a name, a future, a morning after, a drawer left full, a toothbrush beside yours, a promise without escape routes hidden under the floor. His love is clumsy there, raw-knuckled, embarrassed by its own need. It reaches for you, pulls back, jokes, looks away, comes back again, softer this time, more honest and more terrified. He is not graceful with being wanted. He can handle monsters, armies, devils, wounds through the chest, and the end of the world before breakfast, but someone looking at him and asking him to please just stay can ruin him more completely than any blade. When he does stay, when he does choose it, it feels like watching a ruined city decide, finally, to grow gardens through its own bones.
He doesn’t become gentle all at once—he is still Dante, he still annoys you on purpose, he still eats terribly, dodges feelings until they corner him, bleeds on things, and says the wrong thing with the confidence of a man entirely committed to making it worse before making it better. But he tries and that is sacred. The ordinary miracle. He tries with a startled devotion belonging to someone who never expected to be allowed another change. He learns your anger without running from it, he lets your hurt exist without turning it into a joke too quickly, he sits with the consequences of his absence, he lets himself be seen in the ugly light, not just the heroic one.
Dante’s love, at its truest, feels like a man coming home from Hell and understanding that home is not the couch, the office, the city, or the battered sign outside his door. It is the person whose voice can still call him back into himself, it is the body he curls around in sleep without thinking, it is the hand he reaches for when the room is quiet enough for the ghosts to start whispering.
To be loved by Dante is to be chosen by someone who knows every exit and, trembling beneath all that swagger, stops taking them.
All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.
all I yearn for is to be transported into the world of one of my fav tv shows just to end up falling in love with my fav character and finally live out the wattpad dreams that I’ve always dreamed about
'Lover, You Should've Come Over' by Jeff Buckly came on while I was in the car and I immediately thought of Vergil so enjoy lol.
Warning: AU asf, you never stopped loving each other, you were married bc I say so, Vergil prob ooc (once again), small Silent Hill 2 reference.
After everything, after blades clashed and blood was spilled and destinies collided, the silence feels unnatural. Like something sacred has just ended, and the earth itself is still holding its breath. The wind moves gently through the broken remains of the Qliphoth. Dust drifts. The sky, once split and bleeding, begins to mend. And there, at the center of it all, he stands.
Vergil is still. Not in power. It's stillness that comes after defeat. Across from him, Nero breathes hard, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of battle, his Devil Trigger fading like dying embers. His hands tremble. Not from weakness, but from everything he just felt. Everything he just learned. Neither of them speak. Because what is there left to say?
And then... footsteps. Soft and out of place. Not frantic like someone running into danger. They were steady, measured, and certain. Vergil instinctively turns his head first. Like something deep within him recognizes the rhythm before his mind does. And then.... he sees you.
You stand at the edge of ruin, untouched by the chaos, as though the world had parted just enough to let you pass through it. Weapon in your hand, no fear. You.
Vergil forgets how to breathe. Because you are not a memory. You are not a ghost. You are not something he can bury again. You are real. Nero turns instantly, relief flashing across his face the moment he sees you.
“Hey,” Nero exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You really picked the worst time to show up, y’know that?”
But there’s no frustration in it. You smile at him, soft and warm.
“I figured you’d have it handled, kiddo,” you reply, your eyes linger on him for a moment longer. Checking. Always checking, and Nero, despite everything, softens under it.
“I’m fine,” Nero says, quieter now. “Really.”
“I know,” you answer placing a hand on his jaw to tilt his head to get a better look.
You hear a small exhale and turn around, eyes locking with Vergil. The world narrows to the space between you. Your hand slowly falls from your son's face.
“…Took you long enough,” you say softly.
Your voice is calm. Surprisingly so, but it carries years in it. Years of waiting. Years of loving someone who never came back. Years of collapse.
Time folds in on itself. He sees it all at once. Fortuna, your hands in his, the quiet promise of something he did not understand how to keep.
The ring.
Still resting where it belongs. He stares at it like it might vanish if he blinks.
“…You kept it,” Vergil says, his voice barely there, like it has to pass through too many memories to reach you.
Your fingers brush against the band subconsciously. A habit. A comfort. A tether to him.
“I never had a reason to take it off,” you reply.
There’s no bitterness, no anger. Just the truth. And, for him, that is somehow worse. Nero looks between the two of you, something slowly clicking into place.
“…Okay,” Nero mutters, gesturing vaguely. “I’m gonna go ahead and assume this is the part where things get weird.”
“You already knew it would,” you huffed out in a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, but I didn’t think it’d be this weird,” Nero shoots back, though his voice lacks its usual bite. His eyes flicker to Vergil. “…You gonna say something, or just stand there lookin’ like you saw a ghost?”
Vergil does not react to Nero. He can’t. Because he is still looking at you. Still trying to understand how you are here. How you are still his years after his abandonment.
“…You waited,” Vergil says in disbelief.
You step forward. One step, then another. Closing a distance that should have remained untouched.
“I lived,” you correct gently. “I raised our son. I built a life.”
Your gaze flickers briefly to Nero, proud. Then back to Vergil.
“But yes,” you add, quieter now, “I waited too.”
Something in Vergil’s chest tightens.
“…Why?” he asks.
The word feels small, inadequate. But it is all he has. You tilt your head slightly, studying him the way you used to. Like you are looking past everything he has become, searching for the man you knew.
“Because you were mine,” you say simply. “And I am yours.”
The past tense never comes. It hangs there... the present. Nero exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…Y’know, I always wondered what kind of guy you were,” Nero says, glancing at Vergil. “Figured he had to be something real special if she stuck around like that. She deserves the world, but she refused it all.”
You shoot him a look. “Nero-”
“I’m just sayin’,” Nero shrugs, protective. “You disappeared. She didn’t.”
Vergil flinches.
“I know,” Vergil says quietly.
And he does. Now more than ever. You step closer again. Close enough now that the space between you feels fragile. Like it could shatter if either of you moves too fast.
“But you didn’t know,” you say softly. “About him, at least.”
It isn’t an accusation. Vergil’s gaze flickers, just briefly, to Nero. To the son who stood against him. Stopped him. Saved him.
“…No,” Vergil admits. The word feels heavier than any blade he has ever carried. You nod. As if you expected nothing else.
“I told him about you,” you continue, your voice quieter now. “Not everything. Not… this.” You gesture vaguely to the destruction around you. “But enough.”
Nero huffs lightly. “Yeah. ‘He was complicated,’” he quotes, glancing between you both. “That’s one way to put it.”
“He was,” you agree, smiling faintly.
Vergil closes his eyes for a brief moment. 'Complicated.' It feels like a mercy. When he opens them again, you are closer. So close he can see the years in you.
“…You should hate me,” Vergil says.
It comes out low and rough. Like something dragged from a place he never lets anyone see. Your expression softens.
“I tried,” you admit. A small breath leaves you, “I tried to be angry. It would have been easier.”
Your hand lifts slightly, then stops. Hovering between you unsure.
“But every time I looked at him,” you glance at Nero again, warmth flooding your voice, “I couldn’t.”
Silence settles. Intimate and unavoidable.
“…I missed you,” you say finally.
And there it is. The simple, devastating truth. Vergil’s composure fractures.
“…You should not have,” Vergil replies, his voice cracks, and his words lack conviction. “There was nothing left of me worth missing.”
You step into him. Close enough now that there is no distance left. Close enough that if either of you breathes too deeply, you’ll collide.
“I didn’t miss what you became,” you whisper, your voice trembling now. “I missed the man who held me like I mattered. Vergil..... you made me happy.”
Vergil stills completely. Your hand finally closes the distance. Fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. The same way you used to. He inhales sharply. Like the touch burns. Like it heals. Like it does both at once.
“I missed you,” you repeat.
And this time, there is no strength in it. Just longing. Just years of loving someone who never came home.
Vergil’s hand lifts, slow and hesitant. Like he does not trust himself with something so fragile. It hovers near your wrist, then finally, he touches you. His fingers curl around your hand, grounding, reverent. Like he is afraid you will disappear if he grips too tightly.
His fingers gently run over the ring he put on your finger over 20 years ago and his chest aches, remembering how he slipped it onto your finger without a word. No getting down on one knee and asking, 'will you marry me?', but something much simpler, and much more his style. Remembering how you held up your hand immediately afterwards, watching the as the silver caught the low lights of the Fortuna library and how you kissed him so gently like he wasn't the son of Sparda. Like he was just a man.
“…I did not allow myself to,” Vergil says, his voice quieter than it has ever been. “But you were… not absent.”
Your breath catches. Because that is the closest thing to a confession he has ever given. Nero exhales softly behind you both, quieter now, the tension in him easing just slightly.
“…Alright,” Nero mutters, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I’m gonna… give you two a second before this gets any more intense.”
You almost laugh, but you don’t take your eyes off Vergil. Because after all this time you finally have him in front of you again. Not as a memory. Not as a ghost. Real. Real as the blood that runs through his veins and as real as the child you created together. Your thumb brushes lightly against his knuckles. A small, grounding motion.
“I’m not asking you to stay,” you say softly. The words hurt. You can feel it. “But I needed you to know… we were real.”
Vergil’s grip tightens. Enough to stop you from pulling away.
“…I know,” he says as he steps closer. Closing what little space remains. His forehead nearly touches yours. His voice lowers into something deeper and raw as he murmmers, “I remember everything,”
The thought comes unbidden, unwanted. And yet, he cannot deny it. Your eyes close briefly. Because that... that is enough to break you.
And then the moment shifts. Subtle but unmistakable. A familiar presence stirs at the edge of it all; restless, waiting. From somewhere beyond, the echo of another presence lingers, Dante. The Qliphoth still breathes. Still festers. Still demands an end. And Vergil feels it.
His hand tightens around yours. Not enough to hurt, but enough to hold on.
“…I have to go,” Vergil says.
There it is. The same distance threatening to open again. This time he does not let go first. There is hesitation in him now. His eyes search yours. Not for permission, but something deeper. Something like forgiveness. You see it immediately. You could always see right through him. And instead of breaking, you step closer. Closing that distance before it can become something permanent again.
“I know,” you say softly.
Your free hand lifts, cupping his face gently, anchoring him.
“This isn’t the same,” you continue, your voice steady despite the ache rising in your chest. “You’re not running away.”
Vergil’s breath falters.
“You’re choosing to come back,” you whisper.
Something in him stills. Because that has never been something he allowed himself before. Your thumb brushes lightly against his cheek in slow, reassuring circles.
“You know where home is now,” you say.
The words settle deep.
“I’ll be there,” you add, softer now. “Like I've always been.”
Vergil’s grip trembles. Something it hasn't done since he was a child.
“…And if I do not return?” Vergil asks quietly.
Your expression softens.
“Then I’ll still be there,” you answer gently. “Because loving you was never something that depended on you staying.”
That breaks something in him completely. Somewhere deep within him, something aches as your forehead presses lightly against his. One last moment. One last breath shared.
“You're choosing to come back this time,” you murmur.
His eyes close. Just for a second. Like he’s committing that to something deeper than memory. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he lets go. Not completely. Not truly. Because he could never really let go of you. Nero watches quietly as Vergil steps back, something shifting in his expression.
“…Don’t take too long,” Nero mutters, crossing his arms. “She already waited long enough.”
Vergil glances at him. There is no conflict in his gaze. Only understanding.
“…I am aware,” Vergil replies. He takes a small journal out of the inside of his jacket, looking at the 'V' on the front. He makes eye contact with Nero, then gently tosses it to his son. "Hold onto that until then."
You smile faintly, soft and proud. And when Vergil finally turns toward the place where duty calls him back into the dark, he does not feel empty. He does not feel lost.
Because for the first time he knows exactly where he is meant to return. And as you watch him go, hand resting over the ring that never left your finger, you do not feel abandoned. Only certain.
Because this time he knows the way home.
This shit is so buns, but I spent so much time on it I'm posting it anyway. <3
OKAY BUT LIKE FEM/READER IN LABOR TO DANTE'S KID?? HOW WOULD DAT LOOK LIKE?? (I saw one of ur fics and immediately ur my fav writer)
I'M YOUR FAVORITE?! Omg that literally means so much! Okay frens bear with me I've never had a child so I'll so my bestest!
Devils Don’t Panic (Dante Does, Apparently)
Dante x pregnant!Reader
Warnings: I've decided that you're giving birth in the shop bc you cannot have a demon child at a hospital muah, Kyrie is helping you give birth because I head cannon her as a Neonatal Nurse, everyone catching strays, cursing
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Dante snapped.
“You’re not the one in labor.”
“I KNOW THAT.”
Another contraction hit and you grabbed the front of his jacket hard enough that a lesser man probably would’ve folded immediately. Dante barely reacted to the grip. The panic in his face, though? Priceless
“This is your fault,” you hissed through clenched teeth.
“That feels unfair.”
“You did this to me.”
“Takes two people, babe-OW-okay, alright, fair enough.” You released his jacket only to grab his arm instead as the pain eased slightly.
The Devil May Cry shop was in complete disarray. One of the couches had been shoved aside. Towels were everywhere. Nero had nearly kicked the front door off its hinges trying to carry supplies in fast enough, and Dante looked like he was two seconds away from having a full spiritual collapse.
“You said we had more time!” he stressed.
“How was I supposed to know?!” you shot back.
“I had a PLAN!”
“You don’t even plan lunch, idiot!”
“That’s DIFFERENT!” he points in your face.
"If you don't get that damn finger out of my face, I'm going to bite. it. OFF!" you snapped
Across the room, Nero looked deeply, deeply uncomfortable as he held an armful of blankets.
“I’m gonna be honest,” he said carefully, “I fight demons better than I handle… this.”
“You’re doing great,” Kyrie assured him gently.
Kyrie, unlike every other person in the room, actually looked calm. Competent, even. Which currently made her the most powerful person in the building. Meanwhile, Vergil stood near the jukebox with his arms crossed, somehow looking exactly as composed as always. Which was irritating.
“Why is he calm?” You pointed at him accusingly.
Vergil regarded you evenly. “Panicking would not improve the situation.”
Dante looked borderline offended. “Okay, well, sorry for loving my wife.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
“You implied it.” Dante argued.
“I implied you are loud.”
Another contraction hit before Dante could argue back.
“Oh okay- nope! forget him- holy shit your demon baby is trying to rip me apart!!”
Dante immediately dropped to your side again. “Hey, hey, hey- look at me.”
You grabbed his hand hard enough to threaten circulation. He let you. Actually, correction- he squeezed back immediately, thumb rubbing anxiously over your knuckles while he looked at you like he’d fight the universe itself if it would make this easier.
“You’re okay,” he said quickly.
“You don’t know that.”
“Right, sorry, bad wording. You’re... uh... strong?”
“That sounded stupid.” You gave him a look. “It sounded very stupid.”
Dante had been unbearable for the entire pregnancy. Protective in the most irritating ways possible. You reached for something on a high shelf once and this man practically teleported across the room.
“I got it.”
“…I can reach that.”
“Yeah, but what if you fall?” he said.
“It’s a shelf, Dante.” you sighed.
“People die from shelves probably.”
you rolled your eyes. “No, they don’t.”
“You don’t know that.” he argued.
And don’t even get started on the cravings. At two in the morning, you’d muttered that strawberries sounded good. Dante had crashed through the shop door like a man on a divine mission. Three hours later, he returned dramatically covered in rain, holding up one slightly crushed carton.
“I have succeeded.” he smiled to himself.
Vergil took one look at him and said, “You appear feral.”
“I went to three stores.”
“You could have waited until morning.” Vergil said simply.
“She wanted strawberries now.” he shrugged like that explained everything. To Dante it did.
Now, though, the reality was finally hitting him. You’d never seen him this stressed. Not against demons. Not during fights. Not even when he and Vergil nearly killed each other over stupid brother issues. But this? This had him pacing holes into the floor between contractions while Kyrie repeatedly tried to make him sit down.
“Dante,” she said patiently, “you are making her more anxious.”
“I’m not trying to!”
“You’re yelling.” Kyrie answered.
“I’m emotionally invested!”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I KNOW.” he shouted.
At one point, Kyrie asked Nero to boil water and he stared at her like she’d handed him a nuclear bomb.
“…How?”
Kyrie blinked. “…On... the stove?”
“Right. Yeah. Right.”
Vergil exhaled quietly through his nose.
“I share blood with this man,” he told himself. “Remarkable.”
Hours later, you were exhausted and Dante looked worse.
“You look terrible,” you told him weakly.
“I’m stressed.”
“You’re stressed?!” you shouted.
“I’m emotionally supporting you!”
“You almost passed out earlier!”
“In my defense, there was a lot happening!” he huffed out.
“You fight giant monsters!”
“Yeah, but they’re not our baby!”
That shut the room up for a second. Even Vergil glanced over. Dante rubbed a hand over his face immediately after, clearly realizing how emotional he sounded.
“…Man,” he muttered quietly, “I really love this kid already.”
Your expression softened instantly. Oh, there he was. Not the cocky hunter. Not the loud idiot. Just Dante. Your Dante. Terrified and excited and trying so hard to hold himself together for you. You reached for his hand again, this time more gently.
“C’mere.”
He moved immediately.
You tugged him down enough to press your forehead against his.
“You’re doing okay,” you murmured.
Dante laughed weakly. “Pretty sure I’m not.”
“You are.” you insisted.
Another contraction interrupted before he could answer. Immediately his entire expression shifted again.
“Okay, okay- breathing right- uhhh-” he stuttered through his words.
A cry filled the shop, and everything stopped completely. Dante froze. You froze. The whole room just… paused. Kyrie carefully placed the baby into your arms and Dante stared like he couldn’t fully process what he was seeing. A small head of white hair and tiny vibrant blue irises looking right back at him.
“…Whoa,” he whispered.
You looked down, exhausted and emotional and completely overwhelmed all at once. Tiny. So tiny. Dante slowly sat beside you like sudden movements might somehow break reality.
“That’s…” He swallowed hard. “That’s our girl?”
You laughed softly. “Yeah, idiot.”
His eyes never left her, and for maybe the first time in his life Dante Sparda had absolutely nothing clever to say. He just looked wrecked by love.
Behind you, Vergil spoke quietly. “…The child has your eyes.”
Dante blinked rapidly like he’d just remembered other people existed.
“RIGHT?!” he said immediately, emotional devastation gone in a split second. “Did you see that? That’s MY kid!”
Vergil looked unimpressed. “You contributed biologically. Do not become arrogant.”
“I’m gonna teach her sword tricks.”
“You will wait until she can stand.” you said.
“She’s already strong, I can tell.”
“She is six minutes old, babe.” you stated.
“She’s got potential.”
You groaned tiredly.
Kyrie laughed softly from nearby while Nero looked like he still hadn’t emotionally recovered from the experience. "Kyrie please promise me we won't do this to ourselves."
One missed shot, that was all it took for people to suddenly forget who Rin Itoshi is.
The same people who used to worship him are now calling him "overrated," "washed," "selfish," saying he "choked under pressure"
Your blood boils instantly.
"What the hell is wrong with these people?!"
You're sitting on the couch in one of Rin's oversized shirts, aggressively typing replies with the determination of someone entering battle.
"He missed ONE shot." "Do you people think athletes are robots?" "Everyone else misses too, why are you acting like Rin committed a crime?"
You get more and more offended with every comment you read.
Meanwhile, Rin is still on his way home.
He expected silence, maybe disappointment because he already knows the internet is tearing him apart. He can imagine the headlines, the insults, the mocking edits.
Usually, he'd just deal with it alone. But the second he opens the front door—
"RIN!"
You storm toward him looking genuinely devastated.
His eyebrows furrow immediately. "...What happened?"
"What happened?!" you repeat in disbelief. "People are being horrible to you!"
Before he can even respond, you start ranting again.
"They're acting like you're not human! It was ONE shot! ONE! And now suddenly everyone thinks they can disrespect you?!"
Rin just stands there quietly while you continue rambling angrily.
Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes look watery from frustration and you're looking personally attacked by the comments.
And somehow… Rin completely forgets about the missed shot.
Because now all he can focus on is you.
The way you're pacing around the living room while holding your phone like it personally offended you, the way you keep defending him like your life depends on it, the way your voice shakes with genuine hurt for him.
"They don't even know how hard you work," you mumble sadly. "You were probably already upset and then they made it worse..."
Rin feels something tight twist painfully in his chest.
Not from the match or the comments.
From love.
Because instead of thinking about himself, he's suddenly staring at you like you're the most precious thing in existence.
You care this much, this deeply and for him out of all people.
How did he get so lucky?
"You should see the way I replied to them," you continue angrily. "Actually no, don't. I almost started fighting thirty different people."
"Almost?" Rin says flatly.
You look away.
"Okay maybe I did."
He exhales quietly through his nose.
God, you're too adorable, too sincere, too loving. He feels like his heart genuinely cannot handle it.
You're over here fighting strangers online with tears in your eyes because someone dared insult him.
Meanwhile the actual person who missed the shot is no longer sad at all, because now he's too busy staring at you with that intense, unreadable look in his eyes.
"What?" you ask, still pouting.
Rin suddenly pulls you against him, hard.
You yelp softly as he buries his face into your shoulder.
"...Rin?"
He stays silent for a few seconds. Then quietly—
"I don't care about the shot anymore."
Your expression softens instantly.
"...Really?"
"Yeah."
His arms tighten around your waist.
Because honestly? How is he supposed to feel miserable when someone loves him like this?
You get furious for him, you get sad for him.
You defend him like the insults are aimed at your own heart.
And Rin, someone who spent most of his life alone with his emotions, doesn't know what to do with that kind of love sometimes.
It overwhelms him in the best way possible.
"You're insane," he mutters against your skin.
You gasp dramatically. "For defending you?!"
"For caring this much."
"Well obviously I care this much," you say like it's the most normal thing in the world. "You're my boyfriend."
zuko wouldn't take too kindly to other men telling him how to handle his wife.
an unfortunate situation arises where this happens; you're chatting happily with zuko before being playfully mean, reaching up to tap nose. zuko's smitten, his smile affectionate as he teases you back, causing you to laugh.
all the while, the men around you are watching you in disdain. their looks judging, almost scathing, as you and zuko remain blissfully unaware. a friend of yours catches you attention and you excuse yourself, placing a quick kiss on zuko's cheek before leaving. there's a brief moment of silence that zuko is about to relax into when one of the men clears his throat.
"pardon me, my lord, but don't you think you're too...lenient with your wife?" he asks and zuko blinks, looks behind him, before gesturing to himself.
"are you talking to me?" zuko replies and the man nods. "i don't understand."
another man speaks up. "well, women are supposed to be seen and not heard, right?" he adds. "unless they're in the bedroom moaning like a bitch in heat then that's acceptable."
the men laugh loudly but zuko doesn't join in, the resting fever of his anger spiking.
"we understand she's the fire lady," another man chimes in. "but she should have some decorum around us and her husband. daring to be so playful with him in public. if she was my wife, i would have slapped her."
the reaction zuko has is visceral, his expression darkening like thunderous clouds. steam begins to stream from his nostrils, his temperature raising as his hands curl into fists. to think that they feel comfortable insulting you in front of him, to degrade his wife because she doesn't conform to their ancient and horrid ways.
they're telling him to be less lenient with you, to snip your wings and lock you in a cage because, apparently, you aren't your own person. apparently, they see you as a piece of property that belongs to him and the very thought makes him horribly ill. it makes him want to scream because why on earth would he silence you?
silence your wonderful voice and amazing opinions? take away your spectacular personality and your fearlessness? he fell in love with you because of you were yourself and now these men think they're entitled to tell him how to love you? no, not love you.
control you.
"i see none of your wives are here," zuko says, after cooling the most of his rage. "how come?"
"oh, i'm divorced." the first man says.
"my wife ran away with the stable boy," the second spits out. "heartless bitch, after everything i did for her."
"i'm not married." the third adds.
"ah." zuko smiles humourlessly. "well, forgive my rudeness, but i don't think i'll be taking advice from two men who can't keep a healthy marriage and one who can't even find a spouse."
all three men go still at the insults, noting the sudden change in zuko's tone—it's dangerous.
"talk about my wife in such a way again and i'll personally see that your lives are made less than pleasant." zuko's gaze is deadly, his power imposing as he stands tall above the three of them. "do i make myself clear?"
the men quickly lower their heads, faces blanched in fear as they stutter, "y-yes, fire lord zuko!"
perfect.
zuko looks towards you, his expression softening when you meet his gaze. you beam happily, waving at him and zuko waves back, smiling.
why would ever think about trying to change the amazing person you already are?
LAP 37 : SAE10 — after a crash, he only softens for you .
your remember watching your boyfriend, sae itoshi in the team garage. it was fast, blink once and you might even miss him.
then lap 37 happened.
it happened so quickly that nobody in the garage understood what they were watching at first.
one second, sae’s car was still fighting for position through the corner. the next, bunny’s front wing clipped his rear tire at the worst possible angle.
the sound came before the impact fully registered. a sharp crack over the broadcast, then the violent snap of rubber losing grip. sae’s car spun immediately.
tires screeching against the track while sparks burst dangerously. for half a second, the car slid sideways across the asphalt completely out of control before slamming into the barriers with a force loud enough to make the entire garage go silent.
your stomach dropped so fast it hurt.
voices filled the garage instantly after that. engineers talking over each other, mechanics standing up too quickly, screens replaying the crash from three different angles while your eyes stayed locked on sae’s stopped car.
the halo shifted slightly.
sae climbed out slower than usual, helmet still on, movements sharp with frustration more than hurt. one of the team approached him immediately, but sae waved them off before they could touch him.
even from the screen, you could tell how angry he was. his shoulders looked so tense it was enough to snap.
bunny had tried to overtake too aggressively into the turn and sae had defended the line late.
neither of them backed off.
both of them disqualified.
by the time sae got back to the garage, the entire atmosphere felt miserable.
mechanics moved around quietly while engineers avoided eye contact, reviewing footage on the monitors again. somewhere nearby, someone muttered about damage costs before immediately going silent when sae walked past.
he pulled his helmet off roughly, “fucking lukewarm idiot.” he muttered under his breath.
you followed after him carefully while he disappeared farther toward the back of the garage away from everybody else.
sae leaned heavily against one of the counters, jaw tight enough to hurt.
“sae.”
“what.”
his voice came out annoyed immediately. it wasn’t directed at you but just angry in general. he dragged a hand through his hair before laughing once under his breath. it was bitter and exhausted.
“lap 37.. too fucking early.” he muttered. “unbelievable.”
you stayed quiet for a second longer before stepping closer.
“are you hurt?”
“no.” he pauses, “car’s destroyed though.”
his expression twisted slightly after saying it.
you could still picture the crash too clearly. the way the car spun and the impact against the wall. your chest tightened again just thinking about it.
sae noticed the look on your face almost immediately.
“…[name].”
the anger in his voice softened slightly this time.
“that looked really bad.” you looked away first.
“i’m fine.”
“i know.” but your hands still shook a little.
sae stared at you for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose. some of the frustration drained from his posture after that, replaced by something more tired.
“he turned in too late,” he muttered. “there wasn’t enough space.”
you nodded lightly even though you barely understood the technical side of it. sae kept talking anyway, more to himself than to you.
“i had the pace and everything. iglesias ruined both races for nothing.”
his hands curled tightly against the edge of the counter. he wasn’t hurt from the crash or the disqualification, but the fact that he thought he could’ve won.
you stepped closer carefully before resting your hand against his wrist. sae went quiet.
“you scared me,” you admitted softly.
his eyes flickered toward you. for a second, he looked guilty. he sighed and leaned forward slightly until his forehead rested against your shoulder.
the sudden movement surprised you enough that your other hand automatically settled against the back of his head.
“sorry.” he muttered.
you hummed and smiled weakly.
his voice sounded muffled against you while the garage remained noisy around the two of you. sae stayed where he was for another quiet moment before mumbling bitterly,
“i’m still going to kill the fucking bunny later.”
you laughed softly despite yourself. “maybe wait until after the interviews.”
you always knew how sae dealt with every argument you both had, it was just that you just never knew who she was.
if sae had cheated physically, maybe you would’ve known what to do, maybe you could’ve hated him properly and moved on like everyone else seemed to.
instead, you were stuck with something harder to explain. something that sounded ridiculous every time you tried putting it into words.
because technically, sae hadn’t done anything. keyword, technically.
you found out by accident.
you weren’t suspicious, not looking for proof to go against your boyfriend.
it was random, like most things in the world. you were only sitting next to him on the couch on a lazy afternoon where both of you had nothing to do.
when a notification appeared from his phone. it was a girl’s name. nothing strange about that, except the preview underneath.
‘she said that to you?’
you frowned.
sae reached for his phone immediately. the motion was quick enough for you to notice, slow enough for you to wonder why.
“who was that?” you question, a little hesitant cause you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to know.
he glanced at the screen, “nobody.”
you hated that answer. so you continued, hoping to hear a better answer, “then why are you texting her?”
“because she’s a friend.”
the conversation only ended there.
or at least, it should’ve. but instead, it stayed in your head. like some forbidden knowledge you can’t seem to forget.
you start noticing things.
whenever you and sae argued, he’d disappear afterward. he doesn’t leave, but rather, emotionally away from you.
you’d send a message and get a dry response, you’d ask if he wanted to talk and he’d say later. then later never came. and eventually, you’d make up. and things would return back to normal.
yet somehow, it always felt like sae had already processed everything before coming back to you.
like he’d had the conversation somewhere else first.
“do you tell her about us?” sae looked up, to you. the pause lasted a second too long. that was all the answer you needed. “…so you do.”
“it’s not a big deal.” he mutters, trying not to make it look bigger than it already is.
“not a big deal?”
“she just listens.”
“to what?” sae stayed quiet, which made everything hurt more.
the arguments, the misunderstandings, the things that happened between you and him, things that were supposed to stay between you and him. all of it. given away so easily.
you didn’t sleep that night. for the first time since dating sae, you wondered if there were parts of him that belonged to somebody else.
after that, every argument felt different.
you’d be talking to him while wondering if she already knew.
if he’d tell her afterward, maybe she’d hear his side before you ever got the chance to fix things.
sometimes, you’d catch him texting late at night.
sometimes, he’d smile at a notification.
sometimes, he’d disappear for an hour after a fight.
every single time, your chest tightened. you never asked for her name, you didn’t want to know her real name.
a name would’ve made her real and you were trying desperately not to imagine her.
was she prettier than you?
funnier?
easier to talk to?
did she agree with him when you fought?
did she tell him he deserved better?
sae never understood, he genuinely didn’t. every time you brought it up, he looked annoyed. like you were creating a problem that didn’t exist.
“i’m not cheating.”
“i never said you were.”
“then what’s the issue?” you didn’t know if you wanted to scream, cry, or laugh. but instead, you stared at him. in disbelief that he’d see this as an issue.
“because every time something happens between us, you run to somebody else.”
sae frowned. “that’s not what i’m doing.”
“but that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
the final warning came months later, after another argument.
you were tired, so tired.
“if you do it again, we’re done.”
the words sat heavily between you.
sae looked genuinely surprised, like he couldn’t believe you’d gone that far.
“seriously?”
“yes.”
“you’re overreacting.”
your chest hurt.
“i’m not.” you mutter before continuing, “this is why it’s a problem. i’m not overreacting.”
he clicked his tongue.
for a brief moment, you thought maybe he’d finally understand. maybe he’d stop and understand that losing you would matter more than talking to her.
you were wrong. so stupidly wrong.
you had another dumb fight, over something incredibly small. he disappeared like usual, came back hours later.
somehow, you already knew. confirmation even came without you even looking for it.
he’d gone to her again, just like always, just like every other time.
suddenly everything made sense.
all those moments where you felt alone despite being in a relationship. you’d never been imagining it. sae really had been choosing someone else.
maybe not romantically, maybe not intentionally, but he chose her anyway. every single time.
the breakup lasted less than ten minutes. sae thought you’d calm down, you could tell. he kept looking at you like this was another argument, another thing the two of you would move past.
until he realized you were serious. you were actually leaving.
for the first time in this relationship, he looked uncertain. maybe that’s because he couldn’t message that girl for advice. ask what to do, or vent out his feelings about breaking up.
“you’re breaking up with me over this?”
you stared at him, ”no.” your voice cracked. “i’m breaking up with you because i got tired of being the last person you come to.”
then everything ended just like that.
it was short yet everything happened in a flash. sometimes it made you wonder if you did the right thing.
you missed him, you hated that you missed him. you hated that a part of you still wanted him to come back and tell you he finally understood. he never did.
months later, a mutual friend mentioned seeing sae.
you listened quietly until they mentioned her.
the same girl, still around, still talking to him, still receiving pieces of him that used to belong to you.
you smiled and pretended it didn’t bother you, then cried the second you got home. because that hurt more than the breakup itself. it wasn’t that sae moved on, or that he chose her. but because even after losing you, he still ran to the same person.
which meant it was never about saving the relationship, never about needing advice or fixing things. it was simply what he wanted.
you spent years trying to become sae itoshi’s safe place.
only to realize he already had one, and it was never you.
