Erik Durm One-Shots

Princess (Part One)

    Erik Durm knew why everyone called Victoria Germano a princess, knew it had a double meaning and knew why she had such a love and hate relationship with the nickname.

    Although they weren’t really that close - she was Marco Reus best friend and he was just his shy, long limbed teammate who could barely nod his head at her direction much less say a word to her if he hadn’t had a few drinks in -, the first reason why they called her “Princess” was obvious and you didn’t have to know her well to understand. 

    Her looks.

    It wasn’t hard to imagine a delicate diamond incrusted crown on top of that pretty head of hers, especially when she had her long, reddish hair all done and up the way it was that night, framing her porcelain doll face and showing her long, elegant, milky neck.

    Not hard to imagine men all over the world bowing down to the sight of that heart shaped mouth showing off a perfect smile, like she was doing now, as she greeted another guest, and Erik felt like an idiot cause for solid fifteen seconds he had stared at her cherry lips in awe and thought she had saved that smile just for him, the little princess.

    And the way she moved around the room oh so gracefully - yet with quick, confident steps - even though she wore heels the size of his forearm, and when their eyes met, his, looking away almost instantly, hers, obviously unpleased about something although she tried to disguise it by giving him a small nod of acknowledgment, he understood the second meaning of the nickname “princess”.

    Victoria Germano was famous for her fairy tale good looks.

    And she was also famous for always getting exactly what she wanted.

    Always.

    (But apparently, by the way she was walking around the room - a tight lipped smile that barely reached her pinkish cheeks, much less her big almond shaped eyes - things weren’t exactly going the way she wanted)

    ”You need to drink more, Durm. Drink a lot.” Erik heard his teammate slash companion for the evening, Marco Reus speak, shoving another whisky on the rocks on his hands.

    Erik hated whisky.

    He drank it anyway.

    ”That’s my boy.” Reus said like a proud father who’d just seen his son ride a bike for the first time, giving Erik a (pretty hard) tap on the back “Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way. Y’know, for inviting you.” Marco winked, game face on as he looked around the brand new nightclub.

    Durm had no idea how many people wished they were on his shoes tonight, but by the size of the line he’d seen outside, more than a couple of hundreds wanted to attend the opening of Dortmund’s latest, coolest nightclub (until another new, cool club opened, of course), and since he wasn’t much of a “club guy” - who was he trying to kid, he was anything but a “club guy” -, his invitation got obviously “lost in the mail”.

    Or at least that had been the excuse the Princess had given when she greeted him and Marco, that perfect smile on her lips as she kissed him on both cheeks and thanked them for coming at her event, and if Erik closed his eyes he could still remember the lingering scent of her perfum - fresh, playful, flirty.

    Like her.

    Who was now obviously arguing with someone by the bar, by the way her brows were furrowed and her arms, tightly crossed.

    Although she was 5’2, 5’3 max with heels, the tall, beardy man behind the bar looked intimidated by her, and a silly smile appeared on Erik’s mouth as he shook his head.