#anyway thank you SO MUCH for the question | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whosashan · 1 day ago

Note

Hiii! I’m sorry I couldn’t find if you were open for requests or not so if you don’t take any at this moment please ignore this.

I really love your style of writing and I was wondering about how lads boys would react if MC asked them if they are in love with her or who she was in the past life. I know with Caleb and Zayne it can be tricky but I was thinking that maybe Zayne remembered his past or like MC suddenly remembered everything? That’s just an idea I had in my mind.

Anyways like I said please ignore this request if you don’t take any at this moment or you don’t like that idea!

Have a nice day❤️

Who do you love?

A/N:Hi there! Thank you for your request. You didn't specify if you want it to be more angsty or strictly fluffy, so I did a bit of both ;p I tried to base it off of their myth's, but since I don't have Sylus' and Rafayel's memory cards, I eyeballed it. I hope you'll like it, any feedback is greatly appreciated :] Have a nice day!

For a while now, an insidious question has gnawed at the recesses of your mind. Perhaps it stems from deep-seated insecurities, a relentless curiosity, or something more profound and unsettling.

Since uncovering the intricate tapestry of your past with your lover, a disquieting thought has taken root: are you merely a stand-in for someone who no longer exists? The paradox is maddening—you find yourself envious of a former self. The notion pierces your heart with a sharp, unyielding pain, knowing that there was once another—ironically, another version of you—who preceded you. That person was, undeniably, their one true love.

You grapple with the tormenting thought: are you genuinely the one he loves now, or are you simply a surrogate, a shadow of the past?

Xavier

The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, shadows flickering against the walls, casting elongated shapes that danced with every shift of the flames. The air was warm, thick with the scent of wax and faint traces of Xavier’s smell - something so uniquely him.

He laid across the couch, head resting on your thighs, his platinum hair spilling like silk over your lap. Your fingers moved through the strands absentmindedly, tracing over his scalp in slow, rhythmic motions, just the way you knew he liked. His breathing was steady, his body relaxed, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt peaceful. Intimate. Safe.

But your thoughts refused to be still.

You wondered—had he been like this with her too? Had she tangled her fingers in his hair just as you did now? Had she peppered his cheeks with soft kisses, stolen those rare, beautiful laughs that you cherished so much?

The thought shouldn’t sting. It was you, after all. The past version of you, the one whose fate had already been entwined with his long before you even remembered him. And yet, there was a weight in your chest, something heavy, something bitter—regret? Uncertainty? You should have been grateful. It was you. It had always been you. But still, the question gnawed at you.

How different was she?

Did her smile tilt the same way? Did she struggle to keep her hair neat, no matter how much effort she put into it? When she laughed, did her cheeks lift high enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes?

The flickering candlelight traced soft golden hues over Xavier’s face, his lashes casting delicate shadows against his cheekbones. His beauty was almost inhuman, sculpted and refined, made even softer by the haze of drowsiness settling over him. He was close to sleep, lulled by your touch. Maybe it was cruel to ask now, to shatter this moment of quiet serenity.

But you couldn’t stop yourself.

You inhaled sharply, trying to gather the courage that had been slipping through your fingers. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—

"What was she like?"

The silence stretched.

You thought, for a moment, that he had already fallen asleep, that your question would go unanswered. Relief and disappointment tangled together in your chest, neither strong enough to win over the other.

Then, his voice, soft yet weighted.

"Who are you asking about?"

His head shifted slightly, his dark lashes fluttering open just enough for blue eyes to meet yours. There was exhaustion in them, slight confusion, as if you had pulled him from the edge of sleep. Your fingers stilled in his hair, and he let out a quiet, displeased groan at the loss of comfort.

"Her. I mean… me. The past me." The words felt clumsy, uncertain. How were you even supposed to ask something like this?

Xavier’s brows knit together for a second, a flicker of thought crossing his face before his expression settled back into something unreadable.

"You were the same person you are now." His reply was immediate, almost dismissive, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

But that wasn’t enough.

"I want you to be more specific." Your voice was barely above a breath, but there was something desperate beneath it.

He exhaled, fingers idly drawing slow, deliberate circles on your thigh, as if the motion would somehow ease whatever storm was brewing inside you.

"She was… eccentric," he finally said, his voice quiet, thoughtful. A pause. A hesitation. "Always stubborn. Always insistent. Never knowing when to give up." A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Not that much different from you now."

You scoffed, more out of reflex than humor. "Should I feel insulted?" you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite.

But then, as quickly as the moment of levity had come, it was gone again. The question that had been clawing at your ribs threatened to spill from your lips.

And then—

"Did you love her more?"

It barely came out, the words fragile, splintering even as they left you. Your entire body tensed.

Xavier’s hand stilled against your thigh. For the first time, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe even hurt. Slowly, he lifted his head, pushing himself up until he was finally at eye level with you. His gaze studied you intently, tracing every furrow of your brow, every small tension in your lips.

And then, gently—so, so gently—he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with a tenderness that sent warmth curling through your chest. He was close now, so close you could feel his breath ghosting over your lips, his warmth wrapping around you like a quiet promise.

"I would love every form of you the same." His voice was steady, unwavering. "For me, you will always be the one. Whether it’s the you from before, the you now, or the you in another lifetime. It doesn’t matter if you were human, a fairy, or even a worm."

A small, teasing smirk curled his lips at the end, a deliberate attempt to ease the tension, to coax a reaction from you. And it worked—heat crept up your neck, settling in your cheeks, and despite everything, you felt the ghost of a flustered pout forming on your lips.

Xavier leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze once more.

"Never doubt yourself again, hm?"

And then, without waiting for an answer, he pulled you into his arms, tucking you against his chest, your face fitting perfectly into the crook of his neck. His embrace was warm, steady, grounding. The kind of touch that made all your doubts seem small, insignificant.

Because even if your question hadn’t been answered completely, even if some part of you still ached for something more—there was one thing you were certain of.

He never made you feel like she was better. He never made you feel like you had to compete with your own past.

For Xavier, it was always you.

Zayne

The only sound in the dimly lit room was the rhythmic clicking of keyboard keys, an almost hypnotic cadence breaking through the thick silence. The golden glow of Zayne’s desk lamp illuminated the contours of his sharp features, casting long shadows over his workspace. He sat with his usual meticulous posture, his frame effortlessly composed, exuding an air of quiet authority even in something as mundane as working. The reflection of his laptop screen glimmered faintly against his glasses, obscuring the rich hazel depths of his eyes.

Across the room, you lounged on the couch, your body half-sunk into the plush cushions, a book resting open in your lap. Despite the separate worlds you were both immersed in, there was a comfort in just existing beside him—his presence was grounding, a constant anchor in a sea of uncertainties.

Your gaze trailed over the words printed on the page. A romance novel—one that struck too close to home. It told the story of a man who spent lifetimes searching for his lover, chasing fragments of them across time, waiting for fate to intertwine them once more.

“Is it really me you love? Or the person—the people—I used to be?”

The line cut through you like glass, burrowing itself deep into the pit of your stomach.

Your fingers hesitated over the page as your eyes flickered toward Zayne. He remained at his desk, seemingly lost in his work, his expression unreadable. His dark hair fell slightly over his face, a few strands brushing against the thin frames of his glasses. Even when exhausted, he looked composed—controlled.

It was foolish, perhaps, to ask. You knew how he hated to be interrupted when he was deep in thought, yet you also knew yourself. If you didn’t speak now, the words would fester, gnawing at you like a wound left untreated.

"Zayne."

His name left your lips barely above a murmur, but he heard you. He always did.

His fingers stilled over the keyboard, his posture shifting as he leaned back into his chair slightly. He turned to you, the dim light catching the sharp angles of his jawline.

"Yes, love?" His voice was deep, slightly hoarse from disuse, carrying with it a subtle weight of exhaustion.

You hesitated. Just for a moment.

Sensing it, Zayne pushed his laptop aside and stood, his movements slow, deliberate. Without a word, he made his way toward you, his presence a steady force as he settled beside you on the couch. Lifting your legs with ease, he draped them over his lap, his fingers resting absentmindedly against your ankle. His warmth bled into you, solid and grounding.

Encouraged by the gesture, you swallowed and forced yourself to ask the question that had been lingering in your mind for far too long.

"What was my past self like?"

His brows lifted slightly, his fingers pausing their absentminded movements. "That’s a rather unexpected question," he murmured, adjusting his glasses—a telltale sign of nervousness, though he would never admit it. "What’s brought this on?"

You frowned. "Don’t change the subject."

A subtle exhale left him, barely audible, but you caught it. You knew him well enough to recognize when he was trying to sidestep something.

"I don't remember everything." His voice was measured, but there was a slight tightness to it. "Fragments, maybe. Fleeting pieces that don’t quite form a complete picture. But from what I do recall…" He trailed off, adjusting his glasses again before continuing.

"She wasn’t so different from you now." His tone was contemplative, as if choosing his words carefully. "Determined. Unyielding. Always knew what she wanted and wouldn’t rest until she got it." A small pause. "Much like you."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. That answer—it wasn’t enough.

"Did you love her more?" The words came out before you could stop them.

This time, his reaction was immediate. His entire body tensed, his fingers tightening just slightly against your leg—not enough to hurt, but enough for you to notice.

His eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across his expression before it smoothed into something composed once more.

"As far as I’m concerned, she is you. Every version of you—past, present, future—exists within the same soul, deeply ingrained in me. To compare them would be a fruitless endeavor. There has never been a question of more or less—there is only you."

His voice was even, unwavering, but there was a weight to his words, something deeper lying beneath them. A certainty so absolute that you almost felt ridiculous for asking.

Still, a part of you felt… silly. Jealous over yourself. How insecure could you be?

But it wasn’t insecurity, was it? It was the cruel weight of uncertainty, the knowledge that there were pieces of yourself you might never truly remember. And that truth would always linger, like a ghost in the back of your mind.

Zayne, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the turmoil playing behind your eyes. He lifted his hand, his fingers trailing up your arm before settling against your own, giving it a light squeeze. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a grounding gesture.

A smirk—barely there, but unmistakable—tugged at the corner of your lips as you met his gaze. "Is that so? Then tell me more."

Zayne let out a soft, resigned sigh, shaking his head just slightly. But even as he feigned reluctance, there was the unmistakable ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

And somehow, even if your question wasn’t entirely answered, even if you knew the uncertainty would return again someday—right now, his presence was enough.

Rafayel

Laughter filled the dimly lit bedroom, loud and breathless, bouncing off the walls as you squirmed beneath Rafayel’s relentless assault. His fingers moved with precision, ghosting over your sides, tracing over sensitive spots he had long since memorized. Your body arched in protest, hands weakly attempting to shove him away, but he was stronger, faster—his lips curled in amusement as he watched you crumble beneath his touch.

"Alright, it's enough!" You gasped between helpless giggles, trying—failing—to inject authority into your voice. The demand might have carried weight if not for the way laughter cracked through it, rendering it powerless.

Still, Rafayel, ever the merciful tormentor, finally relented. With a low chuckle, he slowed his movements, his hands instead settling on your waist, fingers splayed lazily over your hips as if he had all the time in the world. Then, in a gesture as disarming as it was tender, he leaned in, pressing playful kisses across your cheeks, your nose, the corners of your lips—each one stealing the remnants of your breath.

Your smile only widened, cheeks flushed a warm pink.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already watching you, his usual mischief softened by something more dangerous—something deeper. His dark hair framed his face in perfect disarray, stray strands falling over his forehead, and his striking blue-pink eyes shimmered with something unreadable.

"You're killing me, cutie." His voice was honeyed, teasing, yet laced with a quiet reverence. "From all that laughing, I figured you loved my fingers on you. Should I take that as a request?"

A flick to his forehead wiped the smirk off his lips.

He gasped dramatically, cradling the spot as if you had mortally wounded him. "Now, you need to kiss it better!" His pout was exaggerated, his dramatic flair in full effect, yet beneath the playful act was a calculated charm—one that had always made him so dangerously captivating.

Rolling your eyes, you indulged him, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. The faint imprint of your lipstick lingered, and you smirked to yourself, deciding to keep that detail to yourself. It suited him, after all.

Rafayel hummed in satisfaction, but then his expression shifted. "That’s slightlyyy better." A pause. "Now, how about we order some seafood?" His lips curved into a small, knowing smile, his tone lighthearted.

And yet—your stomach dropped.

Your expression faltered, barely perceptible, but Rafayel caught it instantly. His head tilted slightly, amusement fading into mild confusion. "What is it? Wasn't it your favorite?"

Your blood ran cold.

"I told you—multiple times—I hate seafood." Your voice was steady, but the weight behind it was anything but. It wasn’t the mistake itself that stung—it was the realization that followed.

It was her favorite.

The realization came like a blade, cutting through you mercilessly. The past you—the before you—the version of yourself that had lived and loved Rafayel long before your memories had been wiped away.

You weren’t her. You weren’t the one he had fallen for first.

The air in the room felt heavier now, thick with unspoken words.

Rafayel’s face fell. His usual mask of arrogance slipped, replaced by something fleeting—regret, guilt, self-reproach. He cursed himself under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "Ah—sorry… we'll get Chinese, yeah?" His voice, usually so smooth, so effortless, now carried an edge of uncertainty. He was scrambling. He knew he had messed up.

But the damage had already been done.

Because you finally saw it—the cracks in his reassurances. The way his stories about her had painted a picture you could never quite step into. She had been different. More confident. More cunning. More effortlessly herself.

More like the version of you that you always wished to be.

Your chest tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you turned away from him. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Not now.

"Cutie…" His voice dropped to a murmur, gentle, coaxing. You felt his fingers ghost toward your cheek, but you recoiled before he could touch you.

That reaction made something shift in him.

The softness vanished, replaced by something colder. His jaw tensed, his lips parting slightly in what could have been a plea—but he hesitated.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

"Did you love her more, Rafayel?"

The words cut through the silence like a blade. There was no teasing lilt in your voice, no room for him to twist the moment into something playful. No. This time, you weren’t giving him an escape.

His body went rigid, his lips parting slightly as if the sheer audacity of the question had momentarily stolen his breath. Then, panic flickered in his eyes—just for a second.

"What?—Of course not!" The words left him too quickly, too forcefully. "I mean, god, you're the same person." His voice was rough, desperate, but the way he said it—like he was trying to convince himself just as much as you—made your stomach churn.

"Liar."

A whisper. Sharp. Accusing.

You pushed yourself up, slipping from his grasp, but Rafayel moved fast, his fingers catching your wrist before you could step away. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was enough to make you halt.

"Where are you going?"

"Home." Your voice wavered, but your resolve did not. "I can't—I don't want to talk to you right now."

He tensed. "Y/N, don’t do this—"

"I need time." You exhaled, voice gentler now, but firm. "We’ll talk when I’m ready."

You didn’t wait for his reply.

The moment you slipped from his grasp, the warmth of his touch faded, replaced by the chilling weight of distance. And as you walked toward the door, you felt his gaze burning into your back.

But he didn’t chase you.

Not this time.

And as the door shut behind you, leaving Rafayel alone on his vast, king-sized bed, you both knew—

This wasn’t the end of the conversation.

Not even close.

Sylus

The silk sheets pooled beneath you as you sat on Sylus' bed, the fabric smooth against your skin. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in golden hues, casting long shadows as you rummaged through the bags at your feet—your most recent indulgence. Or rather, his indulgence.

"You didn’t have to buy all this for me, you know," you murmured without looking up, fingers brushing over the expensive fabrics, the scent of luxury still clinging to them.

Across from you, Sylus leaned against the grand headboard, his arms lazily crossed, an amused smirk playing at his lips. His crimson eyes glimmered under the dim light, ever watchful, ever knowing.

"And yet, somehow, I still managed to," he mused, his voice a smooth melody laced with amusement. "Truly tragic, how I remain cursed with wealth and the urge to spoil you."

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

"Why don’t you give me a fashion show, sweetie?" he suggested, tilting his head slightly.

Your excitement sparked instantly. You barely spared him a glance before gathering the bags and rushing into the bathroom, the sound of his low chuckle following you as you disappeared behind the door.

As you sifted through the clothes, something caught your eye—a dress you didn’t remember picking out. The color was… odd. Not bad, necessarily, but definitely not something you would have chosen for yourself. It washed you out in a way that felt unnatural, like a version of you that wasn’t quite right.

Sylus.

You sighed, shaking your head with a fond smile. He had excellent taste; he’d picked out dresses for you before—ones that flattered your figure, ones that made you feel effortlessly beautiful. But this? This felt like it belonged to someone else.

Still, you slipped it on. It’s always nice to try something new, you reasoned. And besides, you could always return it.

Stepping out of the bathroom, you straightened your posture, putting on your best model walk as you sauntered toward him with a small, playful smile.

Sylus’ gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate.

"You look ravishing," he murmured, his deep voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. He pushed off the headboard and closed the space between you in an instant, his hands slipping to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating.

"You think?" you asked, though your gaze drifted downward again, fingers idly smoothing over the fabric.

"That’s a rather interesting choice, boss." The nickname was teasing, but there was a layer of curiosity beneath it. "I don’t think I like this color on me, but if you do… I suppose I’ll wear it anyway."

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"Nonsense," he dismissed easily. "You’ve always looked stunning in this color. Or any color, for that matter, kitten."

Something in your chest twisted.

Your brows knitted together slightly as you peered up at him. Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he meant nothing by it. And yet—

"I’ve never worn this color before, though." You chuckled, keeping your tone light, masking the unease settling at the edges of your mind.

Sylus said nothing at first. A beat of silence stretched between you, but his grip didn’t falter. His expression remained unreadable, except for the slight glint of something in his crimson eyes—something calculated.

You knew this game. You knew how he played.

He was refined, meticulous with his words, carefully measured in everything he did. Sylus didn’t make mistakes.

And yet, you had caught one.

He loved you. That, you never doubted. His devotion was absolute, unwavering. But there was always this—this lingering ghost of someone else. A woman you had once been. A woman you no longer remembered. A woman you weren’t even sure you were.

And yet, she still lived here. In his mind. In his stories. In his memories of you.

"I can practically hear your mind working." His voice was smooth, but there was a quiet edge to it. "Speak."

You hesitated. You didn’t want to ruin the moment. Didn’t want to pick at something that might unravel everything.

"You seem to like reminiscing about the past," you finally said, keeping your voice even, careful.

His eyes darkened slightly.

"Of course," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Why wouldn’t I? The moments I’ve spent with the one I love should not be forgotten."

Your chest tightened.

He didn’t see it the way you did. To him, the past and the present were intertwined, threads of the same existence. But to you? The past felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Is that so?" Your lips curved into a wry smile, though the bitterness in your voice was barely concealed. "Then tell me, Sylus—who do you love more? Her or me?"

It was meant to sound like a joke. A playful jab. But the moment the words left your lips, the room shifted. His grip on your waist tightened, his body going still. His expression didn’t change, but you knew him well enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"What kind of question is that, kitten?" His voice remained steady, but there was something underneath it now—something more careful.

"It doesn’t matter if it’s the past or the present I’m thinking about—it’s always you on my mind."

But it didn’t feel like it.

Not in the way that mattered.

You swallowed, the months of quiet insecurities bubbling up, spilling over before you could stop them. "I don’t want you to think about her," you admitted, voice quieter now but no less firm. "It’s in the past—the past I don’t even remember."

A beat of silence.

For the first time that night, Sylus looked genuinely caught off guard. His expression wavered for the briefest moment before something else took its place—something softer.

"…I apologize." His voice, always so effortlessly poised, now carried an unfamiliar weight. "I never meant to make you feel that way, sweetheart. I won’t mention it again."

And yet—right now, it wasn’t enough.

"I need a moment for myself." The words left you before you could think them through.

You turned, ready to step away, but his fingers curled around your wrist—not tight, not forceful, just there.

"I won’t stop you," he murmured. "Take all the time you need." His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, his touch warm, careful. You refused to meet his gaze, afraid of the emotions that might spill over if you did.

"But know that —when you’re ready, I’ll be right here."

A pause. Then, softer—so tender it nearly broke you—

"I love you."

And then, he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head before letting you go.

And just like that, you slipped away from him.

Out of the room, out of his reach, out into the night, letting the wind carry you as you tried to untangle the storm of emotions inside you.

You weren’t sure how long it would take. An hour, a day, a month.

But Sylus—he would wait.

He always did.

Caleb

A/N:For Caleb, I decided to twist it a little and instead make it about your future self. Hope that's alright!

It was always easy to be carefree with Caleb nearby.

He made the world feel manageable—as if no matter what went wrong, he would be there, steady as ever, grounding you with nothing more than a glance. You hated how much you depended on him, how much you needed him, but he made it feel so natural, so right.

And even now, as you perched on the kitchen counter, watching the way his muscled back flexed with each movement, the rhythmic sound of his knife against the cutting board filling the space between you, you thought—maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I need.

Your gaze lingered. It was the only sight you ever wanted to see.

Caleb, as if sensing your attention, let out a low chuckle. "I can feel you staring, pipsqueak." He turned his head slightly, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

Your heart stuttered. No matter how much he changed over the years, that grin—that teasing, infuriating grin—never did.

"You're a terrible chef," you huffed, crossing your arms. "I’ve been waiting for my dish for, what? An hour now?"

He snorted. "Fifteen minutes, actually."

"Felt longer."

"Impatient as ever." He shook his head, flipping something onto a plate with practiced ease.

You chuckled softly, but the warmth in your chest flickered, cooling as a shadow of uncertainty crept into your mind. You hated thinking about the future. The unpredictability of it, the way it loomed, stretching out like an abyss, no matter how tightly you tried to hold onto the present.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice Caleb moving until his presence was right there. His hand shot out, pinching your cheek.

"Finally got your attention, pips." His voice was teasing, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

You groaned, swatting his hand away as he set your plate aside. His violet eyes—always so sharp, so unnervingly aware—locked onto yours.

"What's going on in that little head of yours, hmm?" He leaned in slightly, voice still playful, but now edged with something serious.

You hesitated.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid to ask. But the words clawed at your throat, relentless.

"I was just thinking..." you mumbled, staring down at your dangling feet.

"Rare sight." He smirked.

You shot him a glare and shoved at his chest, earning a low chuckle.

"Shut up." You exhaled, fingers tightening around the hem of your shirt. Then, before you could lose your nerve— "Caleb, do you see me in your future?"

The teasing glint in his eyes faded instantly.

For the first time in the conversation, his smirk disappeared, replaced by something unreadable. He stared at you, brow furrowing slightly, as if trying to figure out why the hell you’d ask something so ridiculous.

Then—without hesitation— "You’re the only thing I’m certain about in my future."

Your breath hitched.

"It’s you, by my side, exploiting me as your personal slave." His lips quirked up, but you knew him too well. The humor was a shield, a flimsy attempt to soften the truth beneath it.

And the truth was—Caleb didn’t make promises easily. He was a liar, through and through. You knew that. Hell, he was probably the biggest liar you’d ever met.

But right now?

There was no lie in his voice. No hesitation in his certainty.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel so terrifying.

But doubt was a cruel thing. It never let go easily.

"But what if I’m not the same?" you murmured, fingers idly toying with the fabric of your shirt.

Caleb scoffed, ruffling your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the smug grin on his face.

"Then I’ll adapt to whatever version of you I get." His voice was soft, but his grip—his presence—was solid.

Your throat tightened as warmth bloomed in your chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, breathing him in.

"Even if I become the worst version of myself?" you teased, tilting your head slightly.

Caleb hummed, amused. "If that’s the case, I’ll just make sure I become the best version of myself." He leaned in, voice dropping to something lower, something that sent a shiver down your spine. "And if your worst self turns out to be particularly sadistic, well..." His lips barely brushed against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I’ll make sure to satisfy your cravings, baby"

Heat coiled in your stomach. You barely had a second to react before he pulled back, pressing a finger to your lips just as you tried to close the distance.

"Ah-ah. Eat first, pips."

You groaned. "You’re impossible."

He chuckled, eyes glinting with something dark, something possessive. Something that promised—no matter what version of yourself you became, he would always be there.

With Caleb, there was only one certainty in life—

You would always have someone who loved you unconditionally.

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katsu28 · 3 days ago

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hi kait! idk if you’re writing for him but would you do something for max? maybe just waiting for him to finish a race and he doesn’t really have a good one? and maybe being with him and being calm as he comes down from the adrenaline? thank you!!

happy testing week folks!! sorry this took so long, enjoy <3

max verstappen x reader, 1.2k.

Max Verstappen is a winner.

Forged through blood, sweat, tears, and some very questionable parenting tactics, he’s ruthless in a car, something burned into him ever since he set foot into a kart at four years old. Years and years of honing his craft, more hours spent on a track than anywhere else, has made him into one of the best drivers in the world.

He’s got a reputation to uphold, and he can't do that by finishing a race any lower than a podium.

Sure, any points are good points, but P1 points are winner’s points. Anything less means he’s lost. And Max doesn’t like losing.

So when he does lose, he doesn’t always handle it the best. Everyone knows to steer clear of him after a bad race—don’t get in Max’s way or he’ll bite your head clean off, don’t even look Max in the eye unless you want yourself faced with the nastiest bitch stare you’ve ever been subjected to.

There’s a reason he’s called Mad Max.

But if they knew the real him—the real Max, your Max—they wouldn't be quite nearly as judgmental of him. The Max you know is gentle and kind, immensely protective over his loved ones.

He's not some stone cold killer like people and the media make him out to be. He's a person. Your person.

So it's torture for you, hearing him become increasingly frustrated on the radio this whole race, and then watching him climb out of the car and storm past Red Bull personnel in the garage afterwards.

He’s pissed, that much you can tell. Livid, even. If it were physically possible, he’d probably have steam blowing out of his ears. But honestly, you can’t blame him for his anger. This race was a fucking awful one for the books, full of shit strategies, car troubles, track incidents—you name it.

GP catches your eye from the pitwall, silently pleading for you to work magical Max powers, but you were already planning on following your angry boyfriend anyways. He’s definitely going to need to cool down before his post race interviews or he might explode from the overload of adrenaline on national television.

You can already hear Max rambling through the door by the time you approach his driver’s room, and although your Dutch isn’t great, you can make out a few choice words that would make the FIA give him a hefty fine and more community service. A clattering of unknown objects being knocked to the floor comes next, just as you’re expecting.

This isn’t the first time you’ve had to come calm him down after a race, and it certainly won’t be the last, but you seem to be the only person Max is willing to listen to when he gets like this.

Blowing out a sharp exhale through your lips, you push open the door and close it behind you quickly before Max can tell you to go away like he normally does. He might say he wants to be alone, but you know from experience that’s not the case.

He needs someone who won’t judge him, who won’t tell him what he did wrong and what he could’ve done better. He just needs someone to listen.

Max whirls around, ready to cuss someone out, but then his eyes land on you. You don’t say a word as you scoot around him in the tiny room to sit up on his massage table, only here to be a calming presence for him. Now that you’re here, he quiets down quite a bit, only the occasional grumble escaping his mouth as he continues his pacing.

It remains just a matter of time before he’s cooled down enough for you to be able to have a conversation with him. He picks up the water bottles he’d knocked off the table before you came in, and once he’s stopped pacing a hole in the floor, you know he’s ready to talk.

“Shit race, wasn’t it?” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. You open your mouth to respond, but he points at you before you can say anything, not accusatory in any way. “Don’t even answer that, I already know what you’re going to say.”

“How would you know what I was about to say?”

“You’re going to tell me I did good, but I didn’t, I did bad. I fucked it up, there’s no excusing that.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

Max pauses, uncertainty flickering across his features. It’s the first emotion you’ve seen from him that isn’t anger. “...You weren’t?”

“No, I wasn’t,” You reply. He tilts his head, brows furrowed, and you beckon him forwards, into your open arms. He shifts on his heels a beat, as if he’s fighting the urge to let you hold him, but it doesn’t last long before he gives in, dragging his feet towards you until you’ve got your arms secured around his neck. “I was gonna say you did what you could with what you had. Maybe you’d say it was bad, but I’d say it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.”

“It was bad,” He sighs, letting his chin drop towards his chest dejectedly. “The strategy was shit, the car was shit, the pit stops were—”

“Shit?” You offer, ducking down to catch his eye. A ghost of a smile pulls at Max’s mouth and you take it as a positive sign, tapping along his back almost absentmindedly.

You stay like this for a while with him, sitting together in silence until the tension in Max’s shoulders begin to relax under your touch. The clench in his jaw slowly goes away, as does the crease between his brows and the hardness in his eyes.

It seems like just being here with him is doing the trick much better than trying to convince him he’s done a good job when he’s got it firm in his head that he didn’t. You’re still learning things about Max as you go along, but you like to think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.

Max squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a deep breath, scrubs both hands over his face before focusing in on you again.

You smile at him assuringly, tilting your head. “Ready for your interviews now?”

“I’d be better if you could come with me.”

“Unfortunately I’m not Red Bull personnel, so no, I can’t. But I can wait for you outside the media pen until you’re done.”

“You could be.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be right outside then,” You hum, patting his chest lightly.

“Not that part. I meant you could work at Red Bull. Be part of my team—help keep me in check, keep me calm. Since you know me so well and you’re kind of…already doing it?”

“So you want me to be your therapy dog?” You ask, raising an amused brow.

“Not a therapy dog, that’s not what I meant.” Max shakes his head quickly. Then he smiles a little too mischievously for your liking. “More like a therapy cat.”

“Max Emilian Verstappen, are you calling me a cat?”

“Yes?” He says unsurely, cocking his head. You make an offended noise from the back of your throat. “I mean, no. No, I’m not. I’m just saying, there are certain cat-like qualities that you have, like…a calming presence? And you’re very smart too, and protective, and—am I making things better or worse, because if it’s the latter I will just shut the fuck up right now.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

"Oh, one hundred percent."

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heechwe · 2 days ago

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not even sometimes | 𝐜𝐬

୨୧ pairing: choi san x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 5k ୨୧ genre: fluff, sprinkles of angst, smut ୨୧ tags: neighbor to lovers au, healthy communication for the win, switch!san, dirty talk, pet names, heavy petting, fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie ୨୧ synopsis: You've never been good at planning for the unexpected, much less a new neighbor. But the man in question may just love that about you, among other things you didn't see in yourself to begin with. ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is a remaster of an old fic I wrote years ago for a member of NCT, the original title being "Where We Begin." Seeing as I am not following that group anymore and I thought it'd be fun to polish up some old work, what the hell. Thank you to my betas for reading this one, @prkhaven @lovetaroandtaemin @tinycatharsis @jjunbug @innocygnet, I love you lots. Title inspiration from "Sometimes" by Ariana Grande!

Some people know the instant something begins, the start of something new brimming with possibilities palpable within the surrounding air.

For you, it’s not that simple.

It seems some things come and go in your life without warning or realization. You’ve fought enough for things to stay or leave for so many years that now it’s almost a godsend to lack that kind of perception. Whether it be for a new job opportunity, an unexpected act of kindness, or a person, it’s all the same. Beginnings can be as subtle as a wisp of wind through your window, or as abrasive as thunderclaps that rattle an entire room. Regardless, you’ve not caught on.

Lucky for you, Choi San isn’t subtle. With a body like his, how could he be?

The first time San greets you, he’s carrying an ottoman on his shoulder and a football in his hand. The early Saturday morning permeates through the hallway window, emphasizing his stark black hair and encroaching size, but he’s so beautifully smiling you felt nothing but warmth for the man in front of you. Across from your apartment sits his door halfway open, giving you ample opportunity to notice the manila moving boxes crowding the space of his new home.

The place had been empty for almost a month before San, the pain of Jeongin saying goodbye fresh every time you came home. The kid was a hilarious neighbor and a great friend, and while he didn’t leave your life, watching him go after three years left a noticeable pang of sadness. Having a new neighbor so soon felt foreign, unwelcome. But once San drops the ottoman carefully onto the small span of tile between your apartments and extends a hand, you know you can get used to the change if the new neighbor in question is this open, welcoming, and drop-dead gorgeous.

You give San your name with a smile, a soft yet large hand enveloping your smaller one. “You’ll love it here. I’ve been here for almost five years, never a problem.”

“That’s perfect. I’ve been couch-surfing for two months, so anything is better than my friends’ smelly socks and booty calls.”

You giggle, the sound reverberating off the highway walls. It almost makes you forget your choice of clothing, the realization suddenly hitting you.

You love your duck-patterned pajama bottoms and tattered college sweatshirt, but the clothing isn’t exactly the best outfit to meet new people in. Then again, nobody dresses up to run downstairs and get their weekly mail anyway, even if there’s a chance of running into someone as handsome as your new neighbor. “Sorry I’m not that presentable. I didn’t know you’d be coming today.”

“It’s no problem. I should’ve moved in yesterday, but I had an emergency. Well, if you could call a friend needing a three-page recipe an emergency.” San grins and shrugs, twirling the ball between his hands.

You giggle, pointing a finger towards the football. “So, you play sports and cook?”

“Not really, just a parting gift from my friend Woo for the recipe I owed him. I guess it’s also a housewarming gift‌, considering.”

You nod slowly and begin your trek down the hallway and to the mailroom, remembering your initial goal when you were leaving ten minutes ago. “Well, San, if you need help unpacking, just give me a knock!”

“I definitely will!” San waves goodbye and offers you the widest smile you’ve seen yet, saccharine in a way you didn’t realize you needed so early in the morning. He enters his new apartment without another turn of his head, while you wonder if this is the moment of realization the guy across the hall will be more than a stranger. Perhaps even a welcome addition to your life.

You open up your door a day later to find San with an inquisitive pout, replacing the mesmerizing smile he left you with. His hands respectively hold a large takeout bag and a tray of two drinks, and you guess what he’s after before he says the words.

“Don’t tell me,” you say. “You need help unboxing.”

“Yes and no.”

“Oh?” You ask, partially shocked.

“So, I know you probably offered to help me unpack since I have the ‘new neighbor’ card. Which is great, since I actually do need help today. But, it would be rude to not offer food for your services, so it can be part moving part…treating a cute girl to lunch.” San tips the bag up with a grin, making you chuckle. “What do you say, neighbor?

As he waits for your answer, you discover Choi San is already too sweet to say no to. He asks so earnestly, and he’s feeding you, doing more than most of your exes ever did. The response easily slips off of your tongue. “That sounds great. Lemme just get my keys.” Following him into his apartment, you try to calm the staccato of your heart to a normal pace.

Your new neighbor truly has no shame as the two of you open all of his remaining boxes together, San confessing the origins of certain items you take out with a questioning, raised eyebrow. While he folds his clothes and sets them aside to move to his bedroom later, you tell him about your degree and how you can’t wait for the spring semester to end, your last step towards graduating in the summer.

You snap silly photos of him and take a few together to capture the moment; he ruffles your hair in a few and makes the resulting photos blurry, but you don’t mind. When you’re not unboxing and discussing your comprehensive histories, you eat pineapple fried rice and dumpling soup from the takeout containers and sip flat sodas you don’t bother replacing. The clear attachment you’ve already developed with San is worth drinking a watered-down soda.

“What do you do in your free time?” you ask before downing what’s left in your can.

“I work with my friends in a small studio downtown. It’s not much, but we love it and it helps pay for this.” He gestures to the apartment with dramatic grandeur, almost knocking over his drink. “That’s actually why I’ve been moving most of this by myself. Before you helped, I mean. There’s this production issue we glossed over, and my buddy Mingi wants it smoothed out before the song’s released.”

“Gotta love the music life.” You sigh. “The arts are tough.”

“Yeah, I do love it. I don’t know where I’d be without it, to tell you the truth.” San chuckles, the sound rumbling in his throat.

You pat his shoulder with your hand. “I’m sure you’re doing great. You seem like a person who can find fun in anything. With your work, I know your friends need that.”

“Thanks,” he replies. San dips a hand through his hair, hoping to conceal his red face alongside his aggressively beating heart. “I bet you’re someone who keeps a lot of people calm and…I don’t know, grounded? You just give off this vibe like you know what you’re doing.”

You laugh again, pressing your empty soda can to your chest. “You’re probably the first person that’s ever thought about me that way.” Your friends and family often sing their praises for you, but what would get San’s compliment laughed out of any room is the fact he thinks you have a consciously prepared bone in your body.

You can barely give your best friends proper preparation for outfit choices, much less prepare for bigger life events. It’s what your exes have harped on for ages, your impulsiveness and second-nature to lead with your heart rather than your head, your ultimate downfall. How did anyone, especially yourself, expect you to go against habit and commit to anything? If there was an option to have someone spell it out for you, you would choose that in a heartbeat. To this day, sometimes it feels like you stumble around for answers, only doing things halfway and never with full intention.

You know these things about yourself like the back of your hand.. Yet, you can’t contain the flutter in your heart from San being so sure of you already. It may just be the takeout, the fullness of his stomach making his brain fuzzy, but you don’t care. You appreciate it regardless.

“That’s a good thing, though,” you mumble, his stare tickling the edges of your skin.

“Well, I’m flattered.” He winks at you, the gesture only solidifying every positive thought you have about him. He opens another box and removes the bubble wrap inside, and in that moment, you believe a piece of your heart silently belongs between the creases of his smile.

By the time you finish, the sun is setting, and you’re sitting next to San with your backs drooping against his couch. You rub your belly in slow, tiny circles, full from the food and copious amount of snacks you munched on while moving the smaller trinkets and furniture.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve known the pretzels and gummy worms would make you sick.” He pouts, staring down at your slumped body.

“No, it’s okay. Just another minute and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair. It’s too fantastic to be disturbed like that..” His confidence can be seen from space, you think as the corners of your lips rise. Without warning, San sets his head in your lap as his eyelashes flutter to a close. He’s burly at first glance, but you realize as he snuggles into your body how you fit together perfectly in this way. “I mean it. I’ve had a lot of fun today.”

Instinctively, you swipe one hand through his bangs, and he takes your fingers between his own. “We just met, but it’s like you make things slow down. I’m not running around the place like an idiot or saying the wrong things for the first time. Does that make sense?”

You close your eyes too, letting the words rumble around in your head. Responding to them with the peace within your smile and a squeeze of your hand, you know he’s smiling too without having to look down at him. “It does.”

In an array of textbooks, highlighters, and article clippings, San swipes through the words with a blue pen to mark important information for later. While it’s adorable watching him as he works, he has little to no foresight on the weekly topic in your Greek literature course.

Chan and Jisung, your study partners, left hours ago, but you stayed stuck with a pile of additional reading your professor dumped on you, including the play you still had to read.

The night seemed to only be beginning for you, and you could only give your friends a sad smile as you walked them out of your apartment. With perfect timing, San popped his head out with a smirk, his concern giving way when he noticed the defeat in your posture.

“Can I help?” were the first words out of his mouth as you were on the verge of tears, your mountain of a neighbor suddenly becoming your shining light through the storm of academic writing and assignments.

He definitely isn’t helping in the way he imagined, but watching his eyebrows furrow in concentration and catching the delight on his face when he marks the “right” sentence makes the hours feel less tedious.

“I mean, why does Euripides have to be such a tragic writer? There’s nothing wrong with writing cheerful things now and then,” San says as he drops the pen onto the paper. Rolling closer to your spot on your bedroom floor, he pouts and puts his hands underneath his chin.

“Well, San, since he wrote tragic Greek plays, I think he was just creating what he knew. Like Sophocles, he just kept his daily life in mind when he was writing.” You smile to yourself, skimming the lines of the last act within your textbook.

“Excuse me, Smarty. I’ll just nap while you do your own notes, then.” He leans against your thigh, the back of his head mushed into the fabric of your shorts.

You scoff. “I just read the materials and introduction! You give me too much credit.”

One of his eyes pops open, followed by the crossing of his arms. “You still know things! Sometimes, you really don’t see that. And I’ve been your neighbor for what, a few weeks now? Give yourself more credit, angel.”

You refuse to acknowledge the pet name, knowing he’ll sense the change in your body if you do. Going for a lighthearted response, you stick your tongue out in his direction. “Trust me, you give enough credit to yourself for the both of us.”

San says your name and sits up, mirroring your crossed-legged position. “Maybe I do, but only because I know how it feels to not give yourself the self-assurance you deserve.”

You gape in mock surprise. “Choi San, not sure of himself? I never would have guessed.”

“Yes, I’m not flawless.” He laughs and knocks his fist softly into your shoulder. “When I was younger, sometimes people thought it was all an act, me being so ‘full’ of myself, all the time. In a way, it was just to pretend that there weren’t times when I didn’t feel confident in what I could do and if I could do it. It still happens, but not as much as before.”

“That’s hard to believe.” You drop your head, staring at your hands in your lap.

He taps his fingers under your chin. “It’s true. Some days, it can be so difficult to believe you’re capable. But you are, in so many ways. Anyone who loves you could see that tenfold. But in the end, the person who needs to see that first is you. Nobody else.”

You wipe away the tears that are prepared to stream down your face, knowing it is ridiculous to cry at the comforting advice San offers. But he says all the right things every time you need them and every time you come across all the hidden fears and self-critiques you harbor.

“Are you crying,” he asks, lips curling into a frown. He presses a hand to your cheek, prepared to catch any tears before they fall, but you shake your head softly.

“I’m not sad, I promise. I just—I meant it. You give me more credit than I ever give myself, and I know it’s a bad habit, but it feels good having someone else notice…how hard it can be, even if I’m still trying.”

His thumb rubs back and forth across the apple of your cheek, sentiment and patience etched into expression. “Someone has to, don’t they?”

Staring into his eyes, you notice how much they shine, even in the dim lighting of your desk lamp. You chastise yourself for never noticing how brown and bright they were before. With a tiny vow, you promise to admire them for as long as you can, whether out loud or in silence. As long as San feels admired in the way he always should be.

The twinkle in his irises reflects in his close-lipped smile. You don’t stop to think as you lean in to kiss the sharp line of his cheek, knowing you need him as much as you need his words. He parts his mouth in shock, the hand on your cheek still. “Thank you, Sannie.”

When you rest your head on your pillow to sleep hours later, you still feel the shape of him on your lips and the fondness of his stare on your skin.

A knock on your door one Sunday afternoon reveals San with one of his hands cut up, a few scrapes visibly bleeding.

“Shit,” you curse, inspecting the cuts with your hands. He winces when you touch a deeper one, a hiss whistling through his teeth. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I dropped some glass cups. I didn’t know what happened to my broom, so I thought picking it up would be fine if I was careful,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed about the mishap.

You press a hand to his shoulder as a signal for him to step inside your apartment. He does, observing the living room as you run to get supplies from your bathroom. The fuzzy, polka dot blanket draped across your even fuzzier, gray couch and the rerun of some 90s comedy makes him smile to himself. How can someone be so kind and cute? San thinks to himself.

You’ve both hung out many times since you helped him unpack, especially in your bedroom, but he’s never noticed the smaller things in your place. Seeing the ins and outs of your life in the decor, the few dishes in your sink, family photos by the door, and pens left on the counter, he doesn’t feel like he’s intruding. Rather, he’s noticing the pieces of you and storing them away to remember later. That’s how the ache inside his chest would describe it. For now, at least.

“I have band-aids, ointment, and gauze,” you note the supplies in your hand as you make it back to him. You’re no stranger to mishaps like accidental bruises and bumps, so coming as prepared as possible for this one facet of everyday life is doable, even for you. “Sit down, Sannie.”

When you guide both of you to the couch, you drape the blanket across his lap and pause the show on your television. You hold up the first-aid kit, grabbing his attention and smiling behind the box. “Ready to be patched up?”

“Readier than ready.”

The minutes pass quietly as San watches the rest of the episode, and you treat his smaller cuts with small circular band-aids. You wrap the deeper gashes up with pale gauze, rubbing some cream on the wounds to start the healing process. As you grab more of the ointment from the tin, you realize San being hurt in any capacity is painful, unbearable even, for you as well as him. While you have more than an inkling of what that means, you push it out of your mind to focus on your table-side healing.

When he’s patched up, you flick his wrist. “You’re good to go, sir.”

He grins in response. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. That’s what neighbors are for right?” The word feels too simple to describe San and what he means to you.

“Definitely,” he murmurs. Your faces rest less than a foot apart from each other, knees slightly touching.

In any instance, you’d have backed away quickly and given your new friend and neighbor a proper send-off back to his apartment. However, he’s so warm, inviting, here. It has to be ridiculous to feel so safe in his presence this soon, but San is the least ridiculous person you know.

He can be vain, more confident in himself than the average person is, and satisfied with his own absurdity. Maybe those things turn some people off, but they’re only a few things that you adore about him, the exterior pieces to a beautiful interior. And adore you do, maybe too much and too fast in the month that you’ve known him. But if someone calls you senseless for that, then senseless is what you are.

When you kiss his lips, pressing your mouth firmly to his, you feel senseless. All of your feelings rotate around him, none of your own to pull from as you want nothing but him to spread inside of you. You keen when he groans into your mouth, press deeper into him as his hands clench your waist, and mewl as he pushes his song into your mouth.

“Your hand,” you call out as he tries pushing his injured fingers down your pants.

“Fuck my hand,” San says with a gasp, tugging at the material until your shorts come off. “Well, I want you to fuck it anyway.”

You whimper at his salacious words, grinding your hips down into his lap and awaiting hand. He lets out his own sounds of pleasure at the wetness pooling in your underwear, and he slips the material to the side to truly have your skin against his, the callous on his fingertips rubbing against your clit beautifully.

With your mouth falling open from the cascading waves of pleasure that have barely started, you feel you could float away if it weren’t for San’s index and middle finger suddenly buried inside of you. He whispers dirty things into your ear, your face fighting a blush despite the position you’re both in. “You’re gorgeous, you know that? So perfect for me when you’re fucked out like this.”

He adds a third finger, completely lost in your expression as you ride his hand with abandon. You continue to rut your body into him, and all he can focus on is both your pleasure and the growing erection in his pants. His body pulses with need, but he knows it’s not about him right now.

It’s about you, and he wants you to recognize how much your pleasure matters to him.

“San, I’m gonna—” You press both palms to either side of his neck, moving faster to chase the high that’s within your reach. The taste of it almost hits the center of your tongue, and you want to feel it after all this time you’ve been waiting. For him, for the two of you, for something good.

“It’s okay, don’t fight it.” He kisses your cheek, looking up at you with only adoration and patience in his eyes. “Let go, beautiful. Come with my fingers inside of you.”

Your back arches and your chest presses into San’s biceps when you finally feel your release in its full glory. Your body leaks your essence down his hand and onto your remaining clothes. You would feel like a mess in any other circumstance, but right now, you don’t care.

All you want to do is make San feel as good as he’s made you feel.

You kiss him twice more before pulling him into your bedroom. You push him onto your bed and make quick work of removing his clothes, unzipping his jeans until both that article of clothing and his underwear come off.

The head of his dick is red and leaking with pre-cum, and you fight the urge to take him into your mouth completely and finish the encounter off that way. You want to make it worth both of your whiles.

You stroke his cock a handful of times to moisten the surface, and he ruts into your hand with broken groans. “Please don’t tease me,” San begs, reaching his hands out to hold you by the hips.

“I’m not, Sannie, I promise. Just want to get you nice and ready first.” You may not be confident in a lot of arenas of your life, but you know you’re good at this, and you’re going to make a show of it.

You sink down onto San’s cock easily. Despite the stretch of his wide girth filling every space of you, you take it all with a slack jaw and a deep moan emulating from your chest. It’s been a minute since you’ve had someone of his size inside of you, but you adjust with a few minutes of doing nothing but sitting on top of him.

“Are you gonna—” You cut San’s words short by slamming down on him particularly hard, going from doing nothing to giving him everything in a matter of seconds. You press your nails into his chest as you ride him, your pace fast and unrelenting. He looks up at you through his lashes with lust-blown irises. His hands on your hips threaten to bruise your skin, and in truth, you wouldn’t mind if they did. You want him to mark you up, pin you down, make him yours. You’ve never been more sure of anything before.

Without warning, San switches positions, one large hand pinning you down as the other wraps your legs tighter around his waist. “No more playing. Hold on tight, doll.”

He sets a pace much harsher than yours, practically leaving you completely before slamming completely inside with every thrust. It’s deep in every sense of the word, and you bite into your fist to hold back how loud you’re becoming.

San takes that fist into his palm, splaying out your fingers to interlace with his. “Let me hear all of it. Don’t fight it, baby.” He takes one of your breasts into his mouth, lavishing your nipple in gentle nips and kitten licks.

You decide all of your resounding sounds matter little to you, your other neighbors and their peaceful Sunday be damned. If he wants you to be loud, you’ll be as loud as possible, especially when his hand finds your clit to rub in perfect little figure eights.

Your vocal chords are tattered and uneven by the time your second orgasm comes, your body slack and throat hoarse from the overload of pleasure. You squeeze him tighter despite your oversensitive nerves, ready for him to fall off the same precipice you lept past with no issue.

San buries his face into your neck as he comes, his breath and beautiful groans hitting your ear as his release fills you with warmth. He kisses one of your temples as he pulls out, letting small remnants of the mixture of your releases trickle out of you and onto your bed. It all carries the same weight of importance, anyway. All that matters to you is his warm arms lulling you into comfort you’ve been without for longer than you realized.

The afternoon sky bleeds into night, and you spend all those hours in San’s arms, saying nothing yet everything in that span of time. He only rubs your back and kisses your lips every so often, letting you slip in and out of sleep.

Once you’ve been awake for longer than ten minutes, San breaks the silence by saying, “So, I’m not the best cook, but you deserve some sort of meal after all of this.” He kisses your neck before focusing his gaze back on you. “And I may or may not be collecting my repayment after helping you with those articles right now so you say yes.” He grins again, charming and electrifying. “What do you say?”

“We just had sex and you think I’ll say no to that?” you ask with a giggle.

“I’m just making sure!”

You’ve never been observant. Some cues go past your head entirely, and you know this. But San’s skin, so comfortably close to yours, sends the gentlest calm across yours like the familiar prickles of gooseflesh. You can see him and read his obvious intentions, and you know now you’re ready to welcome the start of something new with open arms. There’s no right or wrong to fear, no choice to be any less certain about. It’s easy to feel that way when sure of him when he looks at you the way he does? “I’d love to have a meal with you, San.”

Two months pass, and as San’s hand draws circles into the divot of your hip, you remember that tender stillness you felt after you first met, the first time you hung out together in what San called “your first not-first date” which you lovingly shoved him for, the first night you spent together, and all the dates that followed. Most important, that stillness never disappeared or faded into the background. Not since the first time you saw him, not when he told you it was more than fine to leave most of your stuff at his place (especially your polka dot blanket), and not when he told you he loved you hours ago.

“What are you thinking about?” San pulls you from your thoughts with his question, his whisper raspy. He kisses your bare shoulder, the soft press of his lips warming you to the bone.

“You.”

“Oh? Only good things I hope.” He smirks, trailing his kisses up to your neck. “Or bad, I prefer both.” You giggle at the few swipes of his tongue on the hollow of your throat, but you tug on the ends of his hair to pull his attention back to your face.

“The best things. How I still get excited every time I see you, and how easy it is to make you smile. How you make me feel as though I can do anything, because I have all the power in the world to do it.” You stroke the corners of his mouth, pulling them up and down to make him laugh. “How much I love you.”

In his laughter, he wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. Peppering his face with kisses, the two of you fall deeper inside the sheets, the only space in the world meant for the two of you. The smell of his cologne lingers on his body, your favorite smell. You breathe it in as he says, “I love you too.” He says the words in between more sets of kisses stamped into your face and neck.

The sunlight peeks in through San’s curtains when you retreat from underneath the comforter, the signal of a new day. Another set of beginnings and discoveries to look for, new realizations to be had. Only, this day is different. You no longer fear as you once did. If either you or San aren’t looking close enough, the other person will be there to help put the pieces together. Other days, you know you’re strong enough now to figure it all out on your own, just like San is. The two of you can be as slow or fast-paced as you want to, impulses or plans be damned. If that’s what love is supposed to be, you never want it to pass you by again.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @jjunberry@lovetaroandtaemin @xomakara @pars-ley @addictedtohobi @innocygnet @filmnings

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊: @kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @pirateeznet @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @deoboyznet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑴𝒀 𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑺 𝒐𝒓 𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑺 © 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖧𝖤𝖤𝖢𝖧𝖶𝖤; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍.

#pirateeznet #kvanity #kstrucknet #keopihausnet #san smut #choi san smut #san x reader #choi san x reader #ateez smut #atz smut #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez fics #atz x reader #atz fics #atz fic #[ lexi's works ]#[ lw - ateez ]

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downbadf0rficppl · 9 months ago

Text

love in the dark

Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: You're used to being Natasha's in the dark, where no one can see you, but what if all the hiding causes insecurities to rear their head and make you question if you are even good enough for this job?

Word Count: 12.5K (CRAZY IK)

AN: Maybe - definitely - OOC Natasha, but I wanted to get my annoyance out somewhere. It's been a long week *crying face*. Anyway, I can't write anything angsty (dk if I would classify this as angst angst but ya know) without a lil bit of fluff at the end so yh. Also sorry that the plot is a bit shit - I haven't reread this and it was a lil bit word-vomity?? Will reread and edit eventually haha. HEA, hurt/comfort vibes? :P

Take your eyes off of me so I can leave

I'm far too ashamed to do it with you watching me

The dim light of morning filters through the curtains as you quietly gather your things, your heart a tangled mess of emotions you’d rather not confront. Natasha’s apartment is always neat—pristine, even in its chaos—but today it feels colder than usual. The aftermath of the night lingers in the air: the weight of intimacy, of bodies pressed together, of shared moments that somehow don't leave a mark, yet always seem to hang over you.

You move with practiced ease, pulling on your clothes, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the stillness. Natasha’s absence from the bed doesn’t surprise you; she’s already up, probably training or doing some task to keep herself distracted, to keep from thinking about the mission, about what happened, about anything. You don’t blame her. You’ve seen the way she handles it—how she compartmentalizes her emotions, how sex is the one thing she doesn’t keep in a box.

The door to her bathroom creaks open as you finish zipping your jacket. She doesn’t look at you, her hair damp from a quick shower, her expression unreadable, almost distant. She grabs her black leather jacket from the chair, pulls it on, and heads to the kitchen, the clink of mugs the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak, but the words always seem to hang on the tip of your tongue, trapped behind something you don’t know how to say. You're younger—years younger—and Natasha... well, Natasha never gives anything away. Not in the way you want her to. Her walls are solid, built from years of training, of being a weapon. And you? You’re just a moment, a fleeting thing in her life.

You find her standing by the window now, her back to you, her figure outlined against the early light. She’s always like this after missions, like she’s trying to rid herself of the weight, trying to get back to being Natasha again, instead of... whatever else she’s forced to be.

“Thanks for last night,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t turn to face you, doesn’t even acknowledge your words immediately. Then, as if the silence is too much to bear, she speaks. “You should go. Goodnight, baby.” Her voice is low, steady, but there's an edge to it—something you can’t quite place.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I know.”

You turn to leave, but something inside you twists, a knot in your stomach that isn’t just from the awkwardness. It’s the realization that, for all the time you’ve spent together, nothing will ever change. This is just routine—an unspoken agreement between the two of you. She'll keep using you to forget, and you’ll keep pretending this isn’t affecting you.

But Natasha doesn’t ask you to stay, doesn’t even look at you as you make your way toward the door. When you reach the threshold, you steal one last glance at her. Her eyes are on the window again, her face set in that familiar, unreadable expression.

You leave without a word, the door clicking softly behind you, and the silence that follows is deafening.

This is never ending, we have been here before

But I can't stay this time, 'cause I don't love you anymore

The quiet hum of the helicarrier was almost calming, the steady vibrations of the engines beneath your feet grounding you after a chaotic mission. You’d never felt more alive than when you were out there—fighting, taking down the bad guys, doing what SHIELD trained you to do. But tonight, that adrenaline wasn’t enough to silence the nagging feeling inside of you. You kept replaying the moments from the mission—the moments with Natasha.

The mission had gone smoothly. You had worked well together, flowing seamlessly as a team, and Natasha had even given you a rare, approving glance when it was all over. It had been a high-stakes op, but everything had fallen into place. When the mission was debriefed, there had been laughter, light-hearted jokes exchanged between agents, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Natasha.

Her touch had lingered, just a moment longer than necessary, when she passed you your gear. Her eyes had met yours once, a flicker of something in them. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make you wonder. Maybe she feels it too, you thought. The way she looked at you, the way she spoke—there was an intimacy in it, a spark you couldn’t quite ignore.

The night had unfolded with a casual invitation to meet in her room. No big deal, she’d said. Just to grab a drink, just to relax. But when you entered her room, it felt different. You both shed the weight of the mission in the space between words, the tension between you growing as the night went on. Her touch had been slow, almost gentle, when it first brushed against your skin. You’d been hesitant, unsure of what was happening, but she seemed so confident, so sure.

It wasn’t until later—after you were tangled up in each other, breathless, skin flushed—that you felt that spark you had hoped for. Maybe she was just as interested, just as real about this as you were. It wasn’t just a mission anymore, not just two agents getting the job done. There was a connection. There was something between you.

But when you stepped out of her room the next morning, something shifted in the air. The way she had casually kissed you on the cheek before you left, the way she didn’t ask you to stay, didn’t look at you the way you hoped—none of it was what you imagined.

Later, you passed a group of agents gathered in a corner of the mess hall, talking in low voices. You’d barely paid them any mind, too focused on your own thoughts, but then you heard it.

“I wonder who Nat picked this time,” one of them had said, laughing.

“Probably one of the newbies who doesn’t know any better. Gets what she wants, and moves on. No strings attached.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, your heart sinking lower with every syllable. Natasha. Natasha Romanoff. The woman you had admired from a distance, the one you had trusted and looked up to, had just used you. And maybe—maybe you had been just another mission for her.

You couldn’t help but feel the sting of that realization. You had wanted more. You had convinced yourself that there was something more to it—that the way she held you, the way she whispered your name had meant something. But no. This was who she was. A lone wolf. Cold. Detached.

You didn’t say anything, of course. You just nodded, forcing yourself to accept what you had heard, forcing yourself to forget what had happened the night before. The optimism you had clung to began to die right then and there. This wasn’t a relationship. This wasn’t something that could grow or change.

You walked back to your quarters, the weight of the mission—and your heartache—settling in your chest. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was easier to be just one of the many in a string of forgettable faces. The night with Natasha had been a blip. No more, no less.

The next time you saw her, you kept your distance, smiled a little tighter, and allowed the walls to go up. There was no point in hoping for something more when you knew exactly how this worked. She was always a few steps ahead of you, always thinking of the next mission, the next fight, never lingering too long in one place.

And you? You learned to accept that. No strings attached. No expectations. Just the way things were.

Please, stay where you are

Don't come any closer

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the training room as you and Natasha sparred. The fight was almost second nature now—quick jabs, swift dodges, and the occasional, playful taunt thrown into the mix. You'd gotten better at handling the pressure, but still, when it came to Natasha, it was hard not to feel like you were always playing catch-up. She was faster, stronger, more experienced. Sometimes, it seemed like she was born to fight.

You threw a punch, aiming for her midsection, but she dodged it with effortless grace, countering with a sharp jab to your ribs. You grunted, stumbling back a step, but you didn’t let it throw you off. You pressed forward, more determined now.

“Not bad,” Natasha said with a smirk, her voice light. “But you’re still weak. You need me to save you again, huh?” She laughed, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

It was a joke, you knew that, or at least, you thought you did. But something about her words hit you differently today. You weren’t in the mood to laugh. You had been pushing yourself hard in training, trying to prove that you could handle it on your own, that you weren’t just some rookie who was always under Natasha’s shadow.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the growing frustration that bubbled in your chest. You swung again, but this time, you missed her entirely. She dodged it effortlessly and caught your wrist in a hold that felt too tight.

“Still not enough,” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I should give you some more training lessons. You know, to make sure I don’t have to keep saving you.”

The joke, the lightness in her voice, it only made you more upset. “Maybe I don’t need saving,” you snapped, trying to pull your wrist free from her grip, your temper flaring. “Maybe I can handle things on my own for once.”

Natasha’s smirk faltered, but she kept her hold firm. “Maybe I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Deep down you knew it was a joke, but it wasn’t funny to you—not today. Not when you already felt the weight of everyone’s whispers hanging over you like a shadow. She’s only here because she’s sleeping with Natasha. She’s nothing without her. Every agent seemed to think the same thing. Even some of your own teammates seemed to treat you like you were just an afterthought, a placeholder who only got the mission because of who you knew, not because of your skill.

You had always tried to prove them wrong. But when Natasha said things like that, it felt like all your efforts were for nothing. Like all of it was just... a joke.

You yanked your arm out of her grip and stepped back, glaring at her. “I don’t need you to save me, Natasha. I don’t need anyone.”

Her expression shifted, the playful edge in her eyes dimming. She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. She didn’t hear the things you heard, didn’t feel the weight of the judgment you carried every day. To her, this was just another training session, another moment of playful teasing. But to you? It was like being backed into a corner, your confidence slowly slipping away with every word.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Natasha said, her voice sharp now. “You know I’m just messing with you. Stop getting so moody.”

It stung more than it should’ve. You clenched your fists at your sides, holding back the urge to walk out of the room, to leave her there without another word.

But you didn’t. You just stood there, feeling the walls close in around you.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady. “You think I’m just here for the fun of it. That I can’t do anything without you. You don’t even see it.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, and she let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her stance. “You’re being overly sensitive.”

You felt the words cut deep, the sting of her dismissal more painful than you wanted to admit. The last thing you wanted was for her to see you as some emotional mess. But it was too late. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the ache of being ignored, dismissed, and reduced to nothing more than a pawn in her world.

“Fine,” you snapped, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Maybe I should just go. You don’t need to deal with my mood anymore.”

Natasha didn’t even flinch at your outburst. Instead, she looked at you with a cold indifference. “Then fuck off,” she said bluntly, as if you were just another irritation, another moment she couldn’t be bothered with.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, trying to make sense of it. She didn’t get it. She didn’t understand why you were so angry, why you felt so small in that moment. And you realized, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that maybe she never would.

You turned and walked away without another word, your chest tight, your emotions a storm inside of you. You didn’t even know where you were going, but you couldn’t stay there, not with her. Not now.

Don't try to change my mind

I'm being cruel to be kind

The words hit like a slap in the face.

You hadn’t meant to overhear it. You had only walked into the SHIELD briefing room to check on some mission updates when Agent Ryder’s voice cut through the air, low but unmistakable.

You could feel the sting of his dismissive tone reverberating in your bones. Nepotism. The word had echoed in your head long after he’d left, taunting you. You knew the truth—your guardian wasn’t some high-ranking official, wasn’t some big shot with connections—but still, how could they say that? How could they reduce your hard work to just that? To nothing but the connections you didn’t even ask for?

You had always tried to prove yourself. Every mission, every task, every step forward was to show you deserved to be here, that you weren’t just some token agent or a pawn in a bigger game. You had trained harder than anyone. You had put in the hours, learned everything you could, sacrificed the same as everyone else. But still, every time you turned around, someone else was whispering behind your back, casting doubt on your worth.

And then there was Natasha. Her teasing had been the last straw. You had tried to laugh it off, to pretend it didn’t bother you, but you knew deep down that the way she dismissed you—it was just another reminder that you were expendable. You weren’t one of them. You were just... a mistake in the system.

So when you walked into the training room the next morning and saw Natasha leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking as relaxed and confident as ever, something inside you snapped.

You didn’t go to her like you usually did. You didn’t smile, didn’t offer the usual greeting. Instead, you simply nodded once, cold and distant.

“Something wrong?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow as she stepped forward.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you turned away from her, grabbing your gear and adjusting it with deliberate care. The silence stretched between you both. You could feel her eyes on you, studying you, waiting for an explanation, but you didn’t owe her one. Not anymore. Not after everything.

“You’re still upset about yesterday, huh?” Natasha’s voice was softer now, but there was an edge to it. A warning, maybe. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You ignored her, shoving your focus back into the task at hand, determined not to let her see the way your chest tightened. You didn’t want to feel weak. You didn’t want her to know how much her words hurt. You were done with this—done with pretending, done with leaning on her. You were going to prove yourself. You had to.

A few moments passed before Natasha stepped closer, frustration creeping into her tone. “If you don’t stop this, we’re going to have a problem.”

You turned to face her then, finally looking her in the eyes, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “No. We’re not going to have a problem. I’m done with this.” You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m done with you. I’m tired of being treated like I’m some kind of charity case. Like I don’t belong here unless I’m under your shadow.”

Natasha’s face shifted, confusion flashing in her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You took a step back, your voice rising in frustration. “You think it’s funny, don’t you? All of it. The way you make fun of me. Like it’s just a joke. Well, it’s not. I’ve been busting my ass here, and all you do is remind me that everyone thinks I’m just some charity case. Nepotism. You think that’s a joke? You think I need you to save me?”

Natasha’s expression hardened, her gaze flickering to the side, and then back to you. She crossed her arms, clearly trying to hold her composure. But there was something in her eyes—something tight, something hurt.

“Is this about yesterday?” she asked, her tone sharper now, but there was a hint of concern buried underneath. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting!” You shot back, unable to hold it in anymore. “You don’t get to dismiss me and then act like nothing happened. I’m not some... some... tool for you to use whenever you want. I’m not some kid you get to play with and forget about when it’s convenient.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, thick with tension. Natasha’s jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You think this is about me using you? You think I’m using you? Is that what you really think?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah. That’s what I think.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with anger, her usual calm demeanor slipping for just a moment. She shook her head, disbelief and frustration written all over her face. “You’ve got it all wrong. But fine, if that’s how you feel, then go ahead. Go prove yourself, like you keep saying you will. But don’t come crawling back to me when you realize you can’t do it alone.”

The words stung, but it was the way she turned and walked away—cold, final—that hit you the hardest. You felt the knot in your chest tighten, but you didn’t call after her. You couldn’t.

You spent the rest of the day avoiding her, your mind racing with doubt and anger. It wasn’t about the mission, not really. It was about feeling like you were fighting a battle on your own, with no one in your corner. The more you tried to distance yourself, the more you realized how much you needed her, even if it hurt to admit it.

But you were stubborn. You had to prove to yourself that you weren’t just here because of someone else. You weren’t going to be Natasha’s shadow anymore.

You couldn’t.

You have given me something that I can't live without

You mustn't underestimate that when you are in doubt

The morning briefing had gone smoothly, the usual debriefing about mission parameters, objectives, and exit strategies. But there was an undercurrent of tension you couldn’t shake. It was just a solo mission—nothing too difficult, Natasha had said, and you knew the protocol well. But the moment she had pulled out, just hours before takeoff, something in your gut twisted.

"It doesn't need to be a two-person mission," Natasha had said with her usual casual smile, but it hadn’t reached her eyes. "It’s easy. You’ve got this." Her voice had sounded almost dismissive, as if she hadn’t been training with you for months, as if she didn’t know how much you relied on her presence during missions. You knew Natasha wasn’t one for emotional goodbyes, but the absence of that small gesture—her usual good luck kiss before every mission—felt like a sign. You had never gone on a mission without one, and now, as you stood alone in the SHIELD hangar, you realized just how much you had come to rely on it.

She hadn’t even given you a heads-up, hadn’t said goodbye with her usual teasing smirk or reassuring look. It’s an easy mission, you told yourself. You don’t need her this time. But the unease in your chest told you otherwise.

You tugged the straps of your gear tighter, glancing once more at the aircraft. The mission was supposed to be straightforward: infiltrate a small criminal syndicate operating out of a hidden base in the mountains, retrieve intel, and get out. You’d handled worse. But you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was off. Your instincts were screaming at you, and for once, you weren’t willing to ignore them.

You checked your wristwatch again. The flight would take a few hours, leaving you with time to prepare mentally, but all you could think about was Natasha. The way she had waved you off with barely a second glance, as if you didn’t matter enough for a goodbye. You tried not to dwell on it. After all, Natasha didn’t do sentiment. But the emptiness in your chest was hard to ignore.

Maybe she’s just busy. Maybe she’s just focused on something else. But none of that helped. You were used to her being there with you, a reassuring presence by your side. You needed her, especially when the missions were dangerous—especially when you felt the weight of the world bearing down on you. But now, you were alone, and that felt heavier than you expected.

As the helicopter’s engines roared to life, you settled back into your seat, trying to center yourself. This mission wasn’t supposed to be difficult. You could do this alone, you kept telling yourself. But something about it didn’t feel right. Maybe it was Natasha pulling out at the last minute. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't given you her usual kiss for luck, the one that always helped you steady your nerves before a mission. But whatever it was, it gnawed at you. Your instincts were telling you to watch your back. Something wasn’t adding up.

By the time you arrived at the drop zone, the helicopter had been quiet for too long. The mountainside stretched ahead, vast and intimidating, and the cold wind carried the promise of danger. You could see the hidden compound from the air—well-guarded, heavily fortified, and far from any backup. A simple mission, Natasha had called it.

You didn’t believe that for a second.

The drop was smooth, and you quickly moved into position, your boots crunching against the frozen ground. The area around the compound was still and eerily quiet. Too quiet. No guards on patrol. No sign of life. It didn’t make sense, but you pushed the unease aside. You had a job to do.

You made your way toward the compound, slipping into the shadows, the cold air biting at your skin. Every step felt calculated, but the tension in your shoulders refused to loosen. You kept glancing over your shoulder, as if expecting Natasha to appear and tell you everything was fine, that this was just another mission to add to the books.

But she wasn’t there.

You reached the compound’s perimeter and found the first guard’s post abandoned, his gear left behind but no sign of a struggle. There was no time to waste. You slipped inside, working quickly to disable the security systems and hack into the mainframe. The room you’d accessed was silent, save for the whir of the computers. As you pulled the intel from the servers, the cold feeling in your gut only grew.

Something wasn’t right. Your instincts had been spot-on—this mission had been a setup.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching. You froze, turning off the monitor and moving swiftly toward the exit. You didn’t have time to think. You just had to get out. The sudden realization hit you like a punch in the stomach—Natasha wasn’t here for a reason. She’d known this mission wasn’t as easy as it seemed. And now you were paying the price for going in blind, without her by your side.

Your heart pounded as you sprinted for cover, your mind racing. Every corner you turned felt like a trap. The compound was alive with activity now. You could hear voices, shouts, the sounds of boots hitting the concrete floor.

I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have trusted this mission without her.

You ducked into an alcove, pressing your back to the cold wall, your breath shallow. The door to the room you’d just vacated opened with a quiet click, and a group of armed men poured in, searching for you. The walls seemed to close in on you as the adrenaline kicked in. You had to move, had to get out, or you would be trapped.

Suddenly, your body started to droop, collapsing against the wall behind. The last thing you saw before everything went dark was long red hair tied into a bun.

But I don't want to carry on like everything is fine

The longer we ignore it, all the more that we will fight

You woke to the sting of cold water splashing across your face, the shock of it making your body jerk awake, muscles aching with the memory of the fight. The pain was sharp, gnawing at your ribs and shoulders, each breath a struggle. The world around you was blurred, and all you could focus on was the weight pressing down on your chest.

Your eyes opened, blurry at first, and then the details started to sharpen: concrete walls, dim lighting, and the cold, oppressive silence that clung to the room. There were metal chairs around you, all empty but one. The leader of the enemy force, a tall man with a face carved from stone, stood before you, a smug look on his face as he held the bucket that had been your rude awakening.

He tossed the remaining ice water in your direction, a small slosh hitting your face as he watched you with cold, calculating eyes. “You’re a tough one,” he said in a low, mocking voice. “I didn’t think you’d last this long. But everyone cracks eventually, don’t they?”

Your throat was dry, and your tongue felt like it was made of sandpaper. You could feel the blood caked on your face, the bruises that were already starting to swell. But despite the pain, despite the overwhelming urge to break, you held your ground. You glared up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes.

“You’ve got nothing to say?” the man sneered. “You SHIELD agents are all the same. So loyal. So stupid. You’re all just waiting for your little friends to come save you, aren’t you?”

Your lips pressed together tightly, and you refused to let a single word slip from them. You couldn’t afford to give him anything. Not a single piece of intel, not even a whimper. You knew that if you did, it would all be over.

He stepped closer, placing a booted foot against your thigh, forcing you back against the cold concrete. The pressure was almost unbearable, but you didn’t flinch. The silence between you both stretched, thick and heavy, until he finally gave a humorless laugh and straightened up. “I can wait. All of you are the same. Eventually, you’ll break.”

But you didn’t.

The next few days bled together in a haze of cold, pain, and isolation. The room was a blur of steel, concrete, and fluorescent lights. There were no windows, no sense of time. Your body was sore, covered in cuts and bruises, and the hunger gnawed at you. But you couldn’t give in. Not now. Not when you knew someone would come for you.

They’ll come. They have to.

Every time they came in, it was the same—questions, threats, taunts. And every time, you remained silent. You couldn’t let them know how desperate you were. You couldn’t let them see you break. Even if every part of you screamed for help, you stayed resolute, hoping that somehow, someone would find you, someone would come and end this.

But no one did.

It was only when the fourth day passed, when the darkness of the room had become your world, that you started to feel the weight of your own mind closing in. The silence, the isolation, the constant threat of pain—it started to take a toll on you. The hunger gnawed at your insides, and your thoughts drifted in and out. You could still hear his voice echoing in your head: They’ll come for you. They’ll come...

It was on the sixth day that it happened. A crack in the door. The low hum of voices. The sound of boots. You didn’t move at first, couldn’t. But then, just like that, the door swung open, and a small team of SHIELD agents burst in, guns drawn. They moved quickly, efficiently, sweeping the room and securing the area. You didn’t even have the energy to react as they cut through the restraints on your wrists and helped you to your feet.

"Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” one of them murmured, gently pulling you into their arms.

But the words didn’t register. You could hear them, but it was like they were coming from another world. You felt light-headed, your body numb, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on you. Your mouth was dry, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

The next few days were a blur of recovery, of medical checks and debriefings that you couldn’t bring yourself to respond to. Every word felt like it was coming from a place far outside of you, and you couldn’t find the strength to answer.

In the quiet, isolated room they had put you in at the base, you sat in silence, staring blankly at the wall. Every noise around you felt too loud. Every touch too much. They gave you time to recover, but you couldn’t shake the heaviness in your chest. Your mind had shut down, your body running on autopilot.

There were no words. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak. The trauma, the isolation, everything that had happened—it left you feeling hollow. Broken.

You didn’t speak at all for days, your body recovering, but your mind still trapped in the darkness of that cold room. The cold man’s words echoed in your head. You’re all waiting for someone to come save you.

But even as the team tried to coax you into talking, even as they brought you your favorite food and gave you the space to recover, the silence remained.

Natasha didn’t come. She wasn’t there when you needed her, and the weight of that felt heavier than any physical wound. It wasn’t her fault. You knew that. But somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still alone.

Your recovery was slow. You weren’t the same person when you were finally cleared to leave the facility. There was a coldness in your eyes, a distance in your posture. The silence you had once embraced had become a shield, and now, it was all you had.

Natasha had visited you once during your recovery. She hadn’t said much, just sat in silence beside you. But even when she reached out to touch your hand, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The trauma had built walls too high, too thick to break. And no one, not even Natasha, could find their way through.

You were alive, yes. But the silence that followed felt like it would never end.

Please, don't fall apart

I can't face your breaking heart

The sterile scent of the hospital room, the constant hum of machines, and the bright, white lights overhead did little to make you feel at ease. You stared at the ceiling, your gaze unfocused, your mind a swirling mess of everything that had happened. You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You didn’t feel like you were living—just existing, going through the motions. Every movement felt like an effort, and the space around you felt too small, too suffocating.

You hadn’t spoken since the rescue. Not to anyone. The silence, once a comfort, had become a prison you couldn’t escape. Your throat was raw from the lack of words, and when you closed your eyes, you could still see the cold walls of that room, the mocking face of the enemy leader, and the weight of the isolation pressing down on you.

The door opened, and you didn’t look up. You knew who it was before the first words even registered.

“Are you seriously ignoring me?”

The voice was sharp, familiar, cutting through the fog that had settled around your brain. Natasha.

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. Your mind was screaming for you to stay quiet, to not let her in, because the moment you spoke, you knew it would shatter the wall you’d built to protect yourself. But Natasha didn’t wait for a response. She stormed into the room, her boots heavy on the floor, her expression tight with frustration.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” Natasha continued, her voice rising with every word. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I can’t believe you’re acting like this. It’s been weeks. You’re acting like a damn child, and I’m done with it. I don’t have time for this immature bullshit, especially from you.”

Your chest tightened, a knot of anger and confusion building inside you, but you refused to show it. You couldn’t. You knew better than to let her see the storm inside you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t follow your schedule,” you said, your voice flat and devoid of emotion. You couldn’t bring yourself to add any more, any more than the words that barely scraped out. Sorry for being alive, sorry for failing.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she took a few steps closer, standing at the side of your bed. Her face was hard, her anger not hiding the concern that still flickered beneath. “You think this is easy for me, too? That I just get to pretend nothing happened? That I’m supposed to just let you wallow in here like—like this?” Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly regained her composure. “This is fucking ridiculous, and I’m not going to stand here and watch you ruin everything you’ve worked for. Do you understand me? You’re going to lose everything.”

The sting of her words cut deep, but it was the accusation in her tone that truly hit you. The one that had been festering in your chest ever since you’d been dragged out of that hellhole. You weren’t who you thought you were. You weren’t the person who deserved this life. The dream job, the recognition, the chance to be someone worth a damn—none of it was meant for you. Not after everything that had happened. You weren’t strong enough to keep it all, to be who they thought you were. And Natasha—Natasha, who had always been a silent pillar of strength for you, was now reminding you how easily it could all be taken away.

Her words stung. Immature... Ruin everything... You could feel the weight of her disappointment settle into your chest like a stone, heavier than anything you had ever felt.

And then, it clicked.

The final straw broke. Natasha didn’t understand. She didn’t understand the extent of what had happened to you—the isolation, the pain, the days spent waiting for someone to find you, and the crushing feeling that no one would. You were broken, and she was treating it like it was just a phase. That you just needed to snap out of it.

But you couldn’t.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the pain from your injuries flaring in protest, but you pushed through. You weren’t sure where you were going, but you couldn’t stay here any longer. You had to leave. You had to escape the judgment, the expectations. You couldn’t pretend to be strong anymore.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Natasha snapped, but you were already moving. You couldn’t be near her right now. The anger, the betrayal—it was all too much.

Ignoring her calls, you grabbed the nearest coat, not caring that it didn’t quite fit right, and you made your way out of the room. You could hear her following you, her footsteps echoing behind you, but you didn’t turn around. You didn’t owe her anything anymore.

You didn’t owe anyone anything.

It didn’t take long to get to the secure office where you had to sign a few papers before they cleared your discharge. You barely registered the words the agent at the desk was saying. You barely noticed the fact that your fingers were trembling. You only had one thing on your mind—the resignation letter you had been drafting in your head for days.

You placed it on the desk in front of the agent, your hands shaking slightly as you slid the paper over to them. The words were short and to the point, and they made everything feel so final. So irreversible.

“I’m resigning,” you said, voice hoarse. “Effective immediately.”

The agent didn’t ask questions. They just nodded, their face unreadable, and then went about processing the paperwork. You watched, numb, as the reality of it all settled over you like a weight that you could never lift. You had dreamed of this job for so long, had worked so hard to get here, only to throw it all away because you didn’t deserve it anymore.

And in that moment, you felt everything you’d been holding in for weeks. The grief. The betrayal. The isolation. It all came rushing back, but you didn’t cry. You couldn’t cry. The numbness, the emptiness, it was all you had now.

You stood up, turning away from the desk, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sense of finality wash over you. No turning back.

It wasn’t until you were almost out the door that you heard Natasha’s voice again, this time softer, more desperate. “Wait.”

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and the world outside felt both too big and too small at the same time. You were alone now. Completely, irrevocably alone.

And somehow, that felt like the only truth you could rely on anymore.

I'm trying to be brave

Stop asking me to stay

Clint’s sharp eyes caught you before you could make it out of the door, his footsteps quick as he crossed the hallway. He was dressed in his usual casual gear, a quiver slung over his shoulder, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“Hey, wait,” Clint said, his voice softer than it usually was when he called someone out. You didn’t stop. Your feet kept moving, your heart hammering as you tried to escape. But Clint was relentless. He grabbed your arm gently but firmly, turning you around to face him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice laced with something like disappointment. “You can’t just walk out on everything. Nat’s worried sick.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, exhausted. “I don’t need anyone’s pity,” you muttered, your voice strained. “Not hers, not anyone's. Just... just leave me alone.”

Clint studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing with understanding. Then, without warning, he pulled you into a quieter corner, away from the main corridors, where he knew you wouldn’t be overheard.

"Look," Clint said, his voice lower now, softer but still firm, "I don’t know what kind of crap Nat's been feeding you, but I can tell you're hurting. You think you can just walk away from everything, like it’ll make things better? You think that's gonna fix anything?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t bring yourself to. But Clint didn’t need an answer.

“I hear things,” Clint went on. “I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s trying to hide something. And I’ve been in the rafters during most of those 'training' sessions with Nat. You think you’re the only one who feels small, huh?” His voice turned bitter, a subtle edge to it. “You think you’re the only one she’s pushed away?”

You stared at him, shocked, unable to respond. Clint saw right through you. He knew what was happening, and he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“She’s been messing with your head, hasn’t she?” Clint said. “Somehow, you think you’re not good enough, that you don’t belong here. You think everything you’ve done has been handed to you on a silver platter because of her. Well, let me tell you something—that’s not true.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you still didn’t speak. It was like you couldn’t find the words. The guilt, the shame, the feeling of never measuring up to the expectations—they all churned in your stomach.

Clint let out a long, frustrated sigh, his eyes softening. “You’re good enough,” he said, his tone firm, but there was an understanding there that made your throat tighten. “You’ve earned every bit of your place here. And if she can't see that, then she's the one who’s in the wrong. It’s not about who you know or who you're sleeping with. You’re here because of you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

You felt the tears welling up, but you forced them back, swallowing the lump in your throat. Clint’s words had landed hard, and it was like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding was finally being released. But before you could say anything, Clint stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.

“Natasha…” Clint trailed off, his jaw tightening. “She’s been a mess lately. She’s scared—scared of losing you, scared of messing things up. But she doesn’t know how to apologize for anything. She’s been pushing you away because she’s too afraid to admit what she’s done. So yeah, she's been selfish. But you can’t just run away from everything. You deserve better than that."

Your heart twisted at his words, and for a moment, you felt that familiar pang of wanting to believe everything he said. But the hurt was still there, the feeling of being abandoned in your most vulnerable moment. You didn’t trust yourself enough to believe that you were the one who mattered.

Clint left you with a small pat on your shoulder - he couldn’t blame you for wanting to leave, he just wanted you to know the truth that Nat definitely wasn’t going to tell you. Now to chew her out. It didn’t take long for Clint to find her. Natasha was pacing the hall just outside, her face etched with frustration. The second Clint approached her, she shot him a glare.

“Where the hell is she?” Natasha demanded, her voice tight with anxiety. “You didn’t—”

Clint held up a hand to stop her. “Sit down,” he ordered. “And listen. I’m done with you thinking you can just brush this off like it’s nothing.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched, but she stood still. Clint’s eyes were hard, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t holding back.

“You’ve been treating her like shit, Natasha,” Clint continued, his voice rising just enough to get her attention. “You think she’s the problem? That she’s just acting ‘immature’ or ‘childish’? Look around you for two seconds. You’ve been pushing her away, making her feel like she’s not good enough, like she doesn’t deserve anything she’s worked for. You’ve been feeding her insecurities—her real ones—with your own mess. And, she’s traumatised. Those guys out there, the ones that tortured her for six days because she went in without an extraction plan”

Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but Clint cut her off with a sharp motion.

“I hear things,” Clint said. “I’m up in the rafters sometimes. I hear the crap that other people say about her when they think no one’s listening. They question her place on the team because her dad was an officer in Fury’s good graces, or because they think you play favourites with her. They don’t realise that you’ve got something else going on, but all that shit compounded. You’ve made one of our best agents question everything about herself.”

Natasha’s face went pale, her expression shifting from anger to guilt in an instant. “Clint, I—”

“You’re lucky she didn’t quit sooner, Natasha. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own bullshit that you didn’t see how bad she was hurting.” Clint’s words hit like a slap. “Now go find her. And you better make this right, because if you don’t Fury is gonna be pissed.” The ‘and I’ went unspoken.

We're not the only ones, I don't regret a thing

Every word I've said, you know I'll always mean

Natasha stopped at the entrance of Tony’s stupid ‘serenity garden’. It was the last place she had left to look, and it looked like luck was on her side. You were sitting on one of the benches in the corner, your back to her as you stared into the depths of the Koi pond. It was like you were a part of the landscape now, blending into the tranquility of the place. Natasha felt her throat tighten at the sight. You looked so small, so vulnerable, so distant. She had never seen you like this—not once. It was always her who had the walls up, not you.

She took a cautious step forward, the grass underfoot crunching softly as she neared you.

Natasha called your name softly, her voice hesitant, like she was testing the waters. You didn’t respond immediately, and for a brief second, Natasha was unsure if you had even heard her. The silence between you felt thick, almost unbearable. She sat down beside you, not too close, but close enough that she hoped you could feel her presence.

It wasn’t the same as before—when she had always known what to say to you, when her words had always been sure, always laced with a confidence that kept her safe. But now? Now she had no idea how to begin. Her usual sharp tongue had failed her. There were no easy words to break the ice this time, no snarky jokes to hide behind. Only you—and the wreckage she had left in her wake.

You turned your head just slightly, enough to see her. The surprise in your eyes caught her off guard. You’re surprised to see me here, Natasha realized. You didn’t expect her to come. You didn’t expect her to care enough to seek you out.

And for the first time ever, Natasha didn’t know what to say.

Her mind was racing, every thought colliding into the next. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She glanced at you, her expression filled with uncertainty. She could feel the weight of everything she had said, everything she had done, everything she had failed to do. The words that had always come so easily to her were nowhere to be found now. It was as if the depth of your hurt had trapped her, left her speechless, helpless.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned to face her entirely, but your gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than usual. You could sense her struggle—Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, speechless for the first time in your memory.

“Nat?” you finally said, the question carrying more weight than it should. You almost didn’t recognize your own voice, hoarse and small, like the person you had been before all of this had come crashing down.

She looked at you, the smallest glimmer of relief flickering in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with the same guilt she had been carrying for days now.

“I…” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

You blinked at her, surprised. This was the first time you’d ever seen Natasha lost for words. You’d always been the one fumbling for the right thing to say, the one who couldn’t figure out how to get past the pain. But she—Natasha Romanoff, the one who always had control, always knew how to navigate even the most dangerous situations—she was the one who was struggling now.

It was like the world had shifted, and the unshakable woman you had always known had suddenly become... human.

It is the world to me that you are in my life

But I want to live and not just survive

Her voice was soft, as if the weight of everything she had been holding was finally catching up with her. “I messed up,” she said quietly. “I messed up, baby. And I... I don’t know how to make it right.”

Your chest ached as her words hit you. The vulnerability in her eyes was raw, and it took everything in you to keep the tears from falling.

“I’ve been a mess,” Natasha continued, her eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to meet yours. “I didn’t realize how badly I was hurting you... And I was so wrapped up in my own shit that I just—I pushed you away. I thought you’d be fine. I thought you’d understand. But I see now that I made everything worse.”

You swallowed, the words feeling like they weighed a ton in your chest. You couldn’t speak, not yet. But you turned your head slightly to face her, your gaze still unreadable.

“I never wanted to make you feel like you don’t belong here,” Natasha said, her voice breaking slightly. “I never wanted you to think that you were here because of me, or that you weren’t good enough.” Her lips tightened, frustration and regret flooding her features. “I just—I didn’t know how to deal with my own feelings. And I made you think I didn’t care. But I do. I care. I care about you more than you could ever know.”

The silence stretched out between you both, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Natasha felt small. Her pride, her strength—all the things that had always defined her—were gone, stripped away by the vulnerability of this moment.

You glanced at her, studying her face. It was like you were seeing her for the first time—broken, fragile, and unsure.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to feel the smallest sliver of hope.

“I don’t know if you can fix this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But I need you to know something, Natasha. I needed you. And you—you—were the one who turned away.”

Her chest tightened at the weight of your words, but she didn’t flinch. She nodded slowly, accepting the truth, knowing it wasn’t something that could be undone in a moment. The air between you and Natasha felt heavy with words you couldn’t articulate. You had remained silent for so long, allowing her apology to linger in the air like a fragile thing—something too delicate to touch, to hold onto. But now, with the weight of her words pressing down on you, you couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“I’m leaving,” you said, the words steady, though they felt like they weighed a thousand pounds in your chest. You weren’t sure why you were telling her this now, but you had to. You had to make it real, to take control of something in your life again.

“I’m transferring,” you added, your voice quiet but firm. “I’m going to Quantico. I’ll be working with the FBI as a consultant. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but... I don’t deserve to be here anymore. I got the hint.”

The words felt like a confession, a goodbye you hadn’t yet found the courage to say. There had been so many dreams—so many things you’d imagined for yourself at SHIELD. You had fought for them, worked tirelessly, sacrificed for them. But now, they felt like they were slipping away.

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t even look at you. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, like she was trying to find the words. You knew what she’d say. She’d tell you that you were making a mistake, that you had so much potential. But it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would fix what had been broken.

You could feel the emotions swirling inside of you, but you had already made your decision. It was easier to walk away, easier than confronting everything that had gone wrong.

But then, she spoke. And it was different from anything you’d expected.

“You’re the best SHIELD has to offer,” Natasha said, her voice steady, though there was an underlying urgency in it. “You’re the best agent we’ve got, baby. I... I don’t think you see it. You’ve done things that people can’t even dream of. You’ve proven yourself time and time again. You’ve earned your place here. And I know I haven’t made it easy for you, but you belong here.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying. Her voice was fierce now, insistent, and you could hear the raw sincerity in it. But none of it felt real. None of it felt true, not in the way you needed it to.

“I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice quiet, almost lost in the distance between you. “I don’t think I’ve ever truly belonged here. Not in the way you think. I’m not you, Nat. I’m not cut from the same cloth. I’m just—me. And I’ve been holding on to a dream that doesn’t fit. Not anymore.”

Natasha’s expression faltered. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died on her tongue. She could feel your resolve, could see how broken you were, how done you seemed. It was like you had already left—mentally, emotionally, even before physically walking away.

Her chest tightened. “Baby, listen—"

But you shook your head, cutting her off. “Whatever you’re going to say, Nat, I’ve heard it all.” You inhaled sharply, the words rushing out. “And I’ve finally started hearing what’s been said. And now I’m seeing what’s been true all along. I’m not enough, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I give. And you... you’ve made it clear that I’ll never be anything but a second choice. I was just a comfort to you, a distraction. You made me feel like I needed to prove myself—like I needed to earn my place, but I did. I did, and it never mattered.”

There was a pause. Natasha’s lips trembled, the harshness of your words sinking in. She knew she had been wrong, knew she had made everything worse. But hearing you speak this way—so broken, so defeated—it shattered something deep inside her.

"Please..." Natasha's voice faltered, her tough exterior cracking. She reached out toward you, but the gesture was hesitant, unsure. “I never meant for it to be like this. I never wanted to make you feel—”

You pulled away, standing up slowly, the decision final in your mind. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve made my choice. I’m leaving. And I don’t think you’ll miss me that much anyway. It’s easier to pretend like you don’t need anyone than to admit you might be wrong about something.”

That's why I can't love you in the dark

It feels like we're oceans apart

Before you could take another step, you felt a hand grip yours. Warm, strong, and unyielding. Natasha had caught up with you, her fingers laced around yours, holding you in place. You didn’t turn around. You weren’t sure you wanted to face her again, not after everything that had been said, not after the rawness that she had exposed.

Natasha’s voice was softer now as she called your name, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it. “Please, just—don’t walk away yet.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse, but it was hard when every part of you wanted to run. You didn’t stop, but neither did she.

Her grip tightened, pulling you back just a little, her touch sending a mix of warmth and tension straight through you. When she spoke again, her voice wasn’t the confident agent you were used to, the one who had always kept her emotions under lock and key. There was something different now, something uncertain, almost as if she wasn’t sure of her place in your world anymore.

“I’ve messed up,” Natasha continued, her voice shaking with emotion. “I know I pushed you too hard. I know I made you feel like you weren’t enough, like you didn’t belong here, and... I did that because I wanted you to be the best. I wanted you to be safe. I was afraid that if anything happened to you—if I lost you on a mission, I—I don’t think I could survive it.”

You could feel her breath, the rise and fall of her chest close behind you, but you didn’t turn around. Not yet. Her words hit you like a wave crashing into the shore, raw and jagged, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to process them.

“I pushed you because I was scared. And in trying to protect you... I ended up pushing you away,” she whispered, the confession hanging in the air, the depth of it too much to ignore. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I was so so wrong.”

The air between you both was thick with everything she had just said, and you stood there for a long moment, processing it all. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to face her—not yet.

“I don’t know how to forgive you for this, Natasha,” you said, your voice a mixture of anger and hurt. It wasn’t snark this time, no biting sarcasm, just raw emotion. "The only time something terrible happened to me, something that almost killed me, was when you abandoned me. You made the call. You didn’t show up. I was out there, all alone, and you weren’t there when I needed you most.”

Your chest tightened as you spoke, the hurt pouring out like it always had, but now it was different. Now, it wasn’t just anger. It was a deep, aching sadness that threatened to drown you. And despite yourself, you couldn’t stop the words from coming. “You made me feel like I wasn’t worth it. Like I wasn’t worth anything.”

You could feel Natasha’s breath hitch behind you, the weight of your words striking her deep. She didn’t say anything at first, and when you finally turned around, you saw the truth in her eyes—guilt, sorrow, and a pain you hadn’t expected. The sight of it, the way her face crumpled in on itself, broke something inside you.

Her hand fell away from yours, but it wasn’t because she wanted to let go. It was because she was shaking, trembling with emotion that she could no longer hold in. And then you saw it—tears. Two, maybe three, glistening on her cheeks. Natasha Romanoff, the unshakable Black Widow, was crying.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to make you feel abandoned. I... I couldn’t bear the thought of you in danger. But... I hurt you worse by pushing you away.”

For the first time in all the years you’d known her, you saw Natasha unraveling in front of you, breaking apart piece by piece. It felt almost cruel, to see her like this after everything you’d been through. But as much as your heart ached for her, you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“You can’t just apologize and expect everything to be okay, Nat,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “You hurt me. You made me feel worthless, like I wasn’t enough. And when it mattered the most... when I was out there fighting to survive, you turned your back on me.”

Natasha flinched at the force of your words. They were like a punch to the gut, and you saw how much it hurt her to hear them. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep pretending that everything would just magically be okay.

“I know,” Natasha said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know. And I can’t take that back. I can’t make up for it. But... I just need you to know, I care. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you care,” you said softly, but your voice still carried that edge of distance. “But that’s not enough anymore. I don’t know how to keep going back to the way things were. I can’t keep coming back to you only to be left in the dark again.”

There was a long silence, the kind that seemed to stretch on forever, and Natasha stood there, her shoulders slumped, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She was broken, but that didn’t change the fact that what she’d done had hurt you in ways you weren’t sure could ever heal.

“You’re right,” she said finally, voice cracked. “You deserve more than this. You deserve better. Someone who won’t make you feel like you have to earn their care, someone who won’t turn their back when things get hard.”

You stood there, feeling the weight of the finality in her words, and for a long time, you didn’t know what to say. You looked at her—the broken woman in front of you—and you realized that, despite everything, despite all the hurt, you didn’t want to stay. You needed to walk away. For yourself.

“I need to walk away, Natasha,” you said quietly, your voice steady but firm. “I don’t know what we were, what we are anymore. But I can’t do this anymore.”

You turned towards the exit, your steps unfaltering as you walked away. Natasha half expected - hoped - you’d turn around and run to her. But you didn’t. You walked away, slowly, your footsteps fading into the distance, away from SHIELD and away from her.

There is so much space between us

Baby, we're already defeated

A year later…

It was a quiet evening when you walked into the bar after a long day, your mind still buzzing with the details of your latest case. Quantico was different to SHIELD in almost every way. The people were different, the procedures were different, but you found that - after getting into the swing of things - it wasn’t worse. Just different.

The dim lighting of the bar, the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses—it was a familiar comfort now, one that made you feel grounded after the chaos of your job. You ordered a drink and leaned against the bar, letting your shoulders drop, the weight of the day lifting slowly.

That was when you saw her.

Natasha Romanoff, standing across the room, her back slightly to you as she talked to a stranger at the bar. But even from behind, something about her caught your attention. She looked different. Older, somehow. More... mature. The woman you had known was always poised, confident, and untouchable—but there was something in the way she held herself now that made her feel more human. Vulnerable, even.

Her hair was different too—shorter, sleek, straight, a stark contrast to the wavy red that had once framed her face. She had always been beautiful, but now she seemed to radiate something else—something quieter, more grounded.

You stared for a moment, unsure if you were seeing things right, but as she turned to glance around the bar, her eyes met yours. Recognition hit her almost immediately, and she froze for a second, her expression flickering with surprise. Then, just as quickly, it softened.

Her voice was a little hoarse as she whispered your name, almost like she hadn’t expected to see you here, or maybe she hadn’t heard your name in so long that saying it felt foreign.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched her—really looked at her—before taking a slow step forward. “Natasha.” Your voice was calm, composed. Different from the way you used to say her name with that sense of longing, of wanting something that wasn’t ever going to be.

She gave a small, tentative smile, the kind that spoke volumes about how much time had passed, about how many things had been left unsaid between you. "You look... good," she said, her eyes flickering over you.

It was an understatement. You felt good. You felt like you were finally living a life that wasn’t defined by the weight of the past, by the mistakes you’d made and the ones others had made for you.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, with a small smile of your own. “You look different. I like it.”

“Yeah.” She ran a hand through her new, shorter hair, a nervous habit, before looking back at you. “A lot’s changed.”

“Clearly,” you said, glancing around. You couldn’t help but take in the way she stood—so different from the woman who had always been so self-assured, so used to being in control of every situation. But in a way, it made her more real, more approachable.

The two of you stood there for a moment, the air between you awkward but not uncomfortable, as if neither of you knew where to start. It was Natasha who broke the silence first.

“So, how’ve you been?” she asked, her voice softer than you remembered it. “Really?”

You raised an eyebrow at her, unsure if she even knew what really meant anymore, after everything. But it was a simple enough question. And you’d spent the last year being honest with yourself, so why not? “I’m doing alright. Different. Moving on. Got a new job at Quantico. Therapy’s been helping. I’m in a better place now.”

Natasha nodded, though you saw the flicker of something behind her eyes—a mix of regret, of longing, maybe. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve... I’ve been trying to do the same. It’s been a long year. Things haven’t been easy, but I think I’m getting there.”

You studied her for a moment, your expression unreadable. The quiet honesty in her voice made you want to believe that she was trying. You could see it now. She had changed too.

“You’re still working for SHIELD?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation casual, as if the past didn’t hang over both of you like a thick, invisible cloud.

She nodded, but there was a hesitation in her movements. “Sort of. I’ve been taking a step back, working in a different capacity now. More... behind the scenes. I guess I’m trying to figure out who I am, outside of all the missions, the work.”

It hit you—she was no longer the same person either. The intensity in her eyes had softened, and there was a certain sadness to her that you hadn’t seen before. She seemed tired in a way that wasn’t physical—tired of running, of hiding behind the façade she had built. You hadn’t seen this version of her before, and in some ways, you almost didn’t know how to react.

“So... what now?” you asked, the question feeling lighter than it should. “Now that we’re both here, like this.”

Natasha’s eyes met yours, and there was a long pause, the weight of everything that had passed between you hanging heavily in the air. And then, almost as if on instinct, you spoke.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” You offered the invitation like it was just a reflex—like things could go back to the way they were, the comfort of those old habits, the way things had felt when it was just the two of you, before everything had gone sideways.

She looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the conflict in her eyes. She was torn, and you could see in her eyes, that something was playing on her mind.

“No.”

Everything changed me

And I don't think you can save me

The words hit you like a jolt, a shock of electricity shooting through your chest. Natasha’s eyes were steady on yours now, no longer hesitant, no longer uncertain. There was a firmness in her voice that you hadn’t heard in a long time—a quiet confidence that seemed to say she’d finally found something worth fighting for. And for the first time in a long time, you saw Natasha Romanoff not as the untouchable spy, not as the woman who had left you behind, but as someone real, someone who had learned from her mistakes.

“I’m not going to make the same mistake twice,” she said, her voice low but with an undeniable certainty. “If you want me, I’m going to do it properly this time. No more running, no more half-heartedness. I’ve hurt you, and I won’t do it again. But this time, it’s going to be on our terms. If that’s okay with you.”

You stared at her for a long moment, taking in the gravity of what she was saying, the weight of the promise she was offering. For so long, you’d wondered if this day would ever come. The idea of this—of her asking—had seemed impossible, a distant dream you never thought you’d reach.

And yet, here she was, standing before you, offering a chance to try again. A real chance.

“Dinner tomorrow?” she asked, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “If you're free?”

You didn’t have to think long. The question felt so simple, so natural, in a way that almost made you want to laugh at how easy it seemed compared to everything that had come before.

"Yeah," you said, the answer escaping your lips before your mind had fully processed it. "I’m free."

Natasha’s smile deepened, the corners of her eyes softening as she took in your response. It was a quiet victory for her—one that meant more than words could convey. She wasn’t expecting you to forgive her immediately, or to trust her completely. But she was willing to try, and that was more than she had ever given before.

“I’ll pick you up,” she said softly, her voice almost shy now. “I’ll make sure it’s a good night.”

You nodded, still processing the fact that she was here, still standing in front of you, willing to do what she hadn’t done before. And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth saving between the two of you.

“Sounds good,” you replied, a quiet confidence settling in your own chest. “Tomorrow then.”

With that, Natasha gave you one last look, a small, genuine smile gracing her face, before she turned and walked out of the bar. You stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of everything that had happened between you two, and then, for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to feel something else—hope.

Tomorrow. You were willing to see where it could go. And maybe, just maybe, Natasha Romanoff was going to do it right this time.

You saved me.

The evening had been everything and nothing like you expected.

Dinner was at a beautiful, upscale restaurant with soft candlelight flickering across polished wood tables, glasses of wine that felt far too expensive, and Natasha—sitting across from you, more present than she had ever been. She wasn’t the untouchable agent, the mysterious woman who kept her emotions locked away. She was Natasha, just Natasha, in the soft glow of the candlelight, her laughter filling the space between the two of you, the lightness in her eyes almost enough to make you forget the weight of the years spent apart.

The night had been filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed without effort, as though the years of silence hadn’t really existed. But it had. They had.

And yet, here you were, sitting across from her in a place that made your own paycheck look laughable, eating food that was far too rich for your taste, and all you could think about was how right this felt. You hadn’t expected it to be this natural, this easy to fall back into old rhythms, the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And by the time you were back at your apartment, after a night of shared glances and a warmth between you that neither of you had ever truly experienced before, you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You wanted her. You needed her. And maybe, just maybe, you were ready to give her another chance, to let her love you, to let yourself love her again.

The moment your door clicked shut behind you both, Natasha pulled you into her, her lips capturing yours with an urgency that felt foreign, yet so familiar. There was no hesitation this time, no walls between you. Her hands roamed to your sides, pulling you closer, as though she couldn’t get enough. You met her halfway, losing yourself in the kiss, in the warmth of her touch, the way she made you feel like everything would be okay.

It wasn’t just the kiss though. It was what she said in between—her voice breaking the quiet with a rawness you hadn’t expected.

“I love you,” Natasha whispered against your lips, her hands tender as they traced over the curve of your jaw, as though she was afraid to let go. “I love you. And I never want to keep you hidden again. I’m done pretending I don’t need you. You’re everything.”

Her words hit you like a wave. They didn’t come with the weight of shame or regret this time. They were just the truth—simple, honest, and real. She loved you. After everything, after all the mistakes, she still loved you.

You breathed out a soft laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek at the raw vulnerability in her voice. She reached up, brushing it away with her thumb, as if she could erase the past for you, make everything better with that one gentle gesture.

“I’ve missed you,” you said quietly, your voice catching in your throat. “I’ve missed this.”

Natasha smiled, a single finger running down your cheek. "I don't want to hide you anymore. Let me love you in the light."

fin.

#natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x female reader

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daily-metalsonic-and-others · 2 days ago

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hello I love Metal Sonic very much he is my favorite Sonic character and I absolutely love the way you draw him and your movie au is so wholesome I love it so much! and since your requests are open, I wanted to ask - do you think Metal from your au is good at preparing food? he doesn't need food but I was wondering if he is still good at cooking or is he the absolute disaster at this (maybe he tried to cook something for others, and it was surprisingly good/absolutely terrible)

anyway thanks for your art! and sorry for any spelling mistakes, english is not my first language

take care!

eeeee thank you SO SO much for the kind words!!

And to answer your question; I don't think he'd be great at it for a while, but he'd improve! I head cannon that Agent Stone liked to cook, (maybe even stress cooked) and it rubbed off on Metal as a result. Cooking reminds Metal of him.

Also, Metal is the only one who hasn't come close to burning the kitchen to the ground. Yet.

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acynicalsweetheart · 1 day ago

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HIII i love ur writing so much !!! if your requests are open (and if they arent, feel free to delete this ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა) may i request curly x fem reader who’s jimmy’s girlfriend, but like curly is head over heeellss for her?

if thats not your style, no worries! you can delete my request for any reason, but thank you so much if you write this!! >_< 😭💗

hai thanku very much anon ♡… sawry it took forever. this is awful omg i had no idea. what direction i wanted to take this in LOL. but here’s your head over HEELS sorry had to… anyway first non dead dove drabble yay

content warning: 18+, infidelity

“Curly, stooppp!” You draw between giggles, playfully slapping his awfully muscular yet plush arm. The kind of plush that makes you want to bite a chunk out of it.

“What? I’m not doing anything.” Curly flashes you his blindingly white Hollywood smile, fingers tickling your side for the eleventh time in the past five minutes.

Jimmy glares at Curly. Then at you. His gaze burns holes into your skull like it’s made of lasers.

You blow a kiss to the scowling face across the couch.

Frown deepening further than you’ve ever seen before, Jimmy pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need a drink.”

“Okay, babe,” you speak to Jimmy’s back as he’s leaving the room, returning your attention to Curly to get your revenge by attacking his side for a change.

His couch squeaks when he squirms away, chuckling and grabbing your wrists. Craning his neck, Curly chimes to the doorway. “Hey, get one for me too!”

A groan can be heard all the way from the kitchen.

“Oh,” Curly’s face brightens like he has a revelation, letting go of you to briefly search his pockets to pull out a small velvet box. It looks comically miniature in his hand when he holds it out. “I got this for you.”

“What’s that?” You ask confused and curious, ‘cause it very much looks like he might just propose to you.

It opens sesame.

“An anklet.”

“Oh.”

Well, thank God. Jimmy would’ve fucking shot Curly if it was a ring.

“Here, let me…” Curly reaches for your feet, careful in the way he peels off your socks and it’s all oddly romantic. So romantic there’s a slight heartbeat beneath your panties.

Jimmy would never do that for you and that’s why it’s so wrong.

“There,” he closes the clasp after a good two minute fumble, adorning your ankle with gold that costs more than your boyfriend’s entire net worth.

“Oh,” it’s so shiny you can’t help but to blink at it, “wow. You… could’ve just gotten me a bracelet or something, Curly, I mean—“

“I could’ve,” his gentle up-and-down caresses to your calves pause, quickly adding, “but who would’ve gotten you this?”

You both know the answer to that question.

“It’s not that I—“

“Hey, next time, I’ll get you that bracelet.” He pulls out his phone, squinting at the screen as his fingers move.

“It’s fine, Curly,” you tell him—not wanting to seem ungrateful, “this is more than enough.”

But he’s already typing in his credit card information on the Tiffany & Co website when you look over his shoulder.

What are you supposed to do? Smack the phone out of his hold? It feels… nice to be appreciated. Jimmy’s never bought you anything—you’re the one buying shit for him. Including his black market drugs.

“Jim’s not coming,” you note after a long moment of awkward silence, poking your head forward like he’s coming through the doorway any second.

“I guess not.” Curly says, meeting your eye once you look back at him.

Almost kind of scary, the tenderness in his gaze. Not like Jimmy’s wolfish one that says he wants to eat you alive. In the cannibal way.

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Me?” You can’t help but to laugh out loud, it’s so sudden, and Jimmy’s your boyfriend and he doesn’t even think that. “No… no I—“

“You are!” Curly insists, making a motion with his hands towards you. “Doesn’t he tell you that? Doesn’t he…” he pauses again, voice lowering, “show you that?”

“Show me?”

“Like this,” he leans in closer, like way in-your-personal-bubble type of closer, noses brushing against each other. Curly lifts your chin up like he’s about to do something forbidden.

You were almost convinced it was a joke till he actually kissed you.

“Oh!” Lightly pushing on his chest, you stare at him. “Curly, that’s… we can’t.”

Fisting at Curly’s shirt to pull him closer, you kiss him back. Harder.

“Stop it,” like you’re not the one sucking on his tongue, tracing the bulge in his pants with your toes. “He’ll kill us!” It’s a half-whisper, half-yell.

“Nah, I know Jim.” Says Curly, who more than well knows that Jimmy would have both of your heads on each respective stick to then keep as decorations in his trailer, “trust me.”

“Well…” but Jimmy doesn’t seem to be coming back anytime soon—you know him well enough to assume that he’s most likely sulking by now. “Okay then.”

And so you let him lay you down on his couch the way Jimmy did your first time with him. Only Curly is a thousand times more gentle in comparison. You’re a bad person for thinking it, but you almost wish Curly was your first.

You’re still desperately kissing when his hands trail up your thighs, creeping under the hem of your dress to pull down your panties. Curly gets them about halfway down when you hear the unthinkable and the unmistakable.

The cock of a gun.

Jimmy’s holding this pesky little revolver that he probably found in his mom’s bedside drawer—the same one she blew her brains out with—pointing it at Curly and you with an expression resembling a wild animal more than a human face.

#mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing curly #curly mouthwashing #mouthwashing curly smut #mouthwashing curly x reader #curly x reader #curly smut #curly #captain curly #captain curly x reader #curly mouthwashing smut #curly mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing x y/n #mouthwashing x you #mw curly #curly mw #curly x you #♡. fraise's drabbles

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thaniabb · 1 day ago

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I’ve been into sports car by Tate mcrae, don’t blame me by Taylor swift, and Diet Pepsi by Addison rae lately. Idk if that does anything for your inspiration in any way but 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ vibes

Love made me crazy - F.W

- ‘don’t blame me’ by taylor swift -

warnings : overprotective!fred, possessive!fred, innocent!reader, no use of y/n, pet names (butterfly, love)

summary : the older weasley twin protective nature toward his best friend, evolves into something darker and more obsessive, though she remains blissfully unaware. As Fred’s feelings for her intensify, he resorts to subtle but intense actions to keep anyone else away from her, pushing every other guy out of her life without ever speaking a word of his true nature. But Fred knows, and the lines between friendship and possessive love blur, creating a tension neither of them can escape.

AN : fucking thankful for this request, working on some more things so ya’ll shall expect that in a few days. anyways request more bb’s! not proofread.

“lord, save me, my drug is my baby”

Fred Weasley had always been the fun one. The one who made you laugh until your stomach ached, the one who was never serious, the one who seemed to bring chaos with him wherever he went. But that was just Fred, your best friend.

You had known him since you were both children, growing up together, inseparable. You had never questioned his actions, never thought twice about the way he always seemed to know exactly what you needed, when you needed it. He was Fred, your Freddie, the person you trusted with everything.

And why wouldn’t you? He was just your best friend.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Fred was still the same in a lot of ways—playful, charming, always making jokes—but there were moments, small moments, when you caught a glimpse of something deeper in his eyes. A flicker of intensity that made you feel uneasy. But you pushed it away. Fred was Fred. He was just protective, that’s all.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It all started after a random, casual conversation you had with Jason, a boy in your year who had always been friendly with you. You were sitting at the Gryffindor table one evening, chatting about homework, when Jason, as casual as ever, leaned over and asked, “Hey, do you think you could help me with that Transfiguration essay? I’m totally stuck.”

Fred, who had been sitting beside you, was silent for a moment. You didn’t think anything of it until you saw him shift in his seat. There was something about the way he moved that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Fred was looking at Jason like he was a bug he wanted to squish.

“Transfiguration?” Fred repeated in a voice that was far too loud. “Nah, mate, she doesn’t have time for that. She’s with me right now. Isn't that right, love?”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden intensity in Fred’s voice. “Fred, I’m just helping Jason,” you said with a nervous laugh. “It’s no big deal.”

Fred didn’t take his eyes off Jason, who awkwardly shifted in his seat. “No, I’m sure she wants to help you, mate,” Fred said, his tone almost playful, but there was something dark underneath. “But she doesn’t have time right now. You’re on your own with that essay.”

Jason’s confusion was evident, and before you could apologize or explain, Fred stood up, his movement sharp. “Come on, love , let’s go,” he said, practically pulling you from your seat.

You gave a quick, apologetic look at Jason, but Fred was already steering you away, his grip tight on your arm. You didn’t think much of it at the time. Fred was always like this—always protective, always joking around. It didn’t occur to you that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all just fun and games anymore.

You brushed it off. It was nothing.

The days that followed were similar. Every time another guy tried to approach you, Fred would appear out of nowhere, slipping between you and them with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. It was like clockwork. If you spoke to anyone else, Fred would swoop in, pushing them away without ever saying a word. If you were laughing with someone, Fred would suddenly be there, laughing louder, pulling your attention back to him.

And you, innocent as you were, thought nothing of it. Fred was just being Fred. Your best friend. Always there to protect you, always there to make you laugh. Nothing more.

But his behavior was becoming harder to ignore.

One afternoon in the common room, you were sitting near the fireplace, absorbed in a book. Fred was, as usual, lounging on the couch beside you, but today, you noticed that he was unusually tense. His leg was bouncing, his eyes flickering between you and the door.

“Is everything okay, Freddie?” you asked, looking up from your book. You noticed that he hadn’t been himself lately. He had always been carefree, but now, he seemed… on edge.

Fred glanced at you, a forced smile on his face. “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s great, butterfly. Just a little distracted, that’s all.”

You frowned, but before you could ask more, a boy from Ravenclaw, Peter, walked into the room, carrying a stack of books. You smiled and waved at him.

“Oh, hey Peter! How’s your essay going?” you called, eager to catch up with your classmate.

Peter smiled back, a little shy. “Oh, it’s going alright. I was just—”

But before he could finish, Fred was up off the couch in an instant, practically cutting him off as he threw an arm over your shoulder. “Hey, mate,” Fred said loudly, his tone casual but his eyes a little too sharp. “we were just about to grab some snacks. You know, a bit of quality time. Can’t let her get too distracted by homework, right?”

Peter blinked in confusion. “Oh, uh, okay. Sorry if I interrupted.”

“No worries, mate,” Fred said, ushering Peter away with a playful nudge. But as soon as Peter was gone, Fred’s grin faltered, his eyes turning dark as he looked at you.

“Don’t worry about him,” Fred said softly, his voice low. “He wasn’t going to keep your attention. Not like I can.”

You blinked, a slight shiver running through you at the intensity in his words. “Fred, you’re acting a little strange today. Everything alright?”

Fred smiled, but it was tight. “Of course. Nothing to worry about, butterfly. I’m just here for you. Always.”

You didn’t quite understand what he meant, but you nodded and smiled back, assuming it was nothing more than one of Fred’s usual quirks. After all, he was just Freddie, your best friend, right?

But you didn’t know. You didn’t see the way Fred’s eyes would darken every time another guy came near you. You didn’t know that, after every “innocent” interaction, Fred would slip away quietly and find the boy who had dared to speak to you, cornering him in empty hallways or behind corners, his words cold and threatening.

“Stay away from her,” Fred would whisper, his voice low and dangerous, his smile gone. “She’s mine. Don’t even think about it.”

The boys, scared and confused, would back off, retreating with nervous glances, and Fred would return to you with that same innocent smile, as if nothing had changed. As if he hadn’t just scared off anyone who might dare to take his place by your side.

And you—completely oblivious—continued to see Fred the way you always had. Your best friend. The one who had always protected you, made you laugh, and kept you safe.

But the more Fred watched you, the more obsessed he became. Every time you spoke to someone else, his heart would race, and his mind would scream. He couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t let anyone else near you.

“Don’t blame me,” he whispered to himself one night as he stared at the moon, his mind spinning with thoughts of you. “You made me crazy, butterfly. You made me this way.”

And yet, the next day, when you smiled at him, when you laughed with him, he was the same Fred you’d always known. He would never tell you. He would never let you know how much he was losing himself in this love, how much he couldn’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.

Because you were just his best friend. Right?

As time went on, you continued to brush off Fred’s strange behavior, convinced that everything was as it always had been. But Fred’s obsession was only growing stronger, and he couldn’t stop. Every time you laughed with another boy, every time you looked at someone else, he felt a pang in his chest. But he never showed it. He just continued to push everyone away, quietly, ruthlessly, until no one else dared to approach you.

And you, innocent as ever, never suspected a thing.

But deep down, Fred knew. He knew that he was falling deeper into something he couldn’t control. And in the end, it wasn’t just about being your best friend. It was about wanting to be more.

And he’d do anything to make sure no one else ever got that chance.

“don’t blame me, love made me crazy”

#harry potter #hogwarts au #fred weasley #weasley family #weasley twins #george weasley #charlie weasley #x reader #best friends #bill weasley #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley x reader #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogsmeade #overprotective #possesive love #best #taylor swift

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takenbypeter · 3 days ago

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May I request Matt Murdock x reader. Reader is insecure about their voice since they don't think it's attractive or sounds feminine.

A Voice Like No Other

Matt Murdock x reader

Words: 803

Author’s note: Omg yes yes yes, thank you! I’ve literally been twiddling my thumbs waiting for a request while also trying to think of my own fics ofc. But yay so happy you requested 😊 Okay also this ask is so real because I’ve been told sort of bad things about my voice and I hate hearing how my voice sounds, soooo this is reallllll! Anyways thanks for requesting 😂😂😂

“Your phone’s ringing!” You shouted towards the open doorway that led to Matt’s bedroom.

You had spent the night at his, (finding the walk to your own place much too far), and you were currently helping with the remaining dishes from breakfast while he was just finishing up his shower.

“Can you see who it is?” His voice rang back, not recognizing any of the specific ringtones he had saved for any of his usual contacts.

You glanced back at your hands that were wet, “yeah, just one sec.”

You tried your best to quickly rinse your hands and dry them but as you dried them the sound came to a stop.

“Too late.”

“Did they leave a voicemail?”

“Let me check.”

Easily opening Matt’s cell you press the telephone icon before clicking his voicemail list. You were about to reply that the unknown caller did in fact leave a voicemail when something stopped you.

On the screen you noticed a list of old voicemails with your name attached to every one.

The fact that there was a list made you slightly nervous but still you hit the most recent one.

“Hey Matt, it’s me,” immediately your shoulders hunched together as you physically cringed at your own voice before clicking the next one.

“Hey Matt—“

Before that one can continue you click a third one. “Hey—“ you don’t even get past the first word on that one.

You clicked on a final one that was actually labeled with your name and the words sleepy beside it.

“Matty Matt Matt,” Jesus, your nose scrunched at the utter disgust you felt before pressing back.

Matt, finally dressed but hair still not completely dry, comes out from his room.

You waste no time in asking him the important question.

“Blegh, why do you have like a hundred voicemails from me?”

“A hundred? I don’t have a hundred voicemails, I just have a few.”

Your eyes shift back to the phone in your hand as you start selecting each voicemail.

“I’m going to delete them real quick.” Matt was quick in grabbing the phone, practically giving you no time to react. “Now why would you even do that?”

“Are you kidding me? I sound terrible. I just listened to the first few and I sound like a scratchy conductor who doesn’t know how to open their mouth right. It’s gross, let me delete them.”

You hold your hand out waiting for the phone, which of course never makes it there.

“What are you talking about? Your voice isn’t scratchy, and I can understand you perfectly fine.”

“I sound disgusting Matt. Please?”

Right now you probably knew you sounded possibly like the biggest brat in the world but you were honestly getting desperate. Imagining him hearing your annoying voice never hit you before but now you realize it’s probably mostly how he recognizes you.

“Matt I’m serious, I sound infuriating and loud.” You repeated the words you’ve heard directed at you and your voice in the past. Your voice must’ve sounded desperate as his tone finally matched the seriousness of yours.

“Woah hey,” his voice was calm now, much more enticing than yours, at least that’s what you thought. “Your voice is not infuriating, alright. It’s not annoying or loud. Do you want to know what I picture when I hear your voice?”

It didn’t matter if you said yes or no, you knew he was going to tell you anyway.

“When you talk I picture a walk along the beach...the waves sweeping in and out against the land but never is it annoying. And when you’re excited it’s like the sounds of an arcade at the boardwalk nearby. You want to go near that sound. It sounds exciting and fun. Your voice is just like that, so stop discarding it as something unloved. Because I love it.”

You wanted to fight against his praise, tell him what people have said in the past that’s now been ingrained in your head for years but how could you when his words were that sweet.

“You can keep the voicemails. Just don’t play them around me please.”

“We’ll unpack that later.”

You frowned and he set the phone down, reaching for your arm and pulling you into his warm, loving embrace.

“Every single part of you, from your voice, to your brains, to your appearance, is remarkable.”

“If you say so,” you reply, a slightly forced smile spreading on your lips.

“Not just if I say so. There is no question about it.”

You let out a little sigh, letting some of your stress get carried out with it as your head rested against his chest. It was warm, comforting

Who knows, maybe with time and reminders you could learn to dislike your voice just a little bit less.

#marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #mcu x reader #mcu imagine #mcu fanfic #mcu fanfiction #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil imagine #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fanfic #requests

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jeongsoob · 2 days ago

Text

not even sometimes ᯓ 𝚌𝚜

SFW version of my fic posted on @heechwe .ᐟ

୨୧ pairing: choi san x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 3.2k ୨୧ genre: fluff, sprinkles of angst, suggestive (just in last scene) ୨୧ tags: neighbor to lovers au, healthy communication for the win ୨୧ synopsis: You've never been good at planning for the unexpected, much less a new neighbor. But the man in question may just love that about you, among other things you didn't see in yourself to begin with. ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is a remaster of an old fic I wrote years ago for a member of NCT, the original title being "Where We Begin." Seeing as I am not following that group anymore and I thought it'd be fun to polish up some old work, what the hell. Thank you to my betas for reading this one, @prkhaven @lovetaroandtaemin @tinycatharsis @jjunbug @innocygnet, I love you lots. Title inspiration from "Sometimes" by Ariana Grande!

Some people know the instant something begins, the start of something new brimming with possibilities palpable within the surrounding air.

For you, it’s not that simple.

Lucky for you, Choi San isn’t subtle. With a body like his, how could he be?

You give San your name with a smile, a soft yet large hand enveloping your smaller one. “You’ll love it here. I’ve been here for almost five years, never a problem.”

“That’s perfect. I’ve been couch-surfing for two months, so anything is better than my friends’ smelly socks and booty calls.”

You giggle, the sound reverberating off the highway walls. It almost makes you forget your choice of clothing, the realization suddenly hitting you.

You giggle, pointing a finger towards the football. “So, you play sports and cook?”

“Not really, just a parting gift from my friend Woo for the recipe I owed him. I guess it’s also a housewarming gift‌, considering.”