#idk I just think they should hold hands or something

[hsnlv]

morning chaos | s.jy

pairing: jake x reader

synopsis: a sleepy morning in the kitchen turns sweet as jake teases you about your wild curls. when you mention straightening them permanently, he launches into a mix of playful banter and heartfelt reassurance, insisting your hair is part of what makes you, you.

others: reader has curly hair in this story (if that isn’t obvious🤭)

wc: 946

a/n: honestly, idk if this is a weird concept to write abt since i rarely see people write stories like this! but i love this (and i love how this hits so close to home) and i hope you’ll love it too!

the kitchen smelled like freshly brewed coffee and a hint of maple syrup. you shuffled in, bleary-eyed and wrapped in an oversized hoodie that hung past your hands. your curls were in their full, chaotic glory—sticking out in random directions, defying gravity like they had a personal vendetta against you.

jake was already at the counter, humming some unrecognizable tune as he flipped pancakes. his hair was still messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts, but somehow he managed to look like he belonged in a morning coffee commercial. it wasn’t fair.

he turned when he heard your footsteps, his face lighting up in that way that made your heart do a little flip. “good morning, sunshine.”

you mumbled something unintelligible and plopped down at the kitchen table, burying your face in your arms.

“wow,” jake teased, setting the spatula down and walking over to you. “you’re absolutely radiant this morning.”

“shut up,” you grumbled, your voice muffled by your sleeves.

he laughed, grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee. “here, this should help,” he said, sliding the mug in front of you.

you lifted your head just enough to take a sip, groaning in satisfaction as the warmth seeped into your soul. “you’re lucky i love you, or i’d throw this coffee at you for being so chipper.”

“noted,” he said, grinning as he leaned on the counter, watching you with that soft, amused expression he always seemed to have around you. his eyes flicked to your hair, and he tilted his head. “your curls are extra fluffy today.”

you groaned, tugging at one of the unruly strands. “don’t remind me.”

“what? they’re cute,” he said, reaching over to twirl a curl around his finger.

“cute?” you echoed, giving him a deadpan look. “jake, i look like i stuck my head in a blender.”

“a very stylish blender,” he quipped, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

you rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

“i’ve been thinking about getting a rebonding treatment,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence.

jake froze mid-reach for the syrup. “a what?”

“a rebonding treatment,” you repeated, playing with the edge of your sleeve. “it straightens your hair permanently. no more frizz, no more wild curls…”

he blinked at you like you’d just suggested shaving your head. “wait, wait, wait. you mean… you’d straighten your hair forever?”

you nodded, taking another sip of coffee. “yeah. i mean, it’d be easier, right? less maintenance, less… chaos.”

jake set the syrup down and walked over to you, crouching so he was at eye level. “but why would you want to do that? your curls are you.”

“because they’re a pain to deal with,” you said, gesturing at your head. “you don’t understand, jake. every morning is a battle. half the time, i lose.”

he gave you a look so serious, it was almost comical. “but you win the other half. and that’s what makes you a champion.”

you snorted, trying to fight the smile creeping onto your face. “jake—”

“no, hear me out,” he interrupted, holding up a finger like he was about to deliver the world’s most profound speech. “your hair is like… a majestic lion’s mane. wild, beautiful, and full of personality. do you think lions wake up and think, ‘ugh, my mane is so annoying today’? no. they wear it with pride.”

“jake, i’m not a lion,” you said, biting back a laugh.

“but you could be,” he said with a grin. “and honestly, your hair matches your personality—fun, unique, and kind of unpredictable. and i love all of that.”

you felt your cheeks heat, but you tried to play it cool. “you’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“ridiculously in love with your curls,” he shot back without missing a beat.

you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “oh my god, you’re so cheesy.”

“cheesy, but correct,” he said, gently pulling your hands away from your face. “look, i get it. if it’s really what you want to do, i’ll support you. but i just think your curls are perfect the way they are. they’re part of what makes you… you.”

you looked at him, your heart squeezing at the sincerity in his eyes. “you really think they’re that great?”

“i know they’re that great,” he said confidently. “besides, where else would i get this much entertainment?”

“entertainment?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah,” he said, his grin widening. “like when you get mad, and that one curl right here—” he reached out and gently tugged on a strand near your forehead—“sticks straight up like an antenna. it’s adorable.”

you swatted his hand away, laughing. “you’re the worst.”

“but you love me,” he said smugly, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

“unfortunately,” you teased, though the warmth in your chest betrayed your words.

“seriously, though,” he said, his voice softer now. “i love your hair. i love you. and if you want to change it, that’s okay. but i think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

you looked at him, his messy bedhead and his hopeful, lopsided smile, and you felt a surge of affection so strong, it almost overwhelmed you.

“thanks, jake,” you said quietly.

“for what?”

“for being the weirdest, sweetest boyfriend ever,” you said, leaning forward to kiss him.

he smiled against your lips, pulling back just enough to say, “you know what they say—find someone who loves you and your crazy curls, and you’ve hit the jackpot.”

“nobody says that,” you deadpanned.

“well, they should,” he said, reaching for your hair again.

you laughed, swatting his hand away. maybe your curls weren’t so bad after all.

[leesromanova]

dust collected on my pinned up hair

pairing: natasha x reader

warnings: angst, hurt reader, happy/hurt/guilty nat, idk they're both hurting, marrige, cursing, self-criticism, lots of feelings. (i’m sorry)

synopsis: you go on your usual coffee run and bump into your ex, who if it wasn’t for the mutual break up, would have been the one.

a/n: i love angst lol. blame my over active imagination and taylor swift. thank you all for continuing to support and read my works <3

to put y’all in the mood i recommend listening to ↴

The line seemed endless. Bodies upon, bodies of caffeine addicts waiting to be serviced.

The energy of a busy New York coffee shop at 8am was truly a sight to see for any newbie to the city—thank god, you were accustomed to the rude grogginess of the baristas and the lines to wait for your wanted—no, needed, yet still overpriced coffee.

You hear the door open again as a small bell atop of the frame is triggered by the entering customer. The chill breeze of the city winter rips through the space, making you shiver and wrap your coat around yourself a bit tighter. Cool air creeping through the fibers of the winter coat you were sporting made you need that coffee a bit more urgently.

“Next in line!” the line moved as you pulled out your phone and took a step forward. You scroll through your notifications, looking for anything you had missed in your previous peak, before feeling a tap on your shoulder. Your first reaction is to look up with a rather hostile look in your eyes at whoever intruded your non-social, pre-caffeine headspace.

“Natasha?” your eyebrows crinkle at the sight of the woman in front of you. Her smile genuine as she looks down at you.

“Hi, stranger” she says, the raspy voice bringing back memories of a not-so-forgotten time in your past. She moves her arm around you to pull you into a side hug, you accept it—a bit stiffly and pull away, taking in her appearance.

She looked professional yet still casual and comfortable, a combination that always suited her quite well—at least the version you had gotten to know in your past. Her red locks in a neat braid that swept across her head and onto her shoulder, a few framing strands left out on the sides. Her eyes were more worn on the sides—the start of crows feet present besides her lashes.

Her eyes were the same, still the same shade of captivating green.

“How are you? How have you been?” she asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. Her voice coming out a bit rougher than how you remembered. Maybe it was caused by the cold air or, maybe it was just the other way the few years had affected her.

You look down and pocket your phone, “I’ve been okay, just y’know…holding up,” you watch as the person ahead of you steps forward, prompting the both of you to move up and fill the gap. You shift to the side, and make room for the redhead to stand beside you. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, stirring up memories of the past.

“How about you? What have you been up to, besides finding ways to cut-in-line at random coffee shops?” she lets out a huff of air as she turns to look at you “I was leaving when saw you…so I decided I should come and say hi," she looks at you with an amused expression.

you smile and hum in acceptance, letting her continue. She takes a breath before starting, "I've been okay—for the most part. Just trying to keep up with what life throws at me." She smiles and puts her hands in her pockets. You wonder if they were just as rough as how you remembered, or if they’d grown more calloused with time.

"Are you cold?" you ask, still looking at her now-concealed hands. She turns to look at you, you meet her eyes, and she lifts a brow "I've told you before how we Russians don't get cold," she says before continuing "that’s something you should've remembered." her voice carries as the last words enter your ears and without thinking you respond.

"I remember lots of things."

You feel the energy around you both change as the words leave your lips and you cringe as you watch her body visibly stiffen. Your brutally honest word choice must’ve reminded her of the reason why it had been so long since the two of you spoke.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Sometime in the past 2 years

“Natasha… I just can’t do this anymore.” The words choke in your throat as you pace in front of her in the living room of your shared apartment. Every step you take feels like it’s pulling you further from everything you once wanted, but you can't stop yourself. You can barely breathe, the emotion inside you holding your lungs down. Your eyes move to look at Natasha, and everything inside you screams to hold on.

“I’ve always been here for you,” you continue, voice cracking. “Always. I kept waiting, hoping you’d open up to me, just like I did for you, bare an-and vulnerable.” Your voice cracks making you take a steadying breath before continuing, pointing a shaking finger toward her. “I put my heart on the line, expecting the same... but I never got it. And when you finally did open up... I was there. I loved you through the dark days, the lonely nights. I stayed, Natasha. I stayed through everything, and I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.” Your words spill out like a dam breaking, but the anger, the frustration, the heartbreak—none of it makes the pain go away.

You want to somehow make it work, to find the missing piece that would make her open up fully. You wanted this to work more than anything. But the hard truth is, you don’t know just how much more you can keep giving without receiving the same in return. You’ve poured so much of yourself into this relationship—your love, your patience, your vulnerability—but now it feels like you’re just…empty. Every night you lie awake, hoping that tomorrow will be the day she finally opens up to you the way you’ve been opening up to her, and every day feels like another unanswered question, an in-life purgatory you can’t escape.

Your fingernails find their way into the flesh of your palms, the sharpness grounding you, but it doesn’t help.

Her heart tears in two as she watches you like this, feeling like a failure. She feels it deep inside—your hurt, your exhaustion, the years of unspoken emotions—and she knows, with crushing certainty, that no matter how much she loves you, she can’t undo the damage. You’re the one person who has always been there, who’s loved her unconditionally, who’s been so patient, so willing to fight for the relationship. She’s failed you. It wasn’t enough. Nothing she did was enough. She loved you—God, she loved you so much—but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to give you the one thing you needed most: her whole heart. Every single time you reached out, she recoiled, afraid that if she gave you more of herself, she’d lose herself in the process. She knew loving you would mean taking the risk of loosing herself within the beauty that was to love just as hard as you did. 

She doesn’t know how to love you the way you need.

She lifts her head, eyes red, blurry with unshed tears, and glances at your hands, fingers still digging into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself together, as the nails cut through the layers of flesh on your palms. The pieces of yourself feeling like they're falling through your fingers like water. She hurts seeing you like this, she knew you did it to feel control in moments where you felt that control slip away—she’d had been trying to help you stop it, to show you that hurting yourself wouldn't heal anything, but now, she feels just as lost. She feels herself drowning in guilt. 

She’s the one who’s made you feel like this, hasn’t she? 

A warm, trembling hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out of the darkness of your thoughts along with herself–trying to claw her way out of her guilt. Her touch is gentle, almost too gentle, as if she’s afraid you’ll break if she holds on too tight. She guides your fingers away from your skin, but the ache in your chest only deepens. She’s trying to fix you–to help you, not acknowledging that she needed it as well. And neither of you knew how to do it.

What’s the hell is wrong with me? 

The question cuts deeper than anything she’s ever felt. 

Why can’t I just give her what she needs? 

I love her. 

I love her so much. 

Why isn’t that enough?

“I feel horrible,” she whispers, her voice thick with tears. When you meet her eyes, they’re filled with more pain than you’ve ever seen in them. It tears through you. You wanted to help her, to make her feel loved and safe, but all you've done is hurt her. You've made her feel like she's failing, like she’s not enough, and the guilt is suffocating. She wants to tell you how much she loves you, wants to apologize, to make it better, but she knows deep down that no amount of apologies can fix the damage done. 

You swallow, but your throat is tight, your chest heavier than it’s ever been. "You’re right. You always did the right things. You said the right words. You showed me you loved me, but… I couldn’t see it. I didn’t feel it the way I needed to, and I hate myself for that. I hate that I couldn't be enough for you, Natasha." Your voice breaks at the end, a sound that rips through you, as if you're breaking apart inside. Not enough for her to give you her all. “I’m so sorry. So sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough.” Making her feel like she hadn’t been giving you enough because she couldn’t give you want you wanted—craved. The sudden realization makes you heave as you reel about you both hurting each other unwillingly—how could something so good turn into something so hurtful?

The weight of your own apology hangs in the air, suffocating, because you don't know how to fix this anymore. You don’t know how to make her stop feeling like she’s a failure when all she’s ever done is try. 

Her heart shatters as you speak. She sees the pure hurt in your eyes, feels the way you’re pulling away from her. it crushes her to know she's the one that hurt you, the one that made you feel as if you weren't enough. Every word you say is a reminder that she’s failed. She’s tried so hard to be the person you need, to show you how much she loves you, but every time she’s gotten close to letting herself go the crippling fear of falling too deep holding her back. 

“I wish I could change,” she says, voice barely audible, but you hear the depth of her regret in every word. She places her hand over her heart, almost as if trying to stop the pulsating ache there. “I don’t want you to suffer with my shit anymore. I don’t want to drag you through this anymore… but I don’t know how to fix me.” She looks at you, her tears falling freely now. “I hate that I can't give you everything you need. I hate that I couldn't be the person you deserved."

You feel every ounce of her guilt like a physical blow, and it’s suffocating. You wish there was something you could say to make her feel better, but the truth is, you're not sure if you even deserve to make her feel better right now. You've failed her too, in so many ways.

Maybe I’m not enough for her. Maybe I never was. 

The thought stings, like a shock against your skin. You can’t help but feel that maybe you’ve failed, that you’re the real reason things fell apart, not Natasha. But as you look at the redhead, her guilt hanging heavy in the air, you realize there’s not just one person to blame, there’s not only one person responsible for this. You’ve both been afraid. Afraid of fully trusting, of letting the walls down completely, of letting each other in.

And now? Now, it feels like it’s too late.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she says, her voice cracking. “You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who can love you with everything they have, without holding back... and I’m not her. I can't be that person." Her eyes search yours, desperate for some sign, some glimmer of hope, but all she finds is a reflection of her own pain.

Staring at her tear-streaked face, the realization hits you like a punch to the gut: it’s not going to happen. It’s not because you haven’t tried, and it’s not because she doesn’t love you—she does, so much, and you can see it in her eyes. But love isn’t enough. 

I can’t keep waiting for something that’s never going to come. 

I can’t keep hurting like this. 

You’re shaking now, but it’s not from anger. It’s from the unbearable truth that lingers in the space between you. The love you had, the connection you both tried so hard  to hold onto, is slipping away, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

“I think…” you can barely get the words out, but they’re there, hanging in the air like the inevitable. "I think you’re right." Your voice cracks, your heart shattering with the weight of those words. You’ve known for so long, deep down, that this was coming. The back and forth, the exhaustion, the constant battle to make her open up, to make her let you in—it was destroying both of you, and it would never change. The months of fighting—wanting her to open up, to show you the real her, nothing was working as it should be. You had been fighting against something inevitable.

You run your thumb over her knuckles, trying to find comfort in the familiar motion, but it feels hollow now. “We’ve tried, Natalia,” you whisper, your heart breaking with every syllable. “We’ve tried to make this work, but I can’t keep pretending it’s going to be okay. I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want you to hurt for me anymore.”

Her tears fall harder now, as if the weight of your decision has broken something inside of her. You both sit there, silently, broken and exhausted from a love that was never enough. Neither of you knows how to fix what’s been destroyed. As she looks at you, so broken, so utterly lost, she feels like she’s watching her own heart crack in two.

You both sit in silence as the sounds of the city bleed into the apartment and circle the two of you.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

“Next!” the barista’s tired voice carries through the space of the café, and makes you both turn to reach the counter. Your cheeks warm and tinged a shade of red at your earlier admission.

“Uh, can I get an iced blond vanilla late, with an extra pump of vanilla, and sweet foam with Carmel drizzle on top?” you order and look over at the redhead who was diligently staring at the side of your face.

She wondered how you hadn’t changed. Time seemed to have left you untouched. While she felt it’s weight etched into her face and mind—you were still the same. With the same coffee order, at the same coffee shop, the same you.

“W-would you like anything?” you ask, stuttering at the gaze she held.

“I’m okay,” she turns to the barista, “That’ll be all.” she completes your order out of habit as you pull out your card to pay.

the barista asks for your name and you both utter a thanks to the young woman, who doesn’t return the pleasantry as you both walk off to the side. The silence, between you both not unwanted, but definitely heightening your anxiety at the unexpected meeting.

You were not dressed to be seeing your ex at a coffee shop.

“Would you like to sit?” you clear your throat and ask, finding a table with two chairs. She smiles and looks at her watch. “Yeah—yeah, I got enough time” she says, sitting down beside you and looking out at the busy streets of the city that never sleeps.

She loved it here, her time in other continents and cities made her realize just how at home the city lights and sirens made her feel, just how at home the people in her life made her feel.

The light of the rising sun reflects off of the glass windows of tall buildings and illuminate her face. Her nose had stayed the same, the feature being something you loved about her even if she said she hated it from time to time. She turns and catches you staring. You to look away and clear your throat as she smiles warmly. She always liked that about you, so attentive to everyone around you.

Stop staring. You mentally kicked yourself for being caught.

“Y’know…you still order your coffee as if you hate the taste of it.” she teases, her hands motioning to the receipt that outlined the specific order you gave. A smile grows as you turn to look at her and laugh softly at her face of accusation. “I swear, you get the sugariest thing on the menu.” she continues, making you laugh a little louder.

Your laugh was the same–she noticed, your smile the same, but your eyes now held a few winkles at the sides as the joy spread over your face. She smiles at you then and leans back in the uncushioned, tall stool.

You roll your eyes and remove your gloves, “hey, before you tease just know you traumatized me with your coffee order,” she looks at you questioningly, making you lean in “Nat, you order a black coffee with like two sugars and call that a coffee order.” she laughs, her cheeks tinting a wonderful shade of red as she answers “It’s a legitimate coffee order y/n, that’s why they make me pay and why I made you try it.” her voice raspy as ever as it leaves her lips. “Oh yeah, trust me I know. I can still feel it on my taste buds and recoil every time I think about it.” she looks at your now very serious expression with a raised brow, and you both break into a shared cackle.

As the laughter settles, you both look at each other. Familiarity and warmth returning to your veins, you missed her. Sure, it had been more than enough time for you to get over her, but you never truly did. Everyone told you it was time to move on, but you never did, hoping, praying, manifesting that maybe one day you could fix things and reunite with the love of your life.

You went out with people, met other singles, dated—but no one made you feel what she did.

"So, how’s work?" you ask, your fingers nervously fiddling with the paper wrapping of a straw that was left on the table by some other customer. She glances down at your hands, noticing how your nails are no longer bitten or ragged, your palms free of the crescent-shaped marks that used to linger there. She smiles softly, noticing how you'd managed to break those anxious habits.

"It’s been good," she replies, her voice warm. "We got some new teammates in—I'm sure you saw it on the news." She looks into your eyes, smiling as she sees the familiar focus in your gaze. That hadn't changed either.

You nod and smile back, leaning in as she continues. "One of them is named Wanda. She's brilliant—you'd love her. Amazing sense of humor, and the best style. I know you’ve always been into fashion."

You chuckle softly, the memory of how you used to carefully pick out your outfits coming back. "That’s nice. So, you and her are close?" you ask, your voice lighter than you feel. It's easy to fall back into the rhythm with her. Conversations with her never felt draining, never like you were just filling silence. At least, it didn’t, not before everything went wrong.

"Yeah," she says, smiling shyly, but her eyes drop to her hands. And that's when you see it. The ring.

The world seems to blur for a moment as your eyes lock onto the silver band adorning her finger. Simple, yet undeniably there. Your mind races, struggling to catch up, focusing on the details—an engraving, some flowers, maybe lilies? You remember how she always loved those.

The sound of her voice cuts through your thoughts. "Y/N?"

You snap back to reality, but it feels like your heart is still racing. You blink, meeting her gaze. The concern in her eyes is unmistakable, but it's not for you. She's moved on.

“Order for y/n!” the barista yells, and you turn, smiling tightly at Nat before getting up to retrieve your coffee.

God, how had you not seen it before? Was it always there? How long ago did she become so open? So willing to let someone in, that she’d actually gotten married?

The questions hit you like a wave, crashing over your mind with unbeatable force.

You make yourself look away, desperate to regain control of your thoughts. You tuck some hair behind your ear, trying to ground yourself, and take a long sip of your cold drink, the ice crunching between your teeth. It does nothing to ease the nausea building in your stomach.

“I—uh, I was looking at your wedding band,” you mutter, feeling the words slip out awkwardly. Your gaze drifts back to her fingers, the ring glinting in the sunlight. She follows your stare, quietly adjusting her hand, almost as if she’s waiting for this moment to land.

“Oh, um… yeah," she clears her throat, her voice sounding a little tighter than before. "Me and Wanda... we, uh... I proposed a few months ago,” she adds, looking down at the ring, tracing the engravings with her fingers. Finally, she meets your eyes, and for a brief second, it feels like everything you thought you knew about her is slipping away. This wasn’t the Natasha who used to laugh at your bad jokes, or the one who whispered your name in the quiet of your shared apartment, the one who whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you laid naked in bed after you’d had sex. No, this was a version of her you did not know.

“Oh.” The word barely leaves your mouth as you nod slowly, but it’s enough to echo in the silence between you two. It’s all you can manage, the word feeling too small, insignificant.

What else could you say?

You want to bury your face in your hands.

God, Y/N, think of something better. Say something better.

The words feel hollow, useless, as they form in your mind. The words don’t feel like your own. They feel forced, clumsy, like you’re trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through your fingers. You hate how it feels. You hate how she feels like a stranger to you now, someone you don’t know anymore, someone who has moved on without you.

"Congratulations," you finally say, the words coming out flat, lifeless. Your smile feels too tight, too forced. You can feel it pulling at the corners of your lips as your body instinctively turns inward, the discomfort sharp and heavy.

Congratulations? Are you fucking serious?

She notices, of course—how could she not? Her eyes flicker with concern, watching as your posture shifts, your guard rising. But it’s too late. You’re already pulling away.

What the hell did I just say?

The self-criticism is almost suffocating.

Congratulations?

You want to slap your forehead, but you settle for simply glancing up at her. Her gaze is locked onto you now, intense and unwavering. It’s like she’s trying to reach you through the growing distance between you two, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve lost her... that you never really had her.

The sound of the coffee shop fade as your own internal dialogue takes over, mocking you.

You’re pathetic, it whispers.

You haven’t moved on.

You never really let go.

You glance around the coffee shop. There’s a woman in the corner smiling at her boyfriend—no husband, the wedding ring sparkling as she holds his cheek, a group of tourists chatting loudly about going to watch some play on Broadway, someone in the backline swiping through their phone, you can see the TikTok home screen from your place in the corner of the café.

But you can’t hear them. All you hear is the hollow beat of your own heart, pounding painfully in your chest, as if it knows that this moment is the end of something—something you still thought was possible.

It feels like you’re drowning, surrounded by noise, by life moving forward, while you’re stuck here in this tiny moment, unable to breathe.

Her eyes flicker with concern, noticing how your posture shifts, how you stiffen at the words that should have felt normal, casual. But they don’t. They can’t.

There’s nothing casual about this.

Nothing normal.

Not when your heart is bleeding under the weight of a past you can’t shake, a future you never thought you’d face.

You try to steady yourself, but you can feel the walls you’ve built around your emotions crumbling.

She’s married, Y/N. She’s married. Get over it.

But you can’t.

You feel a pang of guilt. Natasha’s gaze is warm, but there’s an ache in her eyes too—something that makes your heart hurt in a different way. She’s trying. She’s not the woman you left behind. But then again, neither are you. Neither is she.

Her hand rests, trembling, on the table now. She wants to reach out to you, but she’s scared of pushing too hard. You can see it in her eyes—she’s uncertain. She’s terrified of what you might say. Terrified of making it worse. Her fingertips brush against the edge of the table, hesitant, before pulling away. She’s probably wondering if she’s done the right thing. Wondering if she was wrong to move on, to make this decision without you, without this—whatever you two were. She watches you, her gaze softening as if she wants to comfort you, but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t even know where to begin. She could try to reach for you, but she knows it might make things worse.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, her voice trembling slightly. She’s staring at you now, as if trying to understand what’s happening inside your head, but you don’t have an answer for her. You don’t even have an answer for yourself.

The silence stretches between you two, heavy with unspoken words, as the noise of the coffee shop crashes around you both, a stark reminder that the world keeps moving. And in it, Natasha is moving forward, and you... you’re left behind.

She regrets it. She regrets this—this distance. This moment. She wants to take it all back. To fix this. To fix you. But she can’t.

The weight of the regret hits her, and she breathes out a slow, steadying breath, her hand trembling on the table. She can feel it too, the unbearable tension between you both, the space that feels like a chasm even though you’re only inches apart.

But you—you’re the one who’s drowning, trying to keep your head above the weight of the memory and the feeling that you were never enough.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, almost too quietly to hear. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like this.” Her voice cracks, and she looks away for a second, almost as if she can’t stand seeing you like this, can’t bear the thought of how much she’s hurt you.

But the truth is, she’s already lost you.

And she’s the one who will never be able to move on.

Her words cut deeper than she knows, because you can’t help but wonder—does she really not know? Has she been so caught up in her own life that she hasn’t seen how much this is tearing you apart? Or is it just that she’s moved on, and this is all just… a part of the past to her?

The thought makes your chest tighten. Your breath feels shallow, and you find yourself squeezing your cold drink harder, trying to steady the storm inside. You swallow, but it feels like there’s a lump lodged in your throat, blocking any response. You want to scream, to tell her everything, to make her understand how much it hurts to see her here, happy, with someone else. But the words are gone—lost in the space between your need to cry and the reality of the life she’s chosen without you.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it, raw and desperate and hurt. You didn’t mean to ask it—didn’t want to ask it—but you can’t help it. You need to know.

Natasha’s heart aches at the sound of your voice, the fragility in it. For a moment, she feels as though the floor beneath her might give way. She had hoped—hoped—that you would be okay. That this wouldn’t hurt so much. But the pain is evident, like a raw wound, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Her face crumbles for a moment, and she looks away, as if she’s searching for the right words, for something that might make this hurt less. But there are no words that can make this better. No words that can undo the last few years.

she feels a lump in her throat, the wounds she'd covered, gashes shed mended, all coming undone in this moment.

“I don’t know,” Natasha whispers. “I really don’t know. I thought I could give you what you needed, but… I couldn’t. And I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be.”

Her voice cracks as she says it, and she feels herself breaking inside. She knows you’re hurting, but she’s not sure what she can do to make this right. She had tried—tried so hard—to be what you needed, but she failed. And it kills her that she couldn’t give you the love and stability you deserved. The love she thought she could offer, the love that now feels so distant and ungraspable.

Your heart aches. It’s a contradiction, isn’t it? The way she sounds so guilty, and yet you know deep down that she’s not really sorry for her life—she’s sorry for the fact that she hurt you in the process of living it.

Her words feel hollow to her, and as they leave her lips, she wonders if she’s just prolonging the pain for both of you. She swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her ring again. It’s such a small, insignificant gesture, but in this moment, it feels like the biggest thing in the world. It feels like a symbol of everything she’s lost. A symbol of a promise she made to someone else, a promise she can’t go back on.

She wants to reach for you again, but she knows better now. She knows that you’ve already made up your mind—that you’ve already closed the door on what could have been. The door that used to swing open so easily for her, but now only feels heavy and locked.

You look at her, your gaze raw, and for a second, you think you might say something else. You might beg her to take it all back. To come back. But you know you can’t. You know you have to let this go. You feel a deep ache in your chest as you realize that this is the end. The finality of it settles in, and you can’t hold on any longer.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and pull back from the table, your hands folding into your lap as you gather yourself. It’s almost like you’re physically trying to close yourself off, to shield the part of you that still hopes and longs for something that no longer exists.

“Maybe... maybe you were never what I needed either,” you mutter quietly, more to yourself than to her. The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you wish you could take them back as soon as they leave. But it’s true. Somewhere along the way, you lost her. And maybe, just maybe, you lost yourself in the process.

The words hit Natasha like a slap, but it’s the truth. She’s never been able to give you what you needed, and that realization settles like stone in her stomach. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something—something to fix it, to undo the damage—but the words die in her throat. They would only make things worse, only deepen the wound between you both.

She doesn’t speak. She can’t. She just watches you, helpless, as you turn away from her, the finality of your departure cutting into her chest like a knife.

You shake your head, unable to meet her gaze. The tears you’ve been holding back for so long feel close now, threatening to spill over. You can’t let them. You won’t. Not here, not in front of her, not when everything feels like it’s already slipping through your fingers.

“I should go,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. It’s not a demand, it’s not even a decision—it’s just the only thing you can bring yourself to say. You push your chair back, standing up slowly, feeling like your legs might give out beneath you. You feel empty, but in a way, that emptiness is almost worse than the pain.

Her eyes follow you, and Natasha doesn’t try to stop you. She doesn’t ask you to stay. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she’s left with the sense that, somehow, she’s failed you, failed the both of you. She doesn’t think she could stand to watch you walk away again. The understanding in her eyes is quiet, gentle. She knows this is the end.

As you turn to walk away, you hear her raspy voice one last time. “Y/N… I still care about you.”

You stop for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down on you. You want to say something back—anything—but you know it wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t fix anything.

You don’t respond. Instead, you walk. One foot in front of the other as you push open the door of the coffee shop, the cold New York air hitting your face like a slap. It’s sharp, biting, but somehow, it’s exactly what you need. You step into the busy street, the noise and the rush of people washing over you, but all you can hear is the silence of her absence. Is this it? You think. It has to be.

You keep walking, trying to put one foot in front of the other, but every step feels heavier than the last. You don’t know how you’re supposed to move forward—to move past her. You don’t know if you ever will.

After all, it’s never over.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

a/n: YAYY!! i was so excited to start writing this fic, it’s my drafts since October so i’m happy it’s finally out. i hope you all liked it! it was my first time writing angst and i’m very proud of it, if you guys have any constructive criticism pls give it politely:)

ps: i’m excited to see everyone’s reactions to it, please do share how you feel afterwards <3

[thepixelelf]

frat president seungcheol x reader x one night romance chan warnings: slight and I mean slight suggestiveness. coarse language, alcohol, possessive (derogatory) cheol; he's toxic and doesn't know it. implications of sex and sexual acts. idk how frats work. wc: 1.8k

love triangle au requests (this one is also for @hey-blondie <3)

read part 1 first

[what's holding you back? 2] Every time his brothers decide to throw another house party, Seungcheol considers quitting altogether. He's always the one who ends up having to clean the house (with the help of an ever-nagging neatfreak Mingyu by his side, at least), always the one who has to arrange the keg delivery (with Soonyoung and his connections getting them life-saving discounts, thankfully), and always the one whose room gets miraculously broken into by some horny party-goers.

(Joshua is still scrubbing every tile in the bathrooms bi-weekly for that last incident.)

((Why he couldn't use his own damn room is still a mystery to Seungcheol.))

Despite all that, every time the boys arrange a new headache -- party, whatever -- and Seungcheol thinks about sitting this one out, they always manage to do the one thing that makes these stupid shindigs irresistible to Seungcheol.

They invite you.

And even though your course load can only be described as mountainous, your part-time job starts early tomorrow morning, and you far prefer getting at least half of a good night's sleep...

You're here. You're here while music blasts and people dance like the rent's due and something breaks every two and a half minutes, laughing at something Jeonghan said. Just within and out of reach.

You lean into the cushion behind you, your shoulders brushing his arm where it rests on the back of the couch. Seungcheol lets the warmth from your back seep through his skin like honey -- because why wouldn't he? You're comfortable where you are, and it's his job to be that "where".

"No, I'm serious!" you defend yourself against Jeonghan's teasing. A likely thing for him to be doing. "He's a total scaredy cat. That's why he always makes you guys run the yearly haunted house."

Soonyoung waves his hand dismissively. "No way. His family celebrates Halloween every year-- that's why he never runs it with us."

"As if!" With a sly smirk, you bump your shoulder into Seungcheol's side. "He hides out at my place every year, and we don't even watch scary movies, either."

Seungcheol rubs the spot you bumped even though it doesn't hurt at all. "We watch scary movies," he argues.

"Halloweentown doesn't count, Seungcheol."

"Now you're just trying to embarrass me--"

Someone calls out your name, and you turn your head, eyes widening,

"Oh shit," you breathe out.

Some guy strides up to the couch with the confidence and determination of a soldier, and every muscle in Seungcheol's body tenses.

You? After the initial surprise, your eyes brighten in that special way Seungcheol likes when you're looking at him.

And can't stand when it's anyone else.

Lifting yourself off the cushions and subsequently away from Seungcheol's arm, you approach the guy before he makes it all the way over to the couch. You touch a hand to his arm, lightly, familiar, a smile on your lips as you chuckle and say, "How the hell did you find me?"

Seungcheol's jaw clenches. He turns to Jeonghan. "Who is that?"

For once, Jeonghan was minding his own business, and he turns away from his conversation to see whom Seungcheol nodded at. "Ah," he says, all-knowing when it comes to who's who. "That's one of Seungkwan's friends. Chan. Lee Chan."

Seungcheol scrunches his nose. Chan, he mocks in his mind as he watches you lead the guy off somewhere. Lee Chan sure isn't holding back in the up-and-down glances. It's like he can't even believe you're there in front of him.

The thing is, you shouldn't be. Seungcheol grinds his teeth. The couch is where you should be, where you're comfortable and you're honey and you're next to him.

He stands.

Even though he knows the answer now, Seungcheol settles next to you, slings his arm over your shoulder, and interrupts whatever the loser was saying with, "Hey, Cherry. Who's your friend?" He lifts his chin a bit, peering down his nose at him with the closest he can get to a polite smile.

There. Lee Chan should get the message with that.

But instead of scurrying off with his tail between his legs like so many of your pursuers had before him, Chan barely acknowledges Seungcheol and just blinks at you. "Cherry?" he asks.

"Oh." You fluster a bit at the nickname, and Seungcheol grows hotter knowing Chan gets to see another one of his favourite expressions on you. "Um, the first of this guy's frat parties I went to, I drank way too much cherry vodka and did some...things. I can't even smell anything cherry-flavoured now without getting queasy." Using one arm to bashfully rub the back of your neck, you chuckle, the movement causing Seungcheol's arm to slip off your shoulders.

He looks for your eyes, which don't meet his. You didn't do that on purpose.

Did you?

"Anyway." You clear your throat and use one hand to gesture at your admirer. "This is Chan. Chan, this is Seungcheol. He's my, um..."

You look at him then, and the lack of answer hits him somewhere within his rib cage. He crosses his arms and turns to Chan. "How do you two know each other?"

He isn't used to having to ask questions like this, his reputation usually enough to deter any unwanted interactions. If this Chan guy is still standing here, though, it must mean he really, really wants to talk to you.

Chan opens his mouth, but you're faster. "Remember the destination wedding my mom's friends went to?"

Seungcheol nods. "The one where they brought you so you could watch their children?"

"Yeah." You glance at Chan, and it's almost like you're telling him something Seungcheol can't hear. "We met there."

Seungcheol's right hand grips harder onto his own arm. "I see."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," Chan says, ignoring Seungcheol once again. He sends you what must be a charming smile. "Especially not here."

"Funny." But you don't laugh. "I didn't think I'd see you here either."

Alright. Enough.

Seungcheol makes a show of grabbing your plastic cup and looking inside. "Let's go get you something to drink," he says, noting your confusion but having none of it. "Nothing cherry, I promise."

Because Seungcheol is the one who knows you. Knows your likes and dislikes, your favourite colours, how you prefer your eggs, the smell of your shampoo...

The face you make when he touches your bare skin. The way desire flickers in your eyes like the hot coals of a campfire.

You shake your head, pulling your cup back and holding it close to your chest. "I'm okay. Thank you."

Seungcheol's brow furrows. "I really think we should go to the kitchen."

"I'm fine, Cheol."

Lifting his hand, he places it on your forearm. "Cherry--"

At the same time as you step away from his touch, Chan steps between you and Seungcheol. "How about you go get yourself a drink?" he says, chest almost imperceptibly puffed out. "I wanted to ask Cherry something in private, anyway."

The nickname Seungcheol gave you coming off of this little shit's tongue makes him seethe. "Ask them what, exactly?" he says through his teeth.

Chan doesn't falter. "I'm sure you don't want to know."

"I'm sure I do," Seungcheol grits out.

"Guys..." you try to cut in quietly, but both boys are too caught up in each other to notice.

Scoffing in amusement, Chan shakes his head before meeting Seungcheol's glare. "Then if you need to know: I wanted to ask if they enjoyed it."

Seungcheol's jaw clenches. "'Enjoyed it'?" he echoes.

"Hey," you try again, somewhere beyond the red fog closing in on him.

"Yes," Chan answers confidently, crossing his own arms now. "If the sounds they made for me are anything to go by, I bet they really enjoyed it -- enough for a repeat performance."

Surging forward, Seungcheol clutches the collar of Chan's shirt in his fist. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Chan smirks, taking delight in setting him off. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Seungcheol growls, pulling his other arm back to give this guy exactly the beating he deserves, but he's half a second too late.

You shove your foot into his stomach, and he stumbles back, fingers loosening from Chan's shirt. You push Chan back by the shoulder for good measure, and when you turn back again, the anger on your face turns Seungcheol's chest inside out.

This fire in your eyes is different than he's ever seen before. Your anger is no stranger to him, from the frustrations of life and all the shit you've had to go through, but you haven't been this mad at him since...

Fuck.

Since he didn't kiss you that night.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Seungcheol?" Your shoulders rise and fall with the anger coursing through you. It's like a wall has finally fallen, the way you look at him. "You're not some rom-com bad boy. Get a hold of yourself."

Seungcheol takes a breath, holding his stomach. "Cherry..."

"What?!" You throw your hands in the air and let them fall. The hints of the brawl that almost broke out had caught the attention of some people around already, but your exasperated voice turns even more heads. "What, Seungcheol? You decided you don't want to fuck me, and after that, you decided no one else can either?"

"I... That's not..."

You huff. "I don't care. I actually just don't care anymore. You know why I didn't tell you about this? Do you know why I never talk to you about this kind of shit?"

He doesn't want to know. But he has a feeling he needs to. "Cherry..."

"Because I knew you'd react like this," you tell him, eyes cold. "Why is it that just because you won't have me, I'm not allowed to have anyone?"

When Seungcheol has no response, Chan returns himself to the picture, standing beside you and putting his hand at the small of your back.

You spin. "And you." An accusatory finger gets thrust in Chan's face, settling under his widened eyes. "If you think you're getting a" --you spit the words-- "'repeat performance' after airing out my shit like that for some dumbfuck pissing contest, you're obviously not the same Chan I met before."

Mouth opening and closing like a fish on the chopping block, Chan sputters for a few seconds before you seemingly decide you don't care about what he would have to say.

You storm off, straight to Soonyoung, whom you grab by the arm and ask to take you home. He spares one glance in Seungcheol's direction, then nods at you with concern on his face.

He knows something Seungcheol doesn't, and it makes Seungcheol want to throw up.

With you gone, the party resumes its usual chaos and volume, although Seungcheol can feel the stares from every direction. Chan disappears somewhere. He doesn't care.

Somehow, Seungcheol finds himself back on the couch. It's a lot less comfortable without you next to him.

Jeonghan sits down with a sigh. "You fucked up, didn't you?"

Sunken into the cushions, Seungcheol shuts his eyes. "I've been fucking up."

"What are you going to do about it?"

Seungcheol brings his hands up to his face, and he digs his palms into his eye sockets. "I don't know. Fuck. I don't know."

[strawbunnydoesart]

"Setsuna!~💖"

Guys Im normal about them I swear

PROGRAM USED: Procreate

TRACKED TIME: 6h 59m

[strawberri-draws]

princess tutu fellas from memory

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[wereh0gz]

Sonic au where everything's the same except the werehog was feral during unleashed. Nothing else abt the plot changes bc at his core sonic is still himself BUT he's more Creature. Bigger, fluffier, can't talk, overall more animal-isms. Yeah

[gutsfics]

FINALLY I DRAW SOMETHING!!!!!!!

some Joseph, both young (around 1980 i'd say, when he was traveling w Stan a few years before the portal incident) and old (~2017, now an art teacher at Westchester High). i like to think the first one is a picture Stan took of him while they were traveling and the second one is his staff photo at WH. the more things change the more they stay the same. i might give em backgrounds and foregrounds to look like that

he's had that jacket since the 70s. real leather will last you.

no glasses alts + the first sketch below

[hecksupremechips]

My madoka magica hot take is I like sayaka/kyoko as a ship more than madoka/homura

[kuromi-hoemie]

ppl who seem to always rotate through having specific kinds of trans girls to proclaim their hate for and implicitly putting themselves above them for not being into the same things make me so uncomfies, like... they r not hurting u in any way, yes people can be extra cringe sometimes but why are u like this.

[icewindandboringhorror]

finally settling once and for all... with the evidence laid out plainly.. which of these brother boys is more stinkys ,,,

[perilegs]

i pass pretty much all the time but hm. ive heard interesting stuff from drunk ppl i know who dont know im trans

[cat-with-a-keyboard]

i am........... not well

[earlyspringtranscendence]

attempting another raglan knitwear item [screaming and crying car crash sound effect cat yowling glass breaking]

[clueless1995]

god hearing ads for true crime podcasts is bad enough but the ones where they use audio/dramatised audio of people screaming or crying on the phone to emergency services are so fucking evil what is wrong with you people

[1roentgen]

.